#Jersey my gorgeous king | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

senditcolton · 14 days ago

Text

It Would've Been Sweet...

...if it could've been me.

summary: there was no good reason for you to be in TD Garden during a Game 7 Stanley Cup Final Game. especially when the only connection you had to the sport was your ex-boyfriend Joel Edmundson, who you had left in St. Louis six months ago. but here you were. what were you doing here? a/n: hello friends! if you've been here since the inception of this blog, you might recognize this story. however, I no longer write for the original player that starred in this fic. but I am very proud of this fic plus, I think this was the start of my trademark bittersweet endings, so i couldn't just let it disappear. so, here is another rewrite now starring my favorite crop top king who i miss terribly. song inspo: The 1 by Taylor Swift word count: 8.8k warnings: time jumps [past is in italics], argument scene, language, angst with a bittersweet ending

What were you doing here?

That was the question running on loop through your mind as your eyes stay glued to the ice a few dozen feet below. There was absolutely no reason for you to step foot in this arena. There was no good reason why you shouldn’t be in your studio apartment on Newbury Street right now, curled up under your blankets, watching re-runs of bad reality TV.

When you received a text earlier that day from an old friend, asking if you had any plans, you knew what she was going to propose. You had seen the news. You had felt the energy go up in this east coast sports city. And you knew why your friend – a friend who you hadn’t seen since you moved 1,200 miles across the country – was in the city you now called home and had asked you to join her at this place on this night of all nights.

You knew all of this and could list all the reasons why you shouldn’t have responded; why you should’ve ghosted her like you had everyone else you left in St. Louis. But despite all that, you texted her back.

That was how you found yourself sitting in a clubhouse suite in TD Garden, trying desperately to only focus on the black and yellow jerseys of the Boston Bruins zipping around the ice.

Trying not to look over at the other end of the rink. Trying not to look at the white jerseys with blue and gold detailing. Trying not to scan the sea of players for the one person you should’ve forgotten by now.

Trying not to have your eyes land on the number six emblazoned on your ex-boyfriend’s back.

What were you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.

But we were something, don’t you think so?

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The unfamiliar voice sounding from behind you tears you out of the peace you were taking in the quiet kitchen, causing you to spin around. You were ready to tell whoever it was off, ready to confront the person who was so bold as to say where you did and did not belong. However, the face that greets you, the owner of the voice, is not what you expected.

His head of chestnut brown curls was messy, his stunning hazel eyes sparkling as they rake up and down your body and his lips, surrounded by a light scruff, were twisted up into a small smirk. He was cute. Like, really cute. It also didn’t hurt that he was clad in swim trunks and a t-shirt that was cut short, exposing his muscular midriff.

You tighten your hand around the beer bottle you were holding as you lean back against counter, your face shifting from annoyance to mirror his casual bright expression.

“And why is that?” you ask, taking a small sip.

“Because,” this stranger starts, “this is Dunner’s party. And the Dunner I know would have never invited someone so gorgeous to his house and without hanging over her shoulder the entire time.”

You let out a light laugh, the compliment not escaping your notice.

“Oh really? How do you even know I was invited by Vince? Maybe I snuck into my neighbor’s house in the hopes of meeting a hot single man. Maybe this is the first step in my evil plan to make a professional hockey player to fall madly in love with me.”

“And how is that working out for you?”

“You tell me.”

The man in front of you lets out a big laugh, causing a genuine smile to grace your face. You liked the sound of it, the sight of his head being thrown back, his smile so bright it almost blinded you. He looked back at you, the grin still on his lips.

You hold out your hand to him, giving this stranger your name as an introduction and hoping he sees your somewhat formal greeting as an awkward indication of your interest. He gladly takes your hand in his, shaking it gently as he gives you his name in return.

“Joel.”

You two stand there for a moment longer, simply looking at each other and you are trying not to focus on the warmth of his palm and the energy that seems to be flowing between you.

“So, why are you here?” he asks, dropping his hand from yours and you try not to let your face fall in disappointment at the loss of his touch.

“My friend invited me,” you say, gesturing towards the crowd of people in backyard. “What you said earlier – that Vince would be draped over some gorgeous girl – you are right about that. It’s just that my friend Daphne is who Vince is attached to.”

Joel hums and softly nods hid head in understanding. He walks a few steps until he is resting his body against the counter right next to you, his arm slightly brushing the bare skin of your own.

“Okay, so that’s the reason why you’re at this party. But, why are you here?” he asks, lightly gesturing around the empty room before glancing over to you. You sigh, looking out the large glass windows facing the backyard, watching the rest of the party mingle on the grass or splash in the pool, their laughter dancing on the late summer breeze. And here you were, hiding in the kitchen.

“I thought it would be fun. Not sure if I was right,” you explain, your hands going to fiddle with the loose corner of the beer label. “But Daphne is always trying to get me to go out with her.”

“Why don’t you?”

“It just really isn’t my scene. I did the whole party life thing in college and now, it’s just kind of lost its appeal.”

Joel lets out another hum, his eyes focused on you. He glances back at his teammates, acting loud and rambunctious as always. It was a lot to take in, he realized, especially if you weren’t exposed to it for over half the year like he was. He looks back at you, your fingers still fidgeting with the damp paper, your eyes far away.

You were beautiful. The thought was in Joel’s head before he could even process what it meant. And he knew instantly that he didn’t want to see you worried, that he wanted to see you smile again.

“So, you aren’t trying to get an attractive, wealthy hockey player to fall in love with you?”

You let out a laugh, your eyes connecting with his once again. The sparkle in his irises tells you he is joking with you, trying to make you feel comfortable. But there is also another emotion behind it. You can see it trying to swim to the surface, a desire that hadn’t been directed your way in a long time.

“Well, never say never,” you quip back. “Do you happen to know someone who would be willing to be infatuated with me?”

Joel tilts his head back, his hand going to stroke the facial hair on his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

“There is this one guy…” he starts, trailing off to catch your reaction. You turn towards him, the playful smile still on your face.

“He plays on the same team as Dunner. He’s also defenseman as well, number 6. A decent hockey player. Funny, chill, and pretty good-looking, if I do say so myself.”

You hum in thought, your fingers tapping a small rhythm against the top of the marble island before nonchalantly shrugging your shoulders.

“He seems promising. Do you think he would like me?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Joel replies almost instantaneously, causing a small giggle to fall from your lips.

“Well then, point me in his direction!” you declare, catching Joel smiling at you out of the corner of your eye. “The next step would be to trip dramatically and fall into the pool, which will cause him to dive in after me to save my life. That is where our romance will begin!” you continue, throwing out your hands for additional affect.

“Or…” he says, gently grabbing your hand out of the air, his thumb brushing against the soft skin. “I could just give you his phone number. It might save you some time. And bodily harm.”

You smile, jolts of electricity racing through you from his touch.

“I suppose that works too.”

In my defense, I have none for digging up the grave another time.

“Hey, are you alright?”

You hear Daphne’s voice next to you and you finally tear your gaze away from the ice. She is staring at you, a hint of genuine concern in her eyes. The light-washed blue denim of her jacket stands out in the sea of black and gold and you spy the number 29 proudly displayed on her shoulder. Somehow, the sight of it makes you feel self-conscious that you’re only wearing an oversized grey sweater with a small Blues logo over the left breast. But then again, what else should you be wearing?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head, trying to erase the fantasy of you wearing a customized jacket out of your brain. “It just feels a little weird to be here, that’s all.”

Daphne turns to look around the box, all the other Better Halves excitedly talking and mingling. A few had come over to greet you, almost to welcome you back into the chosen sisterhood that developed between you all. But they knew it was only for one night.

Anyone could see how messed up this situation was; you coming to the biggest game of your ex-boyfriends’ career, hanging out with the ladies that you had grown close to in those six months you and Joel were together. Willingly placing yourself into this moment, as if nothing happened.

As if there was no break-up, as if you didn’t move halfway across the country and ghost all of them just to avoid anything that would remind you of his smile, his hazel eyes, his contagious laughter.

Daphne sighs as she returns her gaze to you, your chin resting in your upturned palm, your eyes now focused on the giant screen hanging above the ice.

“You didn’t have to come, you know. Not that I don’t want you here,” she quickly backtracks. “I’m so happy you’re here. I missed you. We all missed you, trust me. But, you know, if it gets to be too much, you don’t have to stay. Everyone would understand.”

“Why would I turn down the opportunity to see a Stanley Cup Final game? Especially a Game 7.”

Daphne looks at you, a disapproving glint in her eyes. She knows that you’re trying to make light of the situation, make it a joke, and ignore the real reason you said yes. She knows exactly what made you agree to come meet her after months, even if you weren’t ready to admit it to yourself. And it sure as hell wasn’t a free ticket.

She turns away from you, her eyes following your gaze to the now pristine and empty rink. The lights dim and the roar from the hometown crowd goes up. But the sound and the energy buzzing through the stadium wasn’t enough to stop you from hearing Daphne’s last spoken words.

“He would be happy to know you’re here.”

You look down at the ice as the players step out, now allowing yourself to find the one person that you refused to acknowledge since you stepped foot in the arena.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

And if you wanted me, you really should’ve shown.

He was late. Again.

You sigh, as you continue to pace around your kitchen, your heels clicking gently on the tile floor. It had been almost two hours since Joel was supposed to pick you up for a date. But instead of sitting in an upscale restaurant, drinking good wine and eating decadent meals, you were left waiting in your best dress, watching the hands on the clock circle.

Although, you weren’t sure why you were still waiting.

The reservations you two had were definitely cancelled by now and at this point in the night, it was too late to even think about doing anything other than lying in your bed, watching whatever was airing on The Game Show Network until you fell asleep.

But you stayed, hoping that your boyfriend would walk through the door. Because you were pissed. You wanted to make him feel guilty for leaving you stranded like this. It wasn’t healthy – you knew that – but you weren’t sure what else to do. Lately, it seemed like Joel was more interested in… well, anything that wasn’t you.

When you two first started dating, it was like something out of a cheesy rom-com. He was attentive and caring and you had honestly never felt more loved. But before you knew it, the fire between you two started to dwindle.

In the back of your mind, you knew it was coming. Everyone talked about the honeymoon phase and its inevitable end. You just weren’t prepared for it to end when it did.

It also didn’t help that that conclusion of that lavender haze just happened to coincide with the St. Louis Blues’ worst losing streak, landing them in last place, not just in the division or the conference, but within the entire league. And the playoffs were just over the horizon.

Glancing back at the clock, you sigh. You are ready to give up, call it quits and change back into your comfy old sweatpants when you hear the doorknob turn. Your boyfriend’s laughter echoes around your apartment, the voices of Colton and Robert also filling the quiet evening.

You exit the kitchen and walk into the living room, your eyes landing on Joel, his arms slung over Colton and Robert Bortuzzo’s shoulders respectively. He doesn’t notice you at first, his eyes focused down as he attempts to kick off his shoes. You cross your arms and clear your throat and it is that noise that brings his attention up to you.

“Babe!” he shouts, his face flushed and eyes hazy.

“Hey,” Colton greets you as he supports his teammate’s weight. “Sorry, he got drunk tonight. We tried to take him home but he insisted we bring him here.”

You let out a small hum, the anger boiling in your stomach as you take in Joel’s inebriated state. Instead of moving toward him, fawning over him or laughing at him like you normally would, your feet stay glued to the floor. Out of the corner of your eye, you see both Colton and Robert look you up and down, taking in your dress and heels. The tense atmosphere is palpable and not even Joel’s incoherent babbling can stop them from realizing that the drunken man between them had royally fucked up.

You let out a heavy sigh, gritting your teeth, your body sinking in defeat. This was not the situation that you had planned for the night and you had half a mind to throw him out. However, you were never the one to cause a scene and you weren’t about to get into it with Joel when he probably couldn’t even walk straight, let alone think straight.

“You can take him to the guest bedroom,” you say. “Down the hall to the left.”

You can almost feel the relief that came off in waves from Robert and Colton as they started to half walk, half drag Joel down the hall, you following close behind. Joel didn’t seem to understand anything happening around him until they guided him towards the guest bedroom and away from yours.

“Wait, where are we going?” he mumbled, trying to move his body back in the direction of your bedroom. “This isn’t the way to bed, guys. And I should know. I’ve been there a bunch of times.”

You fight back the urge to scream at Joel’s not-so-subtle innuendo, already feeling embarrassed about the situation he had put you in. Instead, you help shove him onto the mattress of the guest bed, watching as your boyfriend flounders against the covers. Joel tries to lift himself up but both Robert and Colton push him back. His eyes dart from his friends over to you, those hazel irises wide as he looks up at you like a neglected puppy dog. It takes all your effort to keep your icy demeanor.

“Babe, why can’t I sleep in your bed?”

“I don’t want you puking all over my sheets,” you say cooly, even though everyone else in the room knew the real reason why he was being banished to the guest bedroom. Joel doesn’t notice your coldness and instead shoots a goofy grin in your direction, his head hitting the pillow, curls flying wildly as he mumbles that he promises not to. You roll your eyes, having heard enough of his so-called promises in the past few weeks.

Robert clears his throat and you turn to him and Colton, awkwardly standing in the room next to you. You sigh, walking away from Joel and leading them out into the hallway and back to your front door.

“Thanks for getting him here safe boys,” you say, holding the door open for them as they walk over the threshold and out into the hallway.

“Of course,” Colton says, shooting you a sympathetic smile. You start to close the door but just before it shuts completely, you hear the small chirp that leaves Robert’s lips.

“Not sure how safe he’s going to be in there.”

You fasten the lock on your front door before you let your head fall forward, gently hitting your forehead against the wood, the anger still radiating from your tense body. Bortz doesn’t know how right he is. To say you are livid is the understatement of the year. You want nothing more than to tear Joel a new one but you know that doing that now would be pointless.

So instead, you take a few deep breaths in through your nose and out your mouth. Then you turn back into the kitchen and grab a glass, filling it with cold water from the Brita filter in your fridge. After grabbing the small case of Tylenol from your purse, you wander back to the guest bedroom.

Joel is curled up on the bed, still completely dressed except for the shoes that he managed to remove at your front door. You hate the way your heart softens as you take in his sleeping face, his lips slightly parted and his curls wild against the pillowcase. Moving over to the nightstand, you place the glass of water and aspirin down and move to leave when Joel reaches out and manages to grab your hand. You look down at him, his eyes now half opened and his thumb gently caressing the skin on your wrist.

“Come to bed,” he mumbles, slightly tugging you towards him. You gently remove your hand from his grasp and take a few steps back from him.

“Not tonight.”

You reach the threshold of the room, ready to leave when you hear Joel’s voice call your name and you turn your body, your eyes connecting with his.

“You look really pretty,” he murmurs.

Normally, a smile would tug at the corner of your lips in response to his compliment. But your face stays frozen in its apathy as you watch Joel’s eyes close once more. You are silent as you push yourself out the door and walk into the peace of your own bedroom. It isn’t until you are curled under the covers, your dress exchanged for pajamas and your face scrubbed free of makeup, do the tears finally start to fall.

In my defense, I have none for never leaving well enough alone.

Everything about this situation was stressing you out.

The hockey fan in you was stressed because you had just sat through 20 excruciating minutes of the Blues getting almost no time in the offensive zone and you practically screamed every time Jordan was forced to make a save.

The other part of you was stressed because you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be this worried about the boys.

It was still true that you cared about the team and wanted nothing more than for them to win this. You wanted to hug Devon and Dayna when Jay scored a goal that deflected off Ryan’s stick, getting the Blues on the board first. You wanted to scream and jump with Jayne when Alex scored in the last 10 seconds of the first period. And you definitely felt the thrum of pride run through you when Joel laid down in front of a shot by Sean Kuraly, potentially preventing a Bruins goal.

But it felt almost wrong to care this much.

The only reason you got into hockey was because of Joel. You learned the game for him, cheered for him, celebrated every win and mourned every loss. With him. And now, you were no longer his.

It wasn’t right for you to act like you were still a member of this group. Because you would just be lying to yourself. And it would just make it that much harder to leave.

You couldn’t let yourself fall into that comfortable complacency, pretending that everything was alright. That everything was different.

You know the greatest loves of all time are over now.

You woke up, your heart heavy and your eyes puffy. It took a moment to shake off the groggy haze that hung over you, to remember the reason why your heart felt like it had gone five rounds in a boxing ring, but eventually, the events of last night came flooding back to you.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall. Your feet aching in your heels. Joel’s slurred words. The way his hand felt intwined in yours. Your tears falling onto the pillowcase.

You didn’t want to face him but he was in your apartment, sleeping a few doors down from you. There wasn’t no way to avoid the inevitable confrontation. With a huff of breath, you raise yourself from your bed, the sheets falling from your body, your bare feet connect with the cold hardwood floor.

You quietly open the door and walk down the hall, ignoring the urge to walk into the guest bedroom and check on Joel. Instead, you pad into your kitchen and start to make your morning cup of coffee. It is when you are standing in front of the machine watching your mug fill, do you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist.

“Mornin’” you hear Joel mumble into your shoulder as his lips press against your bare skin. Every fiber of your body wants to melt into his embrace but you resist, choosing instead to shrug yourself out of his grasp. You take your mug from the machine and walk over to one of the stools at the end of your island, sitting down so your body faces him. You take a small sip, still not acknowledging Joel standing stunned in the place you left him.

“Babe?” His questioning voice causes you to look up and you can feel a flare of anger appear at the sight of his confused expression painted on his face. “Did I do something wrong?”

His ignorant question is the breaking point and you practically slam your mug onto the cold marble in front of you, some of the hot liquid sloshing over the side. Your eyes connect with his as the vindictive rage you had been holding in for almost twelve hours finally starts to pour out of you.

“Do you really have to ask that Joel?” you spit out, not even attempting to hide the pure venom in your voice. “Let’s start with the fact that last night, I spent almost two hours waiting for you in this goddamn kitchen. Do you remember why? It was because we had a date. You were supposed to pick me up and we were supposed to go out to that cute little bistro by the river.”

You see his eyes widen as he takes in the information, remembering the plans that the two of you had. His reaction makes your wrath feel righteous. Joel’s mouth opens as if to say something, perhaps an apology, but you cut him off before he can even utter a sound.

“And then, the moment I was about to call it quits, to give up and go to bed and call you in the morning, after trying to call you multiple times that night, what happens? You come stumbling into my house, practically being carried by Parayko and Bortuzzo. So, instead of spending a beautiful night with your girlfriend, you decided to what? Get drunk with your friends? And then insist that they bring you here so I can take care of you?”

“Babe I’m so sorry, I –” Joel starts to say but you stop him.

“I’m not your maid, or you mother, or your fucking side-chick, Joel. I’m your girlfriend. I am not some shiny thing that you can play with when you get bored and then toss to the side when something new catches your interest.”

You see his eyes darken at your words and Joel takes two long strides over to where you were sitting.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he grits out, now towering over you. In any other situation, you might shrink and back down, always the mediator. But this time, you are just too livid to care.

“What it means is if you want me, you need to start giving a shit about me. That means keeping your promises and showing up when I fucking ask you to.”

“I’m sorry, alright. Is that what you want to hear?” he says, his voice raising in frustration.

“I want to hear why you chose getting shit-faced with your friends over picking me up for the date we had planned for weeks.”

“Jesus, it slipped my mind. We were just hanging out and Bortz suggested we drink and it just got out of hand. We were all stressed about the team and it just seemed like the best thing to do. You understand that we are in last place!? If we don’t start winning games, we can kiss any chance of the playoffs goodbye. Part of my fucking job is to try and fix that, but I can’t do that when you are demanding all of my attention.”

Your mouth drops open, a scoff leaving your lips as your brain registers Joel’s accusation.

“Excuse me? I’m demanding all of your attention? I’m not the one who showed up drunk on the doorstep, begging to be coddled like a child.”

“Oh, get over it. I showed up, didn’t I? I remembered you. You know how many girls I could get, how many are lurking in my DM’s waiting for their chance. You’re lucky that even though I was drunk, I didn’t run to one of them. Although, maybe I should’ve. They would’ve taken care of me and they definitely wouldn’t be busting my balls right now.”

His words take you aback, cutting through you down to your core and you can feel the sting of tears in the corner of your eyes. Joel knew all your insecurities and here he was, using that knowledge to hurt you deeper than anyone else could.

“Get. The fuck. Out of my house,” you grit out, your chest heaving as you try to control your breathing. Your voice is quiet but hard as you stare down the man in front of you. Although you will for it not to happen, a tear escapes you, rolling down your cheek and you see Joel’s eye dart to it, the color draining from his face as he realizes what he’s said.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it, I swear,” he babbles, dropping to his knees in front of you, reaching for your hands. You rip them away from his grasp and let the floodgates open. The tears flow freely now and the hurt that had settled in your sternum tickles up your throat.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare imply that the girls in your DM’s care more about you than I do. They’re not the ones who make your pre-game meals and drive you to practice and let you rant about anything: trade rumors or ice times or bullshit calls. They don’t give a fuck about you, Joel. All they care about is your looks and the price tag attached to your name. But fine. If you want someone who’s only good for a night, someone who’s not going to tie you down and hold you accountable and challenge you while still caring about you and loving you… then we’re done. Now there’s nothing stopping you from getting what you want.”

You lift yourself off the stool and walk back towards your bedroom, leaving Joel kneeling on the floor. The door latches behind you and you wait. For what, you aren’t entirely sure. It’s only after you hear the echoing of the front door shutting, do your knees give out and you drop to the ground, your sobs racking through your now empty apartment.

That is where you stay until you have no tears left, your energy completely drained. You are sure your heart has broken into a million little pieces and if someone were to cut you open, the crimson flood would pulse out, staining everything around you. But the worst part would be that it would beat out to the rhythm of one phrase, the one phrase that you had never said to anyone else;

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you.

You couldn’t do this.

Somehow you managed to sit through another period and every time Joel stepped out onto the ice, your eyes were glued to him. You watched as he continued to play his game, dumping pucks into the offensive zone, blocking shots, helping puck movement, setting up multiple opportunities for his teammates to score.

When you watched him on the ice, you understood why you fell for him. He was kind and unselfish. He wanted to help the team even if it didn’t mean any glory for him. That was the type of person he was.

And when the buzzer sounded signaling the end of the second period, you felt your heart reaching out to him as he exited down the tunnel towards the locker room.

You couldn’t do this.

You jump from your seat and push your way past the other Better Halves, out of the suite. It takes a while for you to find a semi-secluded staircase in the winding corridors of the club level but when you do, you sink onto the carpeted stairs, ready to hide for the rest of the game in your makeshift oasis. Your head falls into your upturned palms as you try to calm your breathing. You are so caught up your emotions that you don’t notice a body crouch down in front of you.

The soft call of your name bounces off the walls and you look up to lock eyes with Jayne Pietrangelo, a sympathetic expression painted on her face.

“I’m fine,” you say, trying to keep the tremble from your voice.

“Bullshit.”

The quiet conviction in her voice startles you at first but her steady gaze causes your walls to crumble. Before you can even blink, she has you wrapped in a hug, squeezing you tight as if she could make everything better by just holding you. You aren’t ashamed to say that is almost worked.

Jayne was one of the first people to welcome you into the group and you were pretty sure she thought that you and Joel were end game before that idea even crossed your mind. She became like a big sister to you and when you ended things with Joel, she was one of the few calls you picked up in the days after.

She lets you push your face into the denim jacket she was wearing as she gently strokes your hair. After you manage to compose yourself, she pulls back from you, forcing you to lock eyes with her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she softly demands and you almost let out a laugh at her demeanor. Alex’s captain tendencies must have rubbed off on her because here she was, ready to coach you through anything.

“I just can’t do this,” you sigh out, your head shaking as your eyes dart to the ceiling.

“Can’t do what?”

“Be here. Watch him. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

All Jayne does is let out a small hum as she comes to sit next to you. You two stay there in quiet contemplation, your mind racing a mile a minute as you wait for her to say something, anything that will make you feel better.

“I’m not going to stop you from leaving, if that’s what you want to do,” Jayne says, her eyes sliding over to connect with yours. “But I think you are ignoring the real question. Instead of asking yourself if you’re allowed to be here or if you even want to be here, you need to understand why you’re here. Why did you decide to come to a place where you knew you were going to re-live some painful memories? You knew what you were walking into and yet you still came.”

She turns to you, her hands reaching out to grip yours as she stares at you, her eyes cutting you open and laying out your soul like the pages of an old book.

“So, tell me. Why are you here?”

Her question rattles around your brain as you search for the answer. The lies are easy to think of, ready to fall from your lips: it’s a Stanley Cup Final game, you didn’t have anything else to do, Daphne asked you to come, you wanted to see all the girls again.

But you knew the real reason you said yes; the real reason you found an old oversized Blues sweatshirt in the back of your closet that still smelled faintly of cologne, the real reason you walked to TD Garden after spending months trying to forget about anything that reminded you of St. Louis. And he was sitting in a locker room a few dozen feet below you, with only 20 minutes left in a game that most players dreamed about, hoping that he would be able to hoist the greatest trophy in sports.

“I wanted to be here for him. Win or lose,” you say, the words still a little unsteady after being locked in your heart for six months. You take a deep breath and let yourself continue, allowing the confession you had been denying every time it appeared in your head fall from your lips.

“Because I love him. I still love him.”

Jayne says nothing for a few moments, letting your words hang in the air before she shoots you a gentle smile.

“That’s enough of a reason for you to stay.”

She gets up, holding out her hand to you. Looking up at her, you allow yourself to smile, the first genuine grin flooding your face. You take her hand and let her lift you off the staircase and lead you back to the suite where the rest of your friends were waiting.

And if you never bleed, you’re never gonna grow.

You were a wreck since your fight with Joel. He had tried to call you multiple times but you let it go to voicemail every time. And as the days passed, the calls became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether.

A week later, you came home to find a small box sitting on your doorstep. Inside was all the things you had left at Joel’s place with a small note sitting on the top.

“I’m sorry.”

You had never cried more in your life than you did that evening.

After laying in your bed for hours on end, binge eating chocolate, and binge watching the same three TV shows, you finally decided it was time to stop wallowing in your sadness and try to move on. The next day, you cleared out everything in your house that reminded you of Joel and let yourself get lost in the effort of forgetting him.

It wasn’t easy.

You still sometimes woke up before the sun, your body telling you it was time to get Joel to practice. When you had a bad day, you found yourself making his favorite meal, as if his sadness had melded with yours. Whenever you turned on the news, you always managed to catch it in time to hear the sports section. You found yourself listening to how the Blues were winning again, pulling themselves out of last place and continually pushing themselves towards the playoffs. You resisted the urge to dial Joel’s number, still stored in your phone, and congratulate him after every win or console him after a loss.

As a distraction, you threw yourself into your work, getting tasks done at a breakneck speed and being more productive than you had ever been. You managed to have the best work quarter of your life and your reviews were through the roof. Although, you didn’t really take note of it because you weren’t trying to impress your boss or the company. You were simply trying to stop your mind from focusing on something else, like the feeling of freshly washed curls between your fingers and a smile that outshined the stars.

So, the day your boss called you into her office, the last thing you were expecting her was a promotion. And you certainly weren’t expecting to pack your things and move to Boston after accepting said promotion.

But part of you was relieved to be leaving. It would be much easier to forget about Joel in a city where most people didn’t even know his name. When you landed in Boston, you thought that this would be the place where everything you left behind would fade away.

And you were right. At least, for a few months.

You made new friends and went out to bars and brunches. You continued to work your ass off at your job, now working to prove yourself instead of just working to forget. You didn’t realize that Joel hadn’t even crossed your mind for a long time.

Then one night, when you were out dancing with friends, a handsome stranger pulled you into his lips. And it felt good. You felt free for the first time in a while, believing that your heart was finally mending after everything it had been through.

But that night, after you went home alone and crashed into your bed with your head pounding from the alcohol in your veins, you dreamt of Joel. Of him holding you tight and hearing his heartbeat pound in his chest.

You woke up the next day with the most exquisite ache in your chest and a desperate desire to be wrapped up in his arms once more. Then, when you were walking home from the grocery store that same day, you thought you saw him standing on the corner.

It wasn’t him, of course. But just the mere possibility of seeing him again had you almost dropping your bags onto the sidewalk and rushing into the arms of a complete stranger who just so happened to look like your ex-boyfriend.

That was the moment you knew you were fucked.

Soon, you found yourself turning on the TV, watching hockey games for the first time in months. And when the Bruins won the East and the Blues won the West, you realized that your two worlds were colliding. The world with Joel and the world after him were crashing together and you would be caught up in the carnage. But you were ready for it.

So, when you received a text message from Daphne, who you hadn’t spoken to since you left St. Louis, you answered it. And when she mentioned that Yana couldn’t make the games as she had just given birth to Vladi and hers second son, your heart waited for her to ask the question you hoped to hear. And when she asked if you wanted to come to Game 7 with her, the tug in your heart had made the decision long before you got the words out.

If one thing had been different, would everything be different today?

That was how you found yourself standing in the suite with all the other St. Louis Better Halves, watching as the final minutes of the final period counted down.

After Jayne pulled you back to the seats, you decided to let yourself go. No more holding back your emotions, no more resisting the feelings that had been churning inside you since you stepped foot in the arena. Instead, you screamed with the rest of the girls when Brayden scored another goal to put the Blues up three to nothing. You held breath, squeezing Daphne’s hand as you all watched Vince lead a three-man breakaway, silently praying for something good to come from that opportunity. And you jumped and hugged the girls when Zach scored a fourth goal with less than five minutes left.

And now, you were on your feet, one hand clasped in Daphne’s and the other clasped in Jayne’s, your heart pounding as you watched the clock on the scoreboard in front of you drop to seconds as the final minute of play began.

You could see the bench, the boys on their feet and as every second ticked by, they grew closer and closer to victory. Your eyes looked for Joel, wanting to memorize every minute of his reaction when the final buzzer sounded. It took you a little while to locate him in the crowd but once you did, your eyes never strayed from his body.

He was bouncing with excitement, the anticipation buzzing through him. You could see him slowly realize that this was going to happen, that he was going to be a Stanley Cup champion and when Jaden shoots the puck towards the blue line and it sails past Krejci, onto the other side of the rink, you watched him leap over the bench, throwing his gloves and stick into the air as he rushed to the goal, slamming into the pile of his teammates, all cheering because they finally, finally achieved what they had been working their whole life towards.

You almost collapse under the pure excitement rushing though you, the screams of the other girls echoing around the box and they celebrated. They were hugging and cheering but you kept your eyes on the ice, watching as the boys embraced each other. You felt tears welling in your eyes and it wasn’t until Jayne pulled you into a hug did you tear your focus away from the sweaty mop of curls.

“They did it!” she screamed and pulled you into a bone-crushing hug. You hugged her back and found yourself going around to the other girls, who celebrated with you like nothing had changed. Because nothing had changed. Just because you weren’t with Joel didn’t mean that these girls weren’t your friends. You had become a part of their lives and you were ready to celebrate with them for as long as they would have you. You hoped that would be a long time.

Daphne held you tight as the two of you jumped up and down, screaming incoherently at the fact that this did indeed happen. That Vince was a Stanley Cup Champion. That Joel was a Stanley Cup Champion. That the St. Louis Blues were Stanley Cup Champions.

All the girls turned their attention to the ice as the Conn Smythe trophy was presented and you swore that almost everyone jumped into Dayna’s arms when Ryan’s name was announced over the loudspeaker. It was a few moments until finally, the Stanley Cup was carried out onto the ice. You watched the boys, lined up, arms wrapped around each other as they took in the trophy that was finally theirs.

And when Alex skated forward and hoisted the Cup over his head, you cheered louder than you had in your entire life.

You watched as the Cup made its way down the lineup, passing between players, each one of them unable to contain their excitement and joy. Daphne pulled you close when Vince had his turn, lifting it above him and you could see the tears in her eyes as she watched the man she loved celebrate. And she held you next to her when Joel finally got his hands on the Cup.

The joy in your heart was indescribable as you watched him carry the 35-pound trophy, cheering and pressing kisses to the silver metal. It was exactly the moment you had wanted for him since you first started dating. It was what you dreamed about at every home game, his name and number proudly displayed on your back. It was what you had hoped for when you watched him on your television for the previous six games of the finals. And it was everything you had wished for ever since you walked into TD Garden almost two hours ago.

The girls were moving, picking up their things and heading out of the box, presumably to go down to the ice to congratulate their men on a hard-fought victory. A wave of doubt settled over you and you shifted your weight between your feet, unsure if you should, or were even allowed, to go down with them. It wasn’t until Daphne grabbed one hand and Jayne grabbed the other did you start to move.

You all make your way down the corridors, pushing past people and flashing your security passes. Your heart rate increases once you reach the end of the tunnel. The lights were still shining bright, causing the ice to blind you as you step onto the rink. The three of you carefully shuffle across the ice, the atmosphere still electric with the energy buzzing off the players and staff.

Jayne was the first to break away from your group, running towards Alex who was currently being interviewed. You see the reporter notice Jayne hurrying over and give Alex a nudge in her direction. His face instantly brightens the moment he sees her and he skates over, embracing her.

It wasn’t long before Vince spotted Daphne. As soon as his eyes land on her, he was rushing towards her and she dropped your hand to meet him halfway. You watch as he pulls her close to kiss her deeply, her hands tangling in his hair.

As happy as you were for all of them, both the players and your friends, their joy and intimacy left you feeling awkward as you stand alone in center ice. You weren’t exactly sure what you were supposed to be doing, if anything. While the girls welcomed you with open arms, you weren’t that close to the other players or staff. Most of them hadn’t seen you since you ended things with Joel.

It was when you caught the eye of Colton Parayko did you really feel like a deer in headlights.

Colton’s eyes flicker behind you, looking for Joel, wondering if he had seen you. Glancing back at you, he stood there a moment longer, taking you in. Then, that familiar crooked smile broke out on his face and the breath you didn’t know you had been holding rushed out of you. You mirrored his grin, your body relaxing as he gave you a small wave. You laughed and returned his gesture before he skated away, going to celebrate with his family.

His quiet reassurance was all you needed to feel certain that you were meant to be here.

You slowly spin, finally taking in the joy surrounding you, letting it soak into your skin. You watch Vladi sit on the edge of the rink as he calls Yana, see Laila walking over to Colton and see him wrap her into a giant hug, look over towards Patty lifting his son Anthony onto his shoulders, still shouting and pumping his fists in the air.

You were so caught up in enjoying the moment that you didn’t notice a pair of eyes attach to your frame. It wasn’t until you completed your circle did your gaze fall on Joel, his gaze already locked on you.

A towel was slung around his neck, the Stanley Cup Championship hat perched on his head. And he was staring at you as if he had seen a ghost. You were sure you looked the same way.

You both stand there, a few feet away, simply drinking in the sight of seeing one another in person for the first time in months.

You feel your heart swell as you take him in, the joy still emulating from his body. Words couldn’t describe how happy you were for him. Even if he was no longer a part of your life, you were happy to see him succeed. You wanted him to know that.

Part of you would always love him, that much you were certain of. But part of you knew that maybe you two just weren’t meant to be. And for the first time, that thought didn’t send a jolt of pain straight to your chest. Instead, you felt the warm wave of acceptance wash over you.

You let a small smile dance onto your face, connecting your eyes with his and silently sending all the care and admiration you had for him across the ice. And when you looked into his hazel eyes, the ones that you missed waking up to every morning, you let only one thought reverberate within your mind:

I love you.

And when he smiled back, his eyes sparkling like they always did, you knew that he was thinking the same thing.

But it would’ve been fun, if you would’ve been the one.

You had never felt happier than you did in this moment. The sky was a perfect blue above you, the sun shining on your bare skin, its light refracting off the soft waves on the lake.

You lean back, your feet gently kick in the water off the end of the boat and your eyes close as you let the peaceful contentment soak into your bones. You feel a form settle behind you, a pair of arms coming to wrap around your waist and pull you close. Eyes opening, you glance back to see Joel, a light sun-kissed hue now dusting his nose and cheekbones. A soft smile makes its way onto your lips, causing him to grin back at you.

“Hey pretty lady.”

“Hi,” you softly whisper out.

“What are you doing back here?” he asks, pulling you even closer, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You lean your head against him, taking a deep breath.

“Nothing. Just relaxing.”

Joel just hums in reply, letting the silence return as your bodies press against each other, simply supporting the other’s weight and taking in the moment.

When Joel mentioned his captain’s idea of taking a couple of boats out to Lincoln Lake with the team and their better halves for some bonding and relaxing before the season started and the hectic schedule pushed everyone in different directions, you had to admit you were unsure whether you should go. You had only just started dating Joel. But as soon as you made it out onto the water, you found yourself laughing with the other girls, as if you had known each other forever.

“I’m happy you decided to come,” you hear Joel mumble. And when you glance back, you can see the pure love pouring from his hazel irises. You let yourself lift your head up towards him, connecting your lips to his. You can smell the sunscreen on his skin, taste the rosé on his lips. Your fingers tangle into his sun-bleached curls, and in that moment, you realized that you never wanted to let him go. You pull away from him, your lips still gently upturned as you bring your eyes back to his.

“Of course I came. Where else would I be?”

taglist: @laurenairay @fallinallincurls @ sorlos-world @svexhenthusiast

join my taglist here!

#nicole writes #joel edmundson fic #joel edmundson imagine #joel edmundson angst #la kings fic #la kings imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

57 notes · View notes

theemporium · 2 years ago

Note

Could you do a James Potter c reader smut pls

thank you for requesting!🖤

James Potter wasn’t quite sure how he got into this situation but he wasn’t complaining.

The roars of the crowds and the thrill of their win was still buzzing through his body as they marched into the common room, holding the Quidditch Cup above their heads like they were kings and queens.

It had taken less than fifteen minutes after Gryffindor had won the final match that confirmed their win before the common room had been turned into a party scene with balloons and streamers and smuggled bottles of booze shared amongst the group.

It had taken even less time for James to be roped into some drinking games because he was competitive down to his bone and he would be damned if he let Sirius beat him at shotgunning a can of beer they had smuggled in through the muggle world.

And then somehow between the drinking and the dancing and the celebrating with his team and house, James’ eyes caught yours and it was like a quick spiral from there.

One minute he was staring at you from across the room and the next he was dancing with your back pressed against his front, your ass grinding against his dick. Then you were kissing in the middle of the common room, only for you to take his hand and guide him somewhere a little more quiet. Then before his brain could even catch up, you were sinking down on your knees in front of him, your wide eyes gleaming up at his dumbstruck expression.

“The captain deserves a reward, no?”

James gulped. “I thought the trophy was my reward.”

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, brows raised in question as you reached for his belt buckle but the boy quickly shook his head. “Words, Potter.”

“I, uh, I want this,” he stuttered out, his cheeks burning red as you tugged his zip down.

“Anything for you, captain,” you murmured with a smirk on your lips as you pulled his cock free from his confinements, stroking his length until a small bead of precum oozed from the tip and then you took him in your mouth.

James was about ninety percent convinced that this was some wet dream he was going to kick himself from waking up from in a few moments. Between the Quidditch Cup win and the pretty girl sucking his cock whilst she swore his jersey number on her back, he swore this was only something his deepest desires could conjure up.

But then you were moaning around his cock, reminding him that this was very real and his hands were tangled in your hair as he fucked your mouth.

“Fuck, you look gorgeous with my cock in your mouth, darling,” he groaned, his thighs clenching as your nails dug into his skin, but he enjoyed the bite of pain. “You like having your mouth full, hm? Bet you fucking love when I fuck that pretty mouth of yours.”

You could only moan around his cock in response.

He could barely take it anymore as he looked down at you, only to find you already staring at him with glossy eyes, tears pooling and threatening to fall down your cheeks. He noticed the way your hips rocked aimlessly, the idea that you were enjoying this as much as he was was enough to tip him over the edge as he shot into your mouth.

His head fell back against the wall, his lips parting as he groaned out your name as he came. His chest was heaving as he took a second to ground himself before he looked down at you, seeing you swipe your thumb to catch any of his release that you had missed and fuck, that had to be one of the hottest things he had ever seen.

“Fucking hell, darling, you’re gonna kill a man,” he murmured as his hooded eyes focused on the way your thighs clenched together to try ease your own desire.

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my blowjob skills,” you retorted, making his lips twitch in amusement.

“Let me return the favour, baby,” he said to you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek.

You raised your brows. “You ready to go again so soon, Potter?”

His smile was wolfish as he responded. “Oh baby, I plan to have you come on my face at least two times before I fuck you with my cock.”

989 notes · View notes

kingoftheclaudes · 28 days ago

Text

Propaganda

Job Skeffington (Mr. Skeffington) - God, he breaks my heart. Here's a man who's only desire is to be loved in return. The entire movie, he's made fun of, brushed off, and cast aside. He's such a gentle guy and, like the name suggests, has the patience of a saint even when you'd suspect him to snap. He goes through so much in this movie that my heart aches for him. On the flip side, he's a wonderful father and the scene where he tearfully tries to explain why she shouldn't stay with him truly makes my heart bleed. He's also subtly and may I say, expertly, funny when he's spouting dry lines and even when he isn't talking, steals the spotlight anyway. He was robbed of that Academy Award, I swear!

Erique Claudin (Phantom of the Opera) - My favorite Phantom! Does it differ wildly from the book? Yes. Do I care? NO! Claudin starts the movie by BREAKING YOUR HEART IN TWO and then after the first act he gets to lean into the creep factor by murdering people who get in the way of him helping his daughter achieve her opera goals. While the father/daughter story was cut from the final film, you can 100% see it in Claude Rains' wonderful performance that this is a man so filled with regret at leaving his infant daughter 20 years ago, that he is willing to do anything to help her succeed…even if she doesn't know that he's the one helping her.

This is round one for The King of The Claudes tournament and other matchups can be found here!

Additional Propaganda under the cut!

Job Skeffington

A man with the sweetest brown eyes that I'd follow to the ends of the earth for. Job is such a sweetheart and he doesn't deserve all the shade and slander from Fanny and the others throughout the movie. We definitely needed more screentime for him and the movie's rightly called Mr. Skeffington.

Erique Claudin

This movie is gorgeous and the storytelling is a masterpiece! I don't care what anyone says, this is my favorite adaptation of Phantom and Claude sells it perfectly. He's excellent at toeing the line between a masked mad man and a caring individual and I will be forever fuming about how the father/daughter relationship wasn't official. To me, it will be! He's just the right amount of soft fondness and I was squealing because of how adorable he is when he stammers.

youtube

#round one #claude rains #kingoftheclaudes #kingoftheclaudespoll #classic hollywood #old hollywood #vintage hollywood #polls #poll #tumblr polls #tournament poll #mr. skeffington #mr. skeffington 1944 #phantom of the opera #phantom of the opera 1943 #job skeffington #erique claudin

42 notes · View notes

milawritesstuff · 2 years ago

Note

pedri’s gf being treated like a princess and also being a pillow princess please 🙏🏻

A/N: Him playing today just gave me so much inspiration lol.

Warnings: Smut

•••

Pedri walked out of the match trying to get back to the locker room. But before he could head back he was pushed over to give interviews. He had just played his 100th match with Barça and had scored the only goal of the match.

Sometime later he finally made his way to the locker room and his face lit up when he turned on his phone and saw all of your texts coming in.

-Great match, my star boy 💫

-Your 100th game played like a true king 👑

-Te quiero

Pablo changing next to him began to laugh. -You’re so whipped Pedri.

Pedri turned over to his friend and threw a light punch against his chest.

-We will see when you find someone.

-What happened to being too young for a girlfriend? - Taunted Gavi.

-I also said you couldn’t force anything and this just happened.

Gavi have a slight pat on Pedri’s head and walked away leaving Pedri finally time to call you. Since the match had ended you had been anxiously waiting for your phone to ring.

-Pedri. - you said into the phone with a smile.

-Princesa.

-Congratulations, my star boy. You played amazing.

Pedri laughed . -Te hecho de menos.-

-I miss you too, Pedri. What time will you be home?

-It’s too late for us to head back, I think. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow morning.

-But Girona is only about an hour away.

-Rules are rules princesa.

-You know, the yellow kit looks amazing on you. -You said nervously. Can you wear that tomorrow?

-Only if you don’t wear anything. - He responded with a chuckle.

A few seconds later you hung up and went to bed. You couldn’t wait for Pedri to come back home. He had left you extremely needy with how gorgeous he looked during the match and you wanted nothing more than to be in between his arms.

Hours later you were woken up by noise in the room. When you opened your eyes he was standing over the bed in his yellow jersey.

You smiled. -Pedri.-

He smiled back and got into the bed. He planted a small kiss on your forehead but before you could kiss him back he moved himself down your body. He went under the covers.

-All I could think about after we hung up was having you here, like this. Open your legs for me. - he said as he began to kiss your inner thighs.

He slowly grabbed your underwear from either side and slowly began to slide it off.

-I love how these look on you, but love it even more how they look off of you.- he whispered as he threw your underwear somewhere on the floor of his room.

His lips began to leave small kisses from your feet all the way up to your thighs. Before getting to your core Pedri looked up and stared at you with his beautiful brown eyes. You looked at him with your mouth open because you wished you could keep this view of him forever engraved in your memories.

You closed your eyes and that’s when you felt Pedri’s tongue on you. He started off slowly as his hands grabbed your ass and pulled you towards him causing his tongue to go in deeper.

A moan with his name escaped your lips as you arched your back in pleasure. One of your hands grabbed his hair while the other grabbed onto the bedsheet. He groaned.

His tongue was majestic. It felt soft and delicious against you. As you laid there taking all of the pleasure in you were startled when Pedri introduced two of his fingers in you.

—Pedri.- You moaned as you began to move your hips. He looked up but his tongue never lost contact with you. You continued to move your hips against his mouth and eventually began to feel the friction of his beard against you. Without hesitation you continued to move against his face. You heard him moan your name.

The sheer view of him in between your legs, with his rosy cheeks and his frazzled hair was enough to send you into overdrive. He continued to move his tongue in and out of you causing you to moan.

-Pedri.- you said as he looked up at you.

-Come up.- he quickly moved himself up and you sat up facing him. He lifted your shirt over your head and his eyes lit up when he saw you were wearing nothing underneath. His mouth immediately went to suck your nipples as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

You motioned for him to take his shirt off. You needed to see his bare chest and chiseled abs.

-I thought you wanted me to wear it.- he said with a smirk.

-And now I want you to take it off. - you said as you bit your lip. -It’s done it’s job.-

You slowly helped Pedri take the shirt off leaving him bare in front of you. He looked at you and licked his lips.

-You’re beautiful, you know that princesa?- he said causing you to smile.

-I think you’ve told me a few hundred thousand times.- you joked. Pedri laughed and went in to kiss you.

-You have no idea how lucky I am to have you.- he whispered as his lips touched yours again.

-Te quiero, my star boy.-

#pedri gonzalez #pedri imagine #pedri x reader #pedri #pedri fluff #pedri smut #pedri requests #pedro gonzalez #fc barcelona #spanish football

586 notes · View notes

dansnaturepictures · 4 months ago

Text

Eight of my favourite photos I took in August 2024 and month summary: Baby steps into the shift of the seasons

The photos are of; view with a moody sky at Lakeside Country Park, young Mute Swans at Keyhaven, Jersey Tiger moth at Lakeside, Chalkhill Blue at Stockbridge Down, Common Darter at Lakeside, Roe Deer at Acres Down, harebells at Shipton Bellinger and King Alfred's cake at Fishlake Meadows.

August is a time to enjoy high summer sights including butterfly filled meadows and darting dragonflies but also a time to prepare for change into an equally exciting wild season, as subtle signs like the drawing in of the nights and emergence of berries hint at the imminent baton exchange of summer and autumn. I have really enjoyed this August to the full for wildlife, walking and photos.

In the early days as the Big Butterfly Count drew to a close I ended triumphantly observing a big increase in species such as Meadow Brown, Common Blue and Speckled Wood being around. There were some stellar additions to my butterfly year this month with Essex Skipper, Silver-spotted Skipper, Chalkhill Blue and Brown Hairstreak seen. Other standout species of a fantastic butterfly month included Brown Argus, Wall Brown, Small Heath, Small White, Brimstone, Comma, Peacock and Red Admiral. I had a marvellous month of moths centring on a phenomenon over a week or so seeing a fair few Jersey Tiger moths at different locations a species I’d only ever seen three times prior to that, a really exciting influx of this resplendent moth. I was captivated by a splendid Swallow-tailed moth at home at the month’s start, with Double-striped Pug, Wavy-barred Sable, my first ever Purple Bar, Grass-veneer, Silver Y, Small Dusty Waves and Six-spot Burnet also enjoyed. As the month went on butterflies rather made way for dragonflies to take centre stage a little, with mesmerising times watching Migrant Hawker, Southern Hawker, evocative of late summer for me Common Darter and Black-tailed Skimmer, with Beautiful Demoiselle and Blue-tailed Damselfly good to see too.

Shift in the year was evident in my birdwatching month too which was another brilliant one with some migration movement. I loved seeing Whinchats at Hook-with-Warsash, Little Stint and Curlew Sandpiper at Pennington and Osprey at Fishlake Meadows. I got some splendid views of the Peregrines at Winchester Cathedral this month, very much enjoyed the new Great Crested Grebe chicks and young Moorhens on regular walks at Lakeside Country Park and was thrilled to see adorable Mute Swan cygnets well a few times at Winnall Moors and Keyhaven in a strong year I’ve had for seeing young birds. Other highlights this month included Ravens, Jay, Red Kite, Buzzard, Marsh Harrier, Kestrel, Sparrowhawk, the last Swifts, Swallow, House Martin, Sand Martin, Stock Doves, Stonechat, Bullfinches, Great Spotted Woodpecker at Lakeside and Green Woodpecker there and heard elsewhere, Chiffchaff, Long-tailed Tit, Blue Tit and Goldfinches including young at home, a few Kingfishers, Cormorants including notably at Lakeside and Winnall Moors, Grey Heron including notably at Lakeside and in Winchester, Little Egret, Great White Egret, Spoonbills, Knot, Grey Plover, Ringed Plover, Avocet, Common Sandpiper, Dunlin, Snipe, Whimbrel, Curlew, Eiders and some Tufted Ducks including ducklings.

Other nice sightings this month included of Roe and Fallow Deers on wonderful afternoon of deers at Acres Down in the New Forest, Grey Squirrel, Common Red Soldier beetle, my first ever Tawny Longhorn beetle at Shipton Bellinger, ladybirds, pondskater with especially lots at one point at Lakeside sticking in my mind, sawflies, charming Hornet mimic hoverfly at Stockbridge Down, Yellow-haired Sunfly, other hoverflies and bees, Ichneumon wasps, Fox and Cinnabar moth caterpillars, crickets/grasshoppers including Roesel’s bush cricket, Long-winged Conehead and Common Field Grasshopper, snails at home on wet nights and gorgeous Ambersnail at Winnall Moors, Common Lizards at Magdalen Hill and Grey Silverfish and spiders at home.

Onto plants and I saw some more thrilling wildflowers this month including fairy flax, water speedwell and another speedwell, St. John’s-worts, fleabane, ragwort, bird’s-foot trefoil, forget-me-not, scarlet pimpernel, water mint, sundew, bog asphodel, hemp agrimony, purple loosestrife, great willowherb, rosebay willowherb, small-flower hairy willowherb, marjoram, wild basil, tufted vetch, vetch, viper’s-bugloss, scabiouses including fine devil’s-bit scabious, wild carrot, upright hedge-parsley, sea aster, scentless mayweed, pineappleweed, dock, self-heal, sainfoin, creeping thistle, spear thistle, woolly thistle, horseweed, common mallow, musk mallow, marsh mallow, golden samphire, nightshade, broad-leaved enchanter’s nightshade and some of my favourites centaury, restharrow, common toadflax, eyebright and endearing nodding harebells. It was amazing to see sunflowers at home in the garden a stalwart of August with the fuchsias and black-eyed Susans coming on nicely too. The aforementioned berries I really enjoyed seeing this month included loads of blackberries and hawthorn, blackthorn sloes, rowan, guelder rose berries, nightshade berries, cuckoo-pint berries, elderberries, wild service tree berries and wayfaring tree berries with apple, acorn and chestnut seen too. There were some nice mushrooms seen this month as well including King Alfred’s cake and panthercap and I took in some stunning views at various locations and habitats with epic sky scenes including moody scenes, the moon and sunsets observed. Have a great September all.

9 notes · View notes

bbygirlky18 · 1 year ago

Text

Mami's Breakthrough!

Chapter 1

Part 1

Pairing: Rhea Ripley x Fem reader

Description: Rhea was getting tired of Finn and Damian fighting so when she arrived at the hotel she decided to take a walk when she came across this wrestling show and she met the diva who runs it and wrestles in it.

A/N: This is the for the first chapter of my fanfic Mami's Breakthrough! Enjoy.

Word Count: 662 for Part 1 (The total of the whole first chapter is 2663)

Rhea's POV: "Let's go to the hotel. I'm tired of you guys fighting." I said as I grew more pissed at Finn and Damian. The ride to the hotel was full of silence and once we arrived at the hotel the arguments started back up.

"Why is JD in Judgement Day business? It's only allowed to be Judgement members." Damian said to Finn. "JD is my friend. We've been friends forever. Plus you don't hear me complaining about you talking to Bad Bunny after you said that you would end his career at Backlash in Puerto Rico and you lost." I stopped in my tracks and grabbed my jacket, my phone, the room key, and my purse. I texted Liv Morgan and it went like this.

Rhea😈: Hey Liv. I’m going for a walk out on the town. Do you want to come? I need to get out here before I kill Finn and Damian.

Liv💙: Yeah sure. I heard that there’s this wrestling show going on right now and Trinity (Naomi) apparently knows the girl who runs it. Do you want me to invite Trin?

Rhea😈: Yeah bring her along. I could use the girl time right now.

Liv💙: Ok. Meet us downstairs.

Rhea😈: Ok. Bring your room keys and your purses. I’m heading downstairs right now.

Once I was done texting Liv I looked at Dominik, Finn, and Damian. I said “I’m heading out before we have to go out with WWE. Finn and Damian if you don’t get your shit together we’re gonna have problems.” I walked out of the room and I walked to the elevator and went to the first floor. While down on the first floor I saw Stephanie and Hunter and I said “Hey me, Liv and Naomi are going for a walk out on the town we’ll meet you at the bar. Is that ok?” Stephanie said “Yea don’t worry about it, Rhea. I’ll have someone text you, Liv, or Naomi when we’re at the bar and you 3 can just meet there.” I said “Ok. Thank you.” They walked off and I heard the elevator ding. I see Naomi, Liv, Jimmy, and Jey all get off the elevator. I said “Hey girls. Sup twins.” Jimmy and Jey waved. Naomi said, “I tried to tell them that it was a girl’s night for you and you wanted us to come so you can breathe and get your mind right but they told me that they are not going to let me go alone only cause of the creepy guys who are out so I just told them that they could come.” I nodded and said “That’s fine with me. I just need to get out and blow off steam before I kill Damian and Finn.”

We all left the hotel and we walked into this place that had like at least 137,379 people in it and this beautiful, gorgeous, astonishing woman walked out and said “Welcome to Eastern Oustanding Amazing Entertainment Pro Wrestling aka EOAEPW where everyone is accepted. Even though I’m the owner I will be wrestling for you tonight. My name is Gretchen Foster but my full name is Gretchen Wilhelmina Janene Dodie Foster but in the ring, I’m known as “The Nightmare Demolisher” Eliora “Evie” King. I’m glad that you’re here. Let’s get the show started. The first match scheduled for one fall is for the Demon’s Championship Belt. Introducing the champion weighing in at 6’6”, 272 lbs from Ogdensburg, New Jersey, Nathan “Quickdraw” Bernard, and introducing the challenger weighing in at 6’3”, 160lbs from Streetsboro, Ohio, Shane "Big Boy" Stone.” We sat and watched the match. Shane put up a good fight, but in the end, Nathan was able to secure the victory and retain his championship belt. After the match, Nathan celebrated with the crowd, as Shane accepted defeat with a humble nod. Nathan and Shane embraced each other and the crowd cheered in appreciation. Nathan then thanked the crowd for their support and Shane did the same.

#mami rhea #rhea ripley #rhea ripley wwe #first fanfic

30 notes · View notes

intheorangebedroom · 2 years ago

Text

Pleased to meet you, chapter 15

Summary: You eventually made up your mind, but acting on it is a whole different story. Time is ticking on you. An afternoon at the museum with Will precipitates everything.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: So yeah, Plainsong became Flaming June... Don't ask! You'll see. If you'd like a song to go with this one, may I suggest Maps, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs? And if ever you're interested, @deadmantis (my favourite enabler) sent me an ask (thank you 🧡) that has allowed me to ramble discuss Reader & Benny's relationship further.

A million thank you Fanna my darling for making this gorgeous gif of those two kings. I am still giggly from it and I promise next time I won't ask on such short notice 🧡

@meandorla I don't know where I'd be without you... Thank you for your time, your help, your enthusiasm, your sharp understanding of them and their story. For bearing with me, and helping me find my way as I'm approaching the end of this story 🧡 Ily 🧡

Word count: 5.7k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 15: Flaming June

Time is such an odd thing. A social construct, as they say.

And you have spent so much of it reading on the subject, from nebulous scientific essays in specialised publications that left you questioning your intellectual abilities, to popular articles in mainstream media, trying to understand how two days and three nights in an orange bedroom could have contained all of your past and your entire future.

How the fifteen years that followed could have lasted longer than ten life sentences.

How it violently collapsed in on itself as you walked into a dingy New Jersey bar, only to be propelled into an ascending spiral, gathering speed and momentum, yet still endlessly stretching on.

Monday morning finds you rested. With the heavy curtains blocking the early morning sun, for the first time in months, you’ve slept soundly until your alarm rung.

Benny snoring lightly next to you.

Rested but restless, hating yourself because you couldn’t find it in you to say “no” when he asked if he could stay the night at your place. It took his massive presence in your small apartment for you to realise you own only one pillow.

But he didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. In appearance unfazed, undeterred, cheerful and patient as always, even when you pushed away his hands under the sheets with a bullshit excuse.

How you’d wanted him to call you out on the obvious lies, confront you about your distance, the fact that you hardly ever let him fuck you anymore when you two used to get down to it in his brother’s pick-up parked on the side of the road.

Are your lies so expertly hidden, or is Benny so well-trained to your recurrent distance? The persistence of his affection just another blemish on your conscience, another blame for you to carry on your own. Besides, you have no right to wish for him to make this any easier for you, anyway.

When you set off for work, he left with you, to swing by his house before his morning run and when he pulled you in for one last hug, holding you flush against his firm, wide chest, you let him. You strengthened your hold, threading your fingers through his thick blond hair, incapable of holding back your words, laced with guilt and regret. “You’re so good, Benjamin.”

Time is ticking on you. As loud as the clock back in Rosie’s kitchen when you got up to leave. Relentless, no matter how hard you dig in your heels, how desperately you try to stall for more. One more day. One more night. One last kiss, one last fuck.

And now it’s 10am again. Forty-eight hours since you’d sat in Frankie’s truck with the unreasoned, remorseless desire to let him know that you’ve never stopped waiting, that you have always cared. That to you, he’s still the same. You could swear it’s been forty-eight years.

Twenty-four hours since you opened your door and let him in. Twenty-two since you’ve felt his lips on your neck, his skin etching your skin.

And how long exactly until you can’t pretend any longer that it never happened? That your thoughts are only of him; your sole concern the fate that awaits him when he goes back to work today?

Tomorrow, you reprise like a chorus. Tomorrow, you’ll act. Tomorrow every week.

And in the meantime, you hide in the cracks, seeking physical discomfort to lull your sadness to sleep.

The noise of the bookstore metallic shutters winding up that fills your brain like boulders made of lead tumbling down a cliff.

The sweltering atmosphere in the small, quaint shop when you get inside. The drop of sweat that rolls down your spine with every ample movement, until Suzanne walks in after lunch and turns on the antique AC unit that has only two positions: cold and freezing.

The rasp in your throat from the frigid, artificial air.

The unpleasant customers, the chatty ones and the obnoxious, the ones you hope will never visit again.

The burn in your lungs when you draw another drag, Fayçal’s words adding a guilty flavour to the tar aroma of the nicotine. “Tu fumes trop, cousine.”

The proximity of hot and smelly strangers' bodies on the 7pm bus.

And when you finally make it home, well, another day has passed. Time your unlikely ally. Monday an unexpected truce.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll act.

The plastic handles of your heavy grocery bag is cutting off the blood circulation in your fingers and your key jams in the front door when you try to unlock it, winded from the four floor climb.

The muffled ringtone of your phone has you cursing loudly at first, before your body stiffens at a sudden thought.

Rosie. Could it be Rosie? Tomorrow is Tuesday. Could she be reaching out to you? Hope rattles your heart in your chest, the grocery bag dropping to the floor when you grab your phone from the back pocket of your short denim overalls, your other hand frantically jiggling the key.

The lock gives as you read the caller ID on the screen.

Ironhead

Will doesn’t text. He calls. You hate it, speaking on the phone makes you uncomfortable, you need time to think over your words. But where Benny can be flexible, Will never caves. You text, he calls. And that’s the end of it.

However, you don’t hesitate before picking up, kicking the bag inside your apartment, groceries scattered and rolling on the carpeted floor.

“Allô?” you answer in French, locking the door behind you.

“I thought you were going to send me to voicemail there for a second,” he taunts. “How are you?”

“No, no, I’m only just getting home. What’s up?”

Will marks a pause, and you grimace at your poorly performed deflection.

“Right,” he answers in his measured drawl. “Calling about tomorrow. Shall we meet over there, or should I come to pick you up? Did you finally buy that car?”

Tomorrow.

Fuck.

—

The GPS promises an hour’s drive from your place to 1 East 70th Street, but you’ve lived here long enough to know that the constant traffic will nearly double that, even on an early Tuesday afternoon. Reaching the destination is only the first part of the adventure; finding a parking spot there is always the real challenge.

You’d be fine riding the subway but Will systematically insists that it’s faster this way. Deep down, you don’t really mind the drive. The New York City skyline appearing on the horizon of the New Jersey Turnpike is a spectacle you have yet to tire of. Growing up in Paris meant learning early on to make the best out of the busy, stressful capital, in particular by preserving your ability to marvel at its postcard landmarks.

Despite the increasing tension running through you since early April winding you up like a power line, you welcome this opportunity to spend the afternoon with Will, certain that his self-possessed, even demeanour will soothe and balance your own.

As the car takes the last U-turn before entering the Lincoln Tunnel, where more traffic awaits, you offer to give him cash for the toll, knowing full well he will turn it down.

“I choose the route, I pay the toll,” he tells you with a half smile. “You can pay for the first round.”

The midnight blue, tight polo he’s wearing darkens his eyes. Your gaze lingers affectionately on the large tattoos adorning his brawny forearms, before you become aware that you are trying to memorise them, and you push back the nagging thought that this might be the last time the two of you hang out together.

The tickets have been booked months in advance, Will sharing your excitement, with only slightly less exuberance, at the prospect of seeing Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce and presented at the Frick Collection. One of your favourite pieces by Frederic Leighton, whose work you’ve only seen printed in books or badly reproduced on postcards, save for a painting in Orsay and one in the Tate Gallery in London.

Booked before your world was tipped off its axis, and you completely forgot about the exhibition.

Now, there’s a spring in your step when you get out of the car. You got dolled up, and enjoyed doing so, for the first time in what feels like a long while. Red lipstick and loose hair, you even put on a dress, sleeveless with a deep V-cut in the front and in the back, pretty knots tied over your shoulders. If this is a funeral, let it be one worth remembering.

You can barely pace yourself as you make your way through the mixed crowd of tourists and art enthusiasts across the Garden Court of the Frick. Will’s heavy boots resound on the marble flooring as he lengthens his strides to catch up with you. You step into the Oval Room like others walk into churches for mass, with reverent apprehension, devotion, and respect.

And then, it’s there.

Leighton’s masterpiece punches the air out of your lungs. You stare at it in stricken silence, mouth agape, Will standing behind you to your right, arms folded on his chest.

There’s a small, wistful smile on his lips, as he lets the painting bring him back to his college years and resurfacing lessons on academic style, Victorian era, aesthetic considerations and concepts. Seemingly unproductive yet essential hours spent debating perspectives and artists’ intents, the reminiscence an indulgence only you and your friendship can provide. A futile and necessary contentment only you can share with him.

You two have discussed it in the past, early in your relationship, when you had asked him if he had any regrets. He had none, he claimed with dignified resignation, save perhaps for the lack of recognition for what he had sacrificed to accomplish his duty.

After a moment spent in silent contemplation, he takes a step closer to you, and he’s about to share his thoughts when your absent expression stops him in his tracks. You’re standing a few inches from him, yet you are miles, or rather years away from the Oval Room.

Time has recoiled and wound back like a reversed mechanism. The woman at the centre of the painting, sleeping languidly and with a trustful, serene abandon, is draped in a sheer orange gown, her long, luxuriant hair parted on both sides of her body like a cascading, lush blanket. Above her, the sun sets on a placid sea, under a pastel pink summer sky.

The gown leaps out of its frame to grip at your throat, its colour louder than any copy you’ve ever seen in art catalogues, Wikipedia page or websites, and you recognise it instantly. This particular shade has been seared into your flesh and your soul. It’s your past and a lost promise. It is love and safety. It is desire and trust. It’s two worlds colliding on a sunny and warm Sunday morning in July.

There’s a prickling sensation at the corner of your eyes. Will sucks his teeth in and his stare sharpens. Propping his hands on his hips, he takes another step closer to you, and whispers, “You alright, there?”

You run your hands over your arms to hide the shivers that won’t leave your skin. When you speak, it’s in a distant voice, your eyes locked on the rumpled gown hugging the model’s figure.

“You know, my grandparents had curtains just like that in their living-room,” you start. “My grandma was a seamstress. She had made them herself.”

Will nods in silence.

“Why couldn’t you stay with your grandfather, after she died?” he asks bluntly, albeit in a soft tone.

You love his forthrightness and have always appreciated his lack of pretence. It puts you at ease, and grants you the freedom to provide him, or not, with an answer.

“I did, for a couple of months, but he was too overwhelmed with grief. It was as though he couldn’t function anymore, without her. He got very depressed, very quickly, and, well, you know what happened next.”

Will knows, if not in the darkest details, about your difficult relationship with your mother, and your grandfather’s passing within two years of your grandmother’s death.

“What about your father? You never talk about him.”

“Ah yes,” you can’t keep the bitterness out of your scoff, “him. Said he wasn’t ready to be a father. Then went on and married another woman, who got pregnant, like, fifteen minutes later.”

You keep facing the painting, your spine a rigid metal rod, because you don’t think yourself capable of withholding his astonishment and the question you know he’ll ask next.

“You mean you have siblings?”

“No,” you reply a little too fiercely. “As far as I’m concerned I’m an only child. These people are not my family. I found out about my father’s death two weeks after they’d buried him.”

Behind you, Will exhales slowly, deeply, and you realise he’s standing closer to you than you thought.

“My father loved art,” he says, eventually. “His parents wanted him to learn what they called a ‘real trade’, but he never stopped reading and learning about it. Pretty sure I got it from him. And he certainly never objected when I said I wanted to study it.”

In turn, you sigh and let your hands fall to your sides.

You stand in silence side by side for a while longer, before he asks again. “So? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“It’s more,” you murmur.

“McSorley’s?”

“McSorley’s,” you reply with a nod, drawing away from Flaming June.

—

Ever since you had landed in Newark, you’d been more than conflicted regarding the transient nature of your stay here. The part of you that hated to be away from Paris for longer than a summer vacation considered the move transitory. An internal countdown was permanently ticking in the back of your head towards the end of your three-year sabbatical, and you had failed - if not refused - to adjust to your new home in more ways than one. Your stubborn use of the metric system being just the comedic tip of the iceberg.

Yet you had had all your books and belongings shipped to your new address the very day you got the keys to your apartment. You had never even raised the subject with Rosie, let alone with Will or Benny, instead slipping deliberately into a comfortable routine to neutralise your homesickness.

Will had first taken you to the historical ale house, an East Village institution, after you had confided in him that you missed Europe as a whole. “It’s not that I feel French when I’m here,” you’d said, “I feel European. I can’t explain.” The Irish pub had been his answer, his own vision of good ol’ Europe, and the bar had quickly become a mandatory stop whenever you visited the city together.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the pub when you follow him in, but the wood chips on the floor, catching on the leather sole of your huaraches sandals, feel comfortingly familiar.

Will places the order at the bar while you take a sit at one of the round tables, glancing at the hanging wishbones covered in a hundred years worth of greasy dust, wondering, as always, if any of them belonged to a pilot, only this time you know yours has returned from his wars, if not entirely sound and safe.

Once the waiter has brought in four half pints of McSorley’s ale, you start sharing your impressions on the exhibition, digressing to the importance of the pre-Raphaelites avant-garde in the Victorian Era before the conversation naturally dies.

The strong ale has given you a pleasant buzz, you’re light-headed, but nicely so, and you prop your elbow on the thick wooden table to rest your face in your hand. Staring emptily at the floor, you’re unaware of Will’s gaze fixed on you. The man is twice your mass and it takes more than a pint of beer to get him remotely tipsy. His next question falls on your neck like a guillotine.

“So, where do you know Frankie from?”

Your cheek glued to your palm, you pivot your head on your arm to face him, eyes as wide as saucers giving away your alarm.

He leans back against the back of his chair, his forearms on his thighs, impassive, his steely blue eyes plunged into yours, and you feel like a field mouse that fell prey to a hawk.

You want to answer, you really do, but your teeth are stuck together and all you can do is frown, conceal the panic beneath pretend outrage, knowing all too well he will not let go. Sure enough, he seems to rethink and tilts his head to the side, sits up and leans forward over the table.

“Wait… maybe the better question is, when do you know Frankie from?”

Would it be so bad if it ended here? With Will? The man already knows more about you than his brother does, would the damage be greater if he knew it all? Panic turns to capitulation, and capitulation reshapes into relief.

The dead weight of weeks of dissimulation slowly slides off your shoulders. You straighten up, eventually, and look your friend in the eyes when you answer, in a flat tone, “1999.”

Whether he didn’t expect such an easy win or didn’t suspect such a long time, Will is visibly taken aback, and you ponder if you should speak first or wait for him to question you further. The man has been trained in interrogation techniques, you might want to take the lead in that conversation. Is he still your friend?

Your voice is hoarse, and the prickling sensation is swelling again under your eyelids, but your mind is clear. Deep inside your chest, a foreign feeling flares up, one that you fail to identity at first.

“We met at a party I went to with Rosie. It was in July. Just before he joined the Army. We-” your words get stuck in your dry throat, your eyes flicking down to your empty glasses, fuck this is harder than anything, “we spent the weekend together.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek, that you only register when it reaches your jaw and hangs there before it falls on your forearm. Anger. What you feel is anger.

“So it was just a one-off thing?” he prods.

More tears threaten to spill and you look upward to try to hold them back, breathing in through your nose and exhaling shakily through parted lips. When you look at him again, your face conveys so much pain and disillusion, he falls back against his chair, as if to avoid the ripples of your sadness.

“What do you think, William? Would you be here, asking me those questions, if it was just a one-off thing?”

You take in the embarrassment on his face when he hangs his head, running his tongue other his teeth.

“Yes,” he concedes. “So what happened?”

“We got separated by dumb fucking bad luck, is what happened. I lost his number, that’s the short version.” You let the implications sink in. “Does Benny… suspect anything?” you add in a small voice, hoping you don’t sound as despicable as you feel.

“No. No, he doesn’t,” Will answers slowly. “But he’s worried. Said you were growing distant.”

Tears are freely rolling down your cheeks, now, but your brow remains knitted in anger. You can’t shake that off, nor do you want to, because it might be the last thing keeping you upright.

Will’s voice is considerably softer when he asks, “What are you going to do, then?”

“I don’t want to hurt him, you know,” you reply aggressively, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Oh you’re gonna hurt him,” he shoots back matter-of-factly, “I know you don’t want to, I believe you. But you will. I don’t know what you…” he trails off and reaches across the table to cover your hand with his, encircling your wrist with his strong fingers, giving it a hard squeeze as he continues in a tone of confidence.

“Look. I’ve known Frankie for a little over 10 years. To me, he’s always been like- like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then- then I see you together, in the same room… you’re not even talking… and I see the missing piece.”

A repressed sob shakes your chest and you pull your arm back to free your hand from his grip, so you can blow your nose, dry your cheeks, anything to give the illusion of composure, but he doesn’t let you.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna do, but I can’t imagine you staying with my brother, now. So whether you leave him for his best friend, or you just leave him, he’s gonna hurt.”

Letting go of your hand, he leans back again, shrugging his bulky shoulders, “It’s gonna be rough, probably on all of us but, I mean, that’s life. It’s not on you. This clown is lucky he didn’t get his heart broken earlier.”

It’s not on you.

A couple of days ago, his words would have triggered the imperious need to go home and give up, once more take it out on yourself, smoke a pack of lung cancer sticks, get shitfaced and blackout.

So that you can keep soldiering on and show the world that you haven’t let your traumas and your losses define you.

Will moves to stop you from digging your nails in your forearm, but you recoil from his touch, angry tears spilling out.

“Hey,” he calls, his palm extended toward you, his brow knitted in concern, “hey, I mean it. It’s not your fault. It’s a shitty situation. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The image of Frankie’s cap on your countertop flashes through your mind, the ghost sensation of his hand spanning your body raising a new trail of goosebumps on your skin.

“I’m gonna need you to tell me that you’re hearing this,” he tries again. “It is not your fault.”

Slowly, his right hand reaches your forearm, grabbing it and pulling it gently away from your other arm. His grip on you is almost tender, and after a few seconds, you register the little circles his thumb is tracing on your skin.

“I hear you,” you articulate, eyes closed, before swallowing thickly, “I hear you,” you repeat, giving him the reassurance of eye contact.

“Do you have any idea of what you’re gonna do?”

The depth of his insightfulness causes your head to spin a little. Around you, the bar has filled up, people stepping in for drinks after a day of work, tourists with thick annotated guides on their tables, happy chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls covered with framed pictures of patrons from yesteryears, their solemn faces looking down on you.

“Yes,” you start, aware that speaking your plan out loud will give it substance and compel you to put it into motion, “I’m going to leave Benny.”

He gives you an encouraging nod, but his expression remains neutral, enabling you to continue, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I have to see Frankie, first, make sure he doesn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell Benny I met someone else, or that I’m not in love and things are getting too serious, I don’t know, he can hate me, it’s probably better, as long as he doesn’t lose his best friend.”

Will folds his arms on his chest and remains silent for an excruciatingly long moment, visibly weighing his next words. You know him well enough to understand that your willingness to shoulder the blame on your own forces his admiration. You’re not being entirely honest, however. Benny’s not really the one you want to protect. So when he speaks next, his words shoot through your body like a stray bullet.

“And where does that leave us?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper inaudibly under the cacophony of the pub, your throat closing up, and you clench your eyes shut to hold back a new wave of tears, hiding your face in your hand.

His heavy sigh sounds like defeat. He leans forward, hesitant, reaching for your hand once more, before changing his mind and sliding his napkin towards you across the table.

“Ok, let’s go, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, standing up and placing his hand on your shoulder.

“I need you to give me Frankie’s address, Will,” you say, dabbing the corner of your eyes with the tissue, removing small flakes of black mascara from your eyelids.

His grasp on your shoulder tightens.

“He’s up north. Come on, it’s late, I’ll drive you.”

—

Six months of probation, with weekly drug tests. Any refusal to comply and he’s welcome to seek employment elsewhere.

Frankie slams the front door of his house behind him and throws the keys onto the console table next to it. It’ll be six months until he can fly again, working as a mechanic under tech support supervision, with this asshole Giovanni who ratted him out bossing him around. Back to square one, and for what. A stupid, minor coke bust.

Storming into the open kitchen, he gets a bottle of beer out of the fridge, uncaps it and tosses the cap on the table, where it ricochets and falls on the tiled floor. The cold glass pressed against his right cheek does little to temper his mood, but he leaves it there for a minute, until the condensation runs down his hand and into his beard.

They had him drive over first thing Monday morning only to keep him waiting around all day, and have him come back again today to inform him of the conditions of his reinstatement, adding humiliation to injury. Well played.

He falls heavily on a kitchen chair, his blood boiling over the fast downward spin his life has recently taken, and the six months freshly added to his sixteen years of penance.

“You gotta get back on your game, pendejo. It stops now,” he mutters to the bottle in his hand.

Just because you’re not his doesn’t alter the fact that he doesn’t want you to bear witness to his fuck-ups. You’re here. You’re real.

Two days later, he has barely come down from the intoxicating sensation that came with the smoothness of your skin under his fingers, the weight of your breast in his hand, your scent between his lips, he could almost taste you as he ran his tongue over them, rushing back down the stairs.

And the elation, the vengeful rightfulness he felt, taking the passenger seat of the Mustang next to Benny. The thought ugly and rampant, stifling his lungs, envy, near hostility, as he glanced in his direction from under the brim of his hat with ill-concealed fury. Resentment over his happiness, simmering and threatening to choke him until he had to remind himself that he would never have found you again if it wasn’t for him. Wouldn’t even be alive, for that matter.

But fuck. You are his.

You chased his mouth with yours. He didn’t imagine that. Reached out for his skin, moved by the same frantic need that made him seek yours. Dug your nails in his arms and your scent on that pillow…

“FUCK!”

The chair crashes with a clatter onto the floor when he stands up.

The last time he experienced this level of irritation was on the field, calling out Pope for challenging Redfly’s orders while they were under enemy fire, and his fingers flex around nothing, around the ghost presence of a gun.

His doorbell jolts him out of the traumatic memory, his dark eyes flicking up to the front door. He’s in no mood to entertain visitors. He’ll sit this one out, he decides, falling still and silent, until your muffled voice comes in from outside, hesitant and apologetic.

“Frankie?”

He’s at the door in two steps and swings it open so forcefully your hair flies with the pull of air.

The first thing he sees is your dress, long, black and with a deep cleavage plunging down to your midriff, dragging his thoughts along the way, but when his eyes flicker back up to your face, dread flares up in his gut.

Small red spots linger tellingly around your swollen eyes, and there’s a shadow of wiped lipstick on your lips.

“What happened? Are you ok?” he rasps before noticing Will’s pickup doubled parked in the street behind you.

His frown deepens when his friend nods in his direction, starting the engine, and his puzzled gaze follows the vehicle until it turns right and disappears around the block.

You’re left standing here, on his doorstep, silently looking up at him, and he doesn’t know what to do with you.

“Come in,” he mumbles, stepping to the side to let you pass, but not enough that you won’t brush his arm with yours.

Seeing you in his home is disorienting, and guilt makes him wince, thinking about what he put you through two days ago.

You seem lost in the large open space, trying to decide between the living-room and the kitchen, so you turn around and face him, a few feet away from his standing, rigid figure. For a brief moment, he thinks you’ll ask him for help, but instead you take your purse and position it in front of you, so he takes a step back away from you.

“I have to talk to you,” you start in a breathy voice.

“What happened?” he asks again.

“Nothing happened, not like that,” you add. “Last Saturday I told Rosie I saw you again. And she won’t talk to me anymore,” you explain shakily. “And Will knows. We went to the city together today, and he asked… Well, anyway. He knows.“

“Surprised he didn’t find out before,” he grumbles.

“I think he’s suspected for a while.”

“Yea, sounds like him,” he agrees.

His understanding stands between you, an overwhelming reminder of their enduring friendship, of their history and their bond. You deflate, suddenly, fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag, averting your eyes when Frankie lifts off his cap and combs his fingers through his dark curls.

“Do you have any alcohol?” you ask.

He sighs heavily before asking, “What do you want?”

“Something strong. Whiskey. Do you have whiskey?”

“I’m not giving you alcohol. What do you want?”

His voice is loud and clear. It travels around every surface of the room until it comes crashing into your ears. It’s not a question, not really, it’s an injunction to decide, a desperate demand to set him on his next course, whatever it may be, and as your silence stretches between you, time slowly swirls into a million eternities.

“I want you,” you answer soberly, your shoulders sagging with the confession, and the sadness he had vowed to chase away forever ago in the orange bedroom dims your wide eyes. “I never taught myself to want anything else but you, Frankie. But that’s not possible. You will lose too much. I’ve seen you together. He trusts you. And you love him. I can’t destroy that.”

His frustration is palpable, it makes the air thrum around him. Everything in his body, in his posture, betrays his state of mind, from the nervous grind of his teeth to the hard grip of his fingers on his hip, from his corded neck to his glaring eyes.

He wants to tell you that it’s too late. That his fondness for Benny was irredeemably tarnished the minute you stepped into that bar with your hand wrapped in his, probably longer before that, at the very second Benny deluded himself into thinking he could ever give you what you needed.

That you are not to blame for his resentment. That your self-hatred and your culpability make him want to scream until his vocal cords snap. That he can shield you from it, if you only let him, please, let him protect you from it, and from the rest, from anything and everything.

“I wish you would let me decide,” he says as gently as he possibly can, but the restraint in his voice remains audible, and threatening.

And through it, you hear everything he cannot tell you. And you believe him, believe he would keep you safe, from the world and from yourself, that he holds that much power. But how can you possibly choose your own happiness over his?

Defeated, you let go of your bag, let it sway over your hip before it stills and hangs by your side.

“I am going to leave him. Tomorrow. I mean tonight,” you state. “And then I’ll go home.”

Frankie straightens up, raising to his full height, lips parted, hardly breathing, for the word has hit him in the chest.

“Home,” he repeats huskily.

“Home. Paris.” The familiar name catches in your throat like a large bone, and you clench your teeth with all of your strength, giving yourself the illusion of a will power you fear you don’t possess.

“No.”

You’ve never heard him speak this loud, and the determination in his voice makes you flinch, your bag falling on the tiles. What happens next unfolds so fast you don’t even think to recoil, your feet are riveted to the floor and all you do is watch, watch Frankie grab his cap and throw it in the room at random, watch him march towards you with heavy footsteps and stop abruptly, an inch short from your trembling body.

His right hand curls at his side, once, twice, before he reaches up and places it at the base of your neck, large and firm and burning. His thumb is on your pulse point, where your heart is leaping in a frantic, erratic thrum, the exposed expanse of your skin a siren song to his lips.

He stands so tall and solid, you have to tilt your head up to look at him, and times stills, at last, your whole world contained in the dark pools of his eyes. You feel so tiny under his palm, once again the urge to fit you inside him overthrows everything he has ever stood for.

“I’m so tired, Frankie,” you implore.

He lowers his face over yours, his lips brushing against your lips.

“Stay,” he says, and his entire life vacillates on the tip of his plea.

****

Bonus: Flaming June, Frederic, Lord Leighton (British, Scarborough 1830–1896 London), 1895. Oil on canvas, 119.1 × 119.1 cm. Museo de Arte de Ponce.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

128 notes · View notes

andrebearakovsky · 10 months ago

Text

NHL Outdoor Game Jersey Tier List

I originally had this idea back during the Stadium Series weekend when I was looking at the jerseys and comparing them to jerseys of outdoor games past. So I decided to put all the different jerseys NHL teams have worn for every outdoor game since 2003 onto a tier list (excluding the 4 jerseys that were worn in the 2 games at Tahoe, since each team just wore their reverse retro jersey and they weren't special jerseys for the event).

Some of these are absolutely gorgeous, and some are flops. I've organized them into tiers of how good they are, and an important factor in my rankings is creativity - whether or not something was original and distinct for the event or a copy of a current/former jersey had a significant impact on what tier it went in. And a note that I am only rating based on the jerseys themselves, and I'm not judging any accompanying pants, helmets, gloves, socks, etc. All of these ratings are scientific and 100% correct.

All of these pictures were taken from the NHL Uniform Database website. This is also where I looked at each team's jersey history to see which outdoor game jerseys were just a copy of another jersey.

And a note that the Coyotes, Blue Jackets, and Panthers do not have any entries on this list since none of them have ever participated in an outdoor game. (Though this will soon change! Looking forward to seeing what the Jackets do for their Stadium Series jerseys next year. And tbh they really need to give the Yotes and Panthers an outdoor game 'cause I think those teams would make some pretty nice jerseys.)

Detailed list of which exact jerseys these are (team and event) are included under the cut for reference.

Jerseys listed from left to right as seen in the image above.

Amazing - Washington Capitals 2015 Winter Classic, Minnesota Wild 2022 Winter Classic, Seattle Kraken 2024 Winter Classic, Vancouver Canucks 2014 Heritage Classic, Ottawa Senators 2014 Heritage Classic

Good - Philadelphia Flyers 2017 Stadium Series, Philadelphia Flyers 2012 Winter Classic, New York Rangers 2018 Winter Classic, Detroit Red Wings 2014 Winter Classic, Washington Capitals 2018 Stadium Series, Toronto Maple Leafs 2018 Stadium Series, Los Angeles Kings 2014 Stadium Series, Pittsburgh Penguins 2011 Winter Classic, New York Rangers 2012 Winter Classic, Ottawa Senators 2017 NHL 100 Classic, Calgary Flames 2011 Heritage Classic, St. Louis Blues 2022 Winter Classic, Buffalo Sabres 2022 Heritage Classic, San Jose Sharks 2015 Stadium Series, Los Angeles Kings 2015 Stadium Series, Boston Bruins 2010 Winter Classic, Dallas Stars 2020 Winter Classic, Winnipeg Jets 2019 Heritage Classic, Winnipeg Jets 2016 Heritage Classic, Edmonton Oilers 2023 Heritage Classic, Calgary Flames 2023 Heritage Classic, Boston Bruins 2016 Winter Classic

All you did was pull an old jersey out of the closet (with little or no changes) - St. Louis Blues 2017 Winter Classic, Washington Capitals 2011 Winter Classic, New Jersey Devils 2014 Stadium Series, Pittsburgh Penguins 2008 Winter Classic, Chicago Blackhawks 2019 Winter Classic, Chicago Blackhawks 2009 Winter Classic, Chicago Blackhawks 2014 Stadium Series, Detroit Red Wings 2009 Winter Classic, Toronto Maple Leafs 2014 Winter Classic

This is just your jersey w/ little or no modifications - Calgary Flames 2019 Heritage Classic, Anaheim Ducks 2014 Stadium Series, Montreal Canadiens 2003 Heritage Classic, Montreal Canadiens 2011 Heritage Classic, Edmonton Oilers 2016 Heritage Classic, Edmonton Oilers 2003 Heritage Classic, Philadelphia Flyers 2010 Winter Classic, Chicago Blackhawks 2015 Winter Classic, Chicago Blackhawks 2017 Winter Classic, Chicago Blackhawks 2016 Stadium Series, Minnesota Wild 2016 Stadium Series, Buffalo Sabres 2008 Winter Classic

Fine - New Jersey Devils 2024 Stadium Series, Philadelphia Flyers 2019 Stadium Series, Pittsburgh Penguins 2017 Stadium Series, New York Islanders 2024 Stadium Series, Nashville Predators 2022 Stadium Series, Carolina Hurricanes 2023 Stadium Series, Pittsburgh Penguins 2019 Stadium Series, Montreal Canadiens 2016 Winter Classic, Tampa Bay Lightning 2022 Stadium Series, Detroit Red Wings 2016 Stadium Series, Colorado Avalanche 2016 Stadium Series, Boston Bruins 2019 Winter Classic, New York Islanders 2014 Stadium Series, Boston Bruins 2023 Winter Classic, Toronto Maple Leafs 2022 Heritage Classic, Toronto Maple Leafs 2017 Centennial Classic

Can't decide whether I like it or hate it - Colorado Avalanche 2020 Stadium Series

Boring - Detroit Red Wings 2017 Centennial Classic, Montreal Canadiens 2017 NHL 100 Classic, Nashville Predators 2020 Winter Classic, Buffalo Sabres 2018 Winter Classic, Philadelphia Flyers 2024 Stadium Series, Pittsburgh Penguins 2014 Stadium Series

Awful - Washington Capitals 2023 Stadium Series, Pittsburgh Penguins 2023 Winter Classic, New York Rangers 2014 Stadium Series, Vegas Golden Knights 2024 Winter Classic, Los Angeles Kings 2020 Stadium Series, New York Rangers 2024 Stadium Series

11 notes · View notes

newyorkthegoldenage · 1 year ago

Text

The September 23, 1936 edition of The New York Woman, a weekly.

Contents:

A compilation of 23 photos capturing life, east to west on Fiftieth Street - where life goes from the River Club to a west end jumping-off place

Etiquette - Heaven Forbid! - author recalls her unpleasant time at a finishing school up the Hudson

Excuse My Skates! - Full-page photo-feature of the young ladies at Western Union who wear roller skates at work

Photo-illustrated article on New York's many "Gypsy Tea Rooms" where fortunes are read, and much business is done

The Yankee at King Edward's Court - photo illustrated article on Wallis Simpson of Baltimore - who is keeping company with the King of England

A Bag of Gilded Oats for Mrs. Astor's Horse - Mr. Vincent Astor's grand plans to redo what was formerly the King Cole Room of his inn

Fashion Editor's Diary

Color centerfold fashion illustrations including details, pricing and store names

Dressing Table of the Week - pleasant and useful things in cosmetics, perfumery and flowers

Recipes for dessert salads with cheese

Margaretta Byers describes life in her family's prefabricated home - the first of its kind in New Jersey

Mirrors can make your rooms look larger and brighter

Photo feature on how Mr. Rockefeller's brand new Center Theatre is being gutted to accommodate The White Horse Inn

Photo-illustrated article on movie The Gorgeous Hussy

Page of photos of Kay Francis

Manhattan Date Book

Page of restaurant offerings - including prices

I Was Never So Mad - Kitty Sharpe describes problems with items sent to the cleaners

Photo: AnOther

#vintage New York #1930s #New York Woman #magazines #magazine covers #vintage fashion #vintage woman #vintage magazine #vintage lady

43 notes · View notes

ratatatastic · 6 months ago

Text

marlins last season revealead throwback thursdays and revamped the teal pinstriped uni of the florida marlins adding it to their rotation of uniforms (only for the 23 season) alongside their sugar kings city connects... intermiami recently revealed a third kit inspired by the miami dolphins and the heat alts have always looked particularly gorgeous (moreso from '17 to '20 when vicewave was more their focus)

so after the panthers dropped their retro reverses after '23 from their rotation i ask

WHEN WILL WE FUCKING GET A SICK ALT AGAIN IM TIRED IM BANGING THE WALLS OF MY ENCOLSURE PLEASE GIVE THEM TO ME WDYM WE MADE OUR 30TH ANI JERSEYS SPECIALTY AUCTION JERSEYS. CAN WE HAVE PRETTY BLUE JERSEYS AGAIN

OR IDK EVERYONES BEEN BEGGING FOR THE OLD BLUE THIRDS AGAIN. JUST ANYTHING. ANY SOFLO TEAM THAT GETS A NEW COOL UNI MAKES ME GET ANTSY BECAUSE THE CATS NEED TO DO THAT TOO PLEASE

#i saw the intermiami announcement and felt so excited #and then the the season long frustration i felt when cats dropped the light blues set in #i am going to go bite someone until they get a third again #this cant keep happening #we won a cup why are we being punished like this

3 notes · View notes

stusbunker · 2 years ago

Text

Smoking Spirits on the Roof

Thank you to @michaelsworddean for the throwback Misha pic and @talesmaniac89 for the divider

Featuring: Dean/Cas

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 14.5k

Other characters: Sam, Anna, Gabriel, Bobby/Rufus, brief mention of past Dean/Cassie, Michael, Chuck, Naomi, Samandriel, Garth, Benny, Gordon and Sam/Jess at the end.

Summary: When Dean shows up to a Halloween party, he isn’t expecting his entire world to change. But that’s what happens when he drunkenly makes out with the mysterious Castiel, a brother of a friend of a friend. Follow Dean as he navigates Cas’ world and works to be the boyfriend Cas deserves.

Song fic, inspired by Tyler Childers’ Feathered Indians

Warnings, etc.: Drunken hook up, handjobs, driving under the influence and then not, Sam’s a lightweight, RELIGIOUS families and the way some of them are shitty, John Winchester’s A+ parenting, being closeted, hidden relationship, fellatio, first times, drug use, unsafe sex, HEA, seriously it’s actually pretty fluffy.

Big thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield for her support, edits, and pre-reads.

Well my buckle makes impressions

On the inside of her thigh

There are little feathered Indians

Where we tussled through the night

If anyone asked him, Dean just said it was what he had available. But if you really knew Dean, you’d know that the costume he wore that night was born from a deep seeded interest— some may call a fetish— in cowboy culture, films and legend.

He tips his hat as he walks into the kitchen of Benny’s upper, Garth in aviators follows with Sam in overalls behind him. Sam was lucky he was so huge otherwise Dean wouldn’t risk bringing a high schooler to his friends’ party. And as his big brother, he made sure Sam knew it before they headed out that night.

Benny’s roommate Gordon is manning the keg, decked out in full ninja gear with foam swords that cross his back. His dark eyes smile when he sees Dean, and they fist bump in greeting before passing plastic cups to Garth and Sam.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” Gordon calls over the ruckus, keeping the drink line moving.

Dean shrugs and replies, loudly. “Didn’t really have any other plans, figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Well, you know where the big man will be.”

Dean nods, then thumbs towards the back porch. “Andrea bring any friends?”

Gordon smirks, and Dean feels it behind the mask. “Yeah, she’s got a whole Greek Chorus out there.”

Dean hedges his chances and brings his entourage outside to mingle. The deck is almost at maximum capacity. And Dean sees what Gordon meant, there are three or four girls and a couple of guys all in togas, hanging around Benny and Andrea with their spray-painted leaf crowns. There are the customary sexy nurses and cats and a few guys too unoriginal to be anything but some kind of athlete with their favorite jersey thrown on for the night.

“Hail to the King!” Dean jeers, swaggering over to Benny for a jovial handshake and a side hug for Benny’s long-time girlfriend. “And her majesty, looking gorgeous as ever.”

“Eyes front, John Wayne,” Benny drawls. “This Sammy?”

Sam waves awkwardly and Garth finger guns. “Hey, Andrea, who are your friends?”

Dean rolls his eyes but lets Garth get the introductions.

“Meg and Anna are my sorority sisters, and this is Anna’s real brother Castiel and their cousin Gabriel. And Bela and Billie are up for the weekend, we grew up together.”

Everyone smiles or at least nods at the acknowledgment of their names. Then Garth is off, “well I’m your Top Gun Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth, with my two compatriots, Dastardly Dean Winchester and his hayseed of a brother Samuel.”

“Sam is fine,” Sammy points out, ducking his head nervously.

Dean just tips his hat again.

He catches a few eyes, but the unshakeable stare of the taller guy makes Dean swallow around whatever follow-up quip he’d been working on after Garth’s eagerness. And from that two hours, four shots, and three beers later, Dean is wrapped around the guy in the kitchen pantry, sloppy and silly, making out like they’re on a timer.

Seven minutes in heaven indeed.

The guy, Castiel, is strong, and solid. He shoves Dean back against the door and bites Dean’s bottom lip before slotting their legs together to get some frictional relief. Dean’s both grateful and frustrated with the jeans of his costume. Cas, Dean decides to shorten it now, in the toga is practically free for the groping, but Dean’s been keeping his hands on his hips until he’s given more verbal permission.

Sometimes kissing is enough. Sometimes, it’s hard to stop once you get started.

Sometimes Dean's a chicken shit.

He lost his hat somewhere on the floor, but he's still got his boots on and that oversized belt buckle he's saved for just an opportunity like this to present itself. And it's his belt buckle that snags on the rope tie of Cas' toga.

Cas pulls away with an annoyed grunt, tucking and twisting and gathering the flowing fabric until it’s bunched around his waist and Dean thinks he sees the hem of some white boxers in the shadows of the closet. And then he looks at Dean and tilts his head, jaw hitched and eyes imploring. “Have you ever heard that song about saving a horse?”

And then, some minutes later, Dean’s on his back, and there’s a dress's worth of sheet fanning out from either side of him as Cas writhes against him, both still fully clothed, but hard as steel as they gasp against each other’s mouths.

“I, uh, don’t usually listen to any modern country—- but I think I found a new appreciation for that song,” Dean gushes in between kisses. Dizzy and drunk on this stranger above him.

Castiel chuckles and grinds deeper. Dean sees spots and just as he realizes he’s going home with spunky shorts, there’s a bang on the door.

“Dean-o! Your brother’s puking his guts out!”

“Fuck off!” Dean hollers back before Benny finishes talking. “Christ,” he mutters under his breath, letting his head drop back onto the floor. He runs his hands up and down Cas’ thighs, feeling his retreating erection make room between them.

“Do you need to go?” Cas asks, voice low and forgiving.

Dean peers out of one eye. “Need to? No. But I’m gonna, just wanna—”

Dean finds Cas beneath all those layers, hot and heavy and somehow still hard. Cas groans at the rough tug of Dean’s hand, but he leans forwards and kisses Dean filthy as he lets this midnight cowboy get him off. At least the train makes for easy concealment and clean-up, for Cas, Dean thinks.

Begrudgingly, Dean stands to sort himself out before going to find Sam. He untucks his plaid button-up and tries to hide the dark patch on his pants. Cas hands him his hat. Dean smiles shyly and ducks into it.

“Hey, uh, think I can get your number? That was some ride,” Dean asks.

“Maybe. Go check on your brother and then find me before you go,” Cas says thoughtfully. But Dean starts to get nervous that this was all it was ever gonna be.

And then Benny’s pounding again.

It takes damn near twenty minutes to get Sam vertical and cleaned up, but with Garth’s sober, wiry strength, they get him into the backseat of the Impala. Dean dusts off his hands and looks at his friend. “Thanks, but give me like five minutes, and we can head out.”

“What?! Dean! He’s a little green in the gills to be beating around the bush,” Garth objects.

“I know, just— five minutes. Please?” Dean clamps his hand on Garth’s shoulder and begs with his eyes.

Garth agrees begrudgingly, “clock’s a’ticking.”

Dean rushes back into the house, but can’t find any sign of Cas. He spots a couple of other members of the toga crew, but none of them have the build of a centurion. He checks the den, the kitchen, even the bathroom, and then, finally, he resigns himself to being a drunken hookup.

He waves goodbye to Benny and Gordon who are in an epic battle against Bela and Andrea for the beer pong championship and mopes down the front steps.

To stop dead in his tracks.

Cas—Castiel is talking to Garth, who is apparently reassuring him that Sam is gonna be fine.

“--- won’t mind at all, in fact, it’s on the way to my place anyway.” Then the string bean notices Dean’s return. “What do you say, Dean, can we give Mr. Milton here a lift home?”

Dean straightens up and smiles, feeling ready and willing to do whatever Cas needs. “Everything alright?”

Cas clenches his fists at his sides and looks back at the house. “Uh, my sister, it appears she and Gabriel left some time ago. If it’s not too much trouble, I don’t live far.”

Dean understands his apprehension. He’s not about to draw this out in front of Garth, and least of all a shitfaced Sam. “Sure thing, man. Take shotgun, Garth can be on Sam watch for the first leg.”

Cas lives about a half mile off campus in a two-story bungalow with a well-maintained yard and three rusty cars in the driveway. No wonder he didn’t drive himself, Dean thinks.

Instead of asking for his number again, Dean gives Cas his, scratched out on the back of a gas station receipt. “Just text me to let me know you got in okay.”

It’s overkill. Everyone knows it. But no one mentions it.

Cas accepts the piece of paper and nods at Dean, never breaking eye contact. And suddenly Garth is ready to swap places with Dean for the drive to Garth’s apartment. The moment is broken, Cas lets his fingers brush against Dean’s as he tugs on the receipt, but nothing more is said.

He goes in through the side door, and the Impala backs out onto the quiet street.

If I'd known she was religious

Then I wouldn't have came stoned

To the house of such an angel

Too fucked up to get back home

Cas doesn’t text Dean until the following afternoon.

>>> I got in okay.

<<< I figured

<<<Must have been some lock

<<< glad to hear it

<<<hows it going otherwise?

They start casually talking, getting to know one another instead of just each other’s mouths and bodies. Cas is in his third year, studying ancient history with a focus on the Mediterranean. He seems very impressed with Dean being an engineering student, which isn’t the first time he’s heard it, but it still feels good.

Dean’s done with his last class with an entire day left before Thanksgiving break, so he and Benny are getting stoned and watching slasher fics. The bloodier, the better, they agreed. They’re about to start the last movie of the first trilogy when Andrea bursts in, in tears. Something about her stepmom or some family drama. Benny gives Dean a regretful look, but Dean knows when to make himself scarce. He stands to go and realizes he cannot drive. Everything is light and fluffy, and his tongue works over his teeth to give it something to do.

Dean decides to go for a walk. The fall air is crisp, and he knows the neighborhood well enough, even high as balls in the darkness of the late afternoon. He makes the brilliant decision to text Cas, to see if he’s free. Dean’s been trying not to get too attached to the stoic history major. But he can’t deny he wants to see him again and is curious to see what he only drunkenly felt on Halloween.

There are two major streets that lead into campus, and each has a minor grid of residential streets that break off in either direction, to the east it ends with the lake, to the west it ends with the river, and more pointedly, the start of the freeway. Dean heads to the west and the rows of older homes which have all slowly been turned into rental properties for the upperclassmen. The streets are full of students rushing off campus, but once Dean reaches the turn-off to Cas’ place, the chaos of the campus has quieted to normal neighborhood noises.

It’s peaceful, Dean thinks. Nothing like the crappy trailers he and Sam have been in and out of since their house burned down. Not too shabby for university housing, all in all. Cas had replied a simple ‘not much’ for his plans for the night, so Dean takes the risk. Worst case scenario, the guy isn’t even home.

So, when an acne-covered kid, who couldn’t be over fourteen, answers the door, Dean is concerned. Then the kid goes and yells at the top of his lungs, “Castiel, you have a guest!” Like they’re suddenly in some sort of Victorian novel.

Then it all clicks, this isn’t some rental, this is the house Cas lives in, with his entire family. And there are a lot of them, besides pimple face, there’s Anna and some blonde guy watching television in the den just off the foyer. Cas comes down the wide wooden staircase with a pencil behind his ear and his eyebrows pitched in alarm, pink lips pinched tight.

Dean tries to smile and wave, but he is interrupted by a short guy with curly gray hair and piercing blue eyes, lighter and more ominous than Cas’.

“Are you a friend of Castiel’s from school?”

Dean swallows because he hasn’t been asked a question like that since he hit double digits. He looks to Cas and back to his dad and holds out his hand.

“Uh, hi, I’m Dean. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d say by— swing hi.”

“Dean—,” Cas warns softly, hand clutching the ornate railing.

“I’m Chuck, but you can call me Mr. Shurley. I’m Castiel’s dad.” The guys got a grip on him, and very soft hands. Dean nods and shakes for longer than is probably necessary, but better to be safe than sorry.

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” Chuck smiles and pulls his hand back, finally.

“I didn’t realize you were already done with classes,” Castiel tilts his head, probably trying to remain civil, but Dean feels himself be weighed and measured in his gaze. Damnit, he knows Dean’s stoned.

Does his dad know though?

Dean shrugs. “I got lucky this semester, only got Tuesday/Thursday classes.”

“Castiel?” His dad interrupts. “Why don’t you see if your friend would like to join us for dinner?”

Food sounds amazing and Dean kind of likes all the politeness. “Yeah, Cas, can I stay for dinner?”

Cas looks to the ceiling and then at the couch, glaring over a fleeting giggle from Anna. “I’ll go set another place for him,” he grumbles, sulking through the den and into a door that must lead to the kitchen. Or maybe the dining room, old houses like this would have one of those, Dean thinks.

“Come on in, Dean,” Chuck holds the door wide, and Dean steps inside and takes off his leather jacket. He sets it on a well-stocked coat rack just inside the door, there aren’t any shoes in the foyer, so Dean keeps his boots on.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to unlace them in front of an audience, not at the moment anyway.

“Something tells me you know, Anna as well–”

Dean smirks. “Guilty.”

“And that’s Michael, our oldest.”

“How’s it going?” Dean nods to the guy, who looks to be damn near thirty.

“Sup?” Michael barely glances in Dean’s direction.

“Hey, Dean. How’s your brother?” Anna asks, turning from the t.v. to give their guest her full attention.

“Sammy’s fine, just a little low on the tolerance level, but I think he learned his lesson.” Dean tries to cover all his bases, not sure how well received underaged drinking would be by Cas’ family.

Chuck sighs awkwardly. Dean turns to look at him, and he almost elbows the kid that answered the door in the face. Where the hell was the twirp this whole time?!

“Samandriel, did you finish your homework?”

“Not yet, but I will after dinner. I swear!” The kid’s voice cracks, and Dean feels for him.

He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and tries not to make his presence too obvious. Though he’s probably the biggest person in the house unless there are more brothers somewhere. Dean glances around the room and sees a row of school pictures spanning an entire wall. One, two, four, shit there’s six of them!

And Anna’s the only girl.

“Guilty,” she shoots his answer back at his thinking out loud. “Did Castiel know you were coming?”

Dean spins his head and bats his lashes at her, trying to remember the question. “No— nope. I, uh, kinda just assumed.”

“Well, you’re in it now. I hope you like spaghetti because she always makes too much as it is,” Anna says.

Dean’s stomach growls. Even Michael laughs.

Luckily Chuck wanders away at some point, so Dean is able to relax a little. But then Cas is back, and Dean has to remember not to openly flirt with the oh-so-handsome grump.

“So how blazed are you right now?” Cas murmurs as they let his siblings lead the way to the table.

Dean squints and pouts his lips, contemplating. “About half as much as when I got here. I’ll be fine!”

Cas cocks an eyebrow, but Dean must be adorable like this or something because Cas throws him a bone. “My mother’s name is Naomi, call her Ms. Milton if you want to get in her good graces.”

Dean whispers, “I thought your dad’s name was Shurley.”

Cas licks his lips and grins. “It is, she didn’t take it.”

“Ah!” Dean gets it, and Cas nods him towards the dining room door.

The dining room is lined in dark wood, but is well-lit. The parents take the seats at either end of the table while the mostly grown children all find spots along the sides. No one mentions the empty seat between Anna and Michael or from whom Dean’s borrowing his chair. He chooses the seat on the end near Cas’ mom, she looks nice, and he hasn’t gotten to charm a mom since he helped Benny and Gordon move in August.

“It smells amazing, Ms. Milton. Thanks for having me,” Dean beams as he pulls in his chair.

The woman’s bright eyes sparkle with amusement. “So you’re our surprise guest. Mr?---”

“Winchester, ma’am. Dean Winchester. I go to school with Cas and Anna,” Dean explains as Cas fills his water glass. “Thanks, man.”

“It’s nice to see that Castiel is being social, he tends to get so involved in his studies that he—,” Naomi starts.

“Mom!” Anna cuts in, eyes Cas and Dean, and then bobs her head to show that line of conversation is a little awkward. “Dean, what’s your major again?”

“Mechanical Engineering, though it was a tough call, I almost went civil, but I figured the small problems are more my specialty. I love figuring out how to make things work and work better.”

“It’s nice to see someone passionate about their field,” Chuck adds, after which Dean catches a glare between Michael and Salamander. Chuck clears his throat and holds up his hands for his children on each side to hold. “Bow your heads.”

Dean takes Cas’ hand in his left and Naomi’s hand in his right, the size difference between their two hands is mesmerizing, and Dean forgets to listen to the prayer of gratitude. He risks rubbing his thumb against Cas’ while it’s out of sight.

Cas has good hands.

Suddenly there is a very abrupt chorus of “amen,” and Dean catches up a beat too late. But at least he can open his eyes again. Anna smirks at him, and Cas does his best to avoid making eye contact as they eat. Other than Dean eating two full plates worth, his presence becomes less of a novelty as the meal progresses.

He volunteers to do the dishes because that’s how he was raised.

Awkwardly enough, it is also Michael’s turn. So Dean dries as Michael washes. The weed is almost completely out of his system, but a thick food coma has settled in its place. Michael isn’t terribly chatty, but Dean gets the impression that he is not impressed with Dean at all.

Dean’s spinning the cullender as he wipes it dry. He wonders what Cas is doing since his dad insisted that Dean was fine on his own. Either way, there are worse ways to spend a night off.

“So, you go to State too or—?” Dean tries to make conversation.

Michael chuckles and shakes his head.

“No, I work with our dad printing his magazine. I set us up online, and now I kind of do whatever comes up,”

“Family business, huh? I get that. What’s the magazine? Anything I would have come across?”

Michael looks at Dean in mild amusement. “I doubt it.”

Dean counters, “try me.” He takes the last pot from the drip tray.

“Christian Home & Family Quarterly,” Michael deadpans and flicks the water off his hands towards the sink before wiping them off on the front of his jeans.

Dean concedes with a little bounce of his head. “Yeah, can’t say that I have seen that one.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like the church-going type. No offense.”

Dean just raises his eyebrows, because he’s not about to get into an argument with this guy in his own kitchen. But also, what the fuck?!

Michael grins and slaps Dean on the back. “Thanks for the assist. I’ll go tell Castiel he gets to have his playdate before it’s time for bed.”

Dean mutters silently behind Michael’s back. “Playdate my ass.”

He drains the sink and wipes down the counters, unsure if Cas is going to come to find him or if Dean is going to have to wander back to the living room for a prayer circle.

He wouldn’t be surprised either way.

“You’re still here,” Cas says briskly. Dean can’t decide if that’s shock or annoyance in his eyes.

Dean goes for broke and smirks. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I’m sorry— when you texted— I had no idea you were nearby. Or—”

“High as a kite? Yeah, man, no problem, I didn’t realize this was your folks’ place. This is all on me. On a scale of one to never, how likely will I be welcomed back?”

Castiel tilts his chin down. “Do you want to come back? We usually weird people out well before they make it to the dinner table.”

“Uh, well,” Dean stutters and scratches the back of his head. “I don’t mind the family time. I was just hoping to maybe hang out with you some more. But, uh, I’m guessing they don’t know about—.”

Cas sighs and looks behind him to see that the kitchen door is still closed. “No, they don’t. They think I’m an innocent, socially inept, straight guy who is so busy with school he isn’t ready to find a wife and settle down.”

“What about Michael?” Dean asks because that’s the first counterpoint to Cas’ parents' thought process his brain supplies.

“What about Michael?” Cas leans against the sink, holding his opposite elbow.

“Why isn’t he married and having a soccer team of his own?”

Cas frowns, but mostly in the brow. “He’s got impossible standards. And a bit of a temper, if I’m being honest. But who am I to judge?”

Dean tugs Cas’ hand away from his middle, stepping into his space and whispering, “Cas, if me hanging around could get you in trouble, I won’t do it. But if you still want to get to know one another better, I’ll be on my best behavior. Honest.”

Cas bites his lips and looks at their fingers looped together. “I don’t have many friends. I can’t trust a lot of people with who I am, Dean. All I can do is work my ass off to graduate on time and find a doctoral program or a teaching job somewhere my parents and their church can’t repress me.”

“Well, I gotta admit I was hoping for more than friendship showing up here tonight. But if that’s what you need, Cas— I can be your friend,” Dean tries to swallow down the disappointment. It’s not a rejection, but the aches are related.

Cas looks firmly into Dean’s eyes. “I can only be friends here, Dean. Anywhere else, in private—”

Dean nods, biting his bottom lip as he tries not to stare at Cas’ mouth. Oh, to feel those lips on his again. He clears his throat and straightens up.

“Alright, buddy, you got it. So— you think you can give me a lift to my car?”

Lookin' over West Virginia

Smoking Spirits on the roof

She asked ain't anybody told ya

That them things are bad for you

I said many folks have warned me

There's been several people try

But up 'til now, there ain't been nothing

That I couldn't leave behind

It was one of those in-between weeks, where the panic of finals sneaks up after Thanksgiving. Meanwhile, everyone is rushing to get ready to head back to wherever they’re actually from. Except for Dean, of course, ever the townie.

He inhales a long drag off his cigarette and looks out over the campus. It’s late, even for night classes. The walkways are lit up like a Christmas tree but in Hannukah’s colors of white and safety blue. He’s got a good ten minutes before his supervisor comes looking for him, so Dean spends the last minutes of fresh air sucking down chemicals. It still beats the fake lemon tinge of the floor wax.

He’s got two more floors worth of hallways ahead of him, and then the main floor’s bathrooms. Dean sighs and watches the smoke drift over the edge of the roof and into the night. He’s grateful for the job, especially since campus jobs are required to work around his class schedule. It’s just the second shift that kills most of his chances at socializing. And stops him from keeping closer tabs on Sam during the school week.

Which might be for the best, for both of them, these days.

Dean knows he’s not their dad, but Sam could really stand to listen every now and again. Kid’s smart, of course he is, but Dean doesn’t want him bullshitting his junior year and losing his chance at scholarships.

Fuck— this isn’t the time to start worrying about this shit. Dean takes the last pull and holds the smoke in his lungs, letting it simmer. He exhales, scrapes the cherry off the end, and tosses the butt into the abyss between buildings. Sammy’d glare at him for littering, but when it’s his crew that’ll be pulling it out of the bushes someday, Dean can’t feel too guilty about it.

He feels his phone vibrate against his thigh once he’s back inside and he takes the chance to check his messages.

Cas

>>>Kinda a nasty habit

Dean instinctively looks over his shoulder, and back into the blinding fluorescence of the physical science building hall. He’s alone. Before he can reply to Cas being a creepy fucker, he gets another message.

>>>I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it’s not very good for you.

Well, at least he knows what he’s getting reprimanded for.

<<<Yeah, but I look hot doing it

<<< call it a wash

>>>I doubt your lungs would agree.

Dean checks the hall one last time and walks to the stairwell behind the elevators, mostly meant for staff use.

<<<Why are you still at school?

<<<Don’t you usually turn into a pumpkin about this time?

He shoves his phone back into his pocket as he marches down to the fourth floor to pick up where he left off. He doesn’t feel a reply until he’s got the scrubber lined up and crawling along. It’s tomorrow before Dean can reply, but he goes to sleep rereading Cas’ last message.

>>>Working in the library. God has not been so gracious as to turn me into a gourd to save me from the FOUR papers I have this semester.

>>>Don’t work too hard. Or give yourself cancer.

It’s weird to have somebody besides Sam giving him grief about his health. It almost feels like enough of a nudge to actually listen.

From the circles it has raced

Well my heart is sweating bullets

Like a little feathered Indian

Callin' out the clouds for rain

Dean steps through the old wooden doors and does not immediately burst into flames. Sam’s behind him, and Bobby’s behind him. They make their way to one of the back pews, guided by candlelight alone. It’s Christmas Eve, and Dean decided they were going to church for the first time since John’s funeral.

Amazingly, neither Sam nor Bobby questioned it.

Dean sits down and tries not to get caught searching the congregation for a specific head of dark hair. Bobby even takes off his hat and reads over the single-sheet program. The shadows cast by the flames turn the room into something otherworldly, both ancient and echoing. An unmistakable strum of an acoustic guitar breaks through the murmuring of the settling crowd. Then Cas’ little brother sings the first verse of Silent Night to start the service.

Dean doesn’t have anything against God. Besides the usual orphan’s complaints, he supposes. He just doesn’t feel like he has anything to prove to the guy either. As far as he’s concerned, if God minds his own business, Dean will too. But there are those people who look at him funny, like they can see the gutter he dragged him and Sam out of and blame him for it. Like it really matters if he’s poor, or fucks around, or parties.

Life’s too short not to enjoy it.

And until God gives him a personal guarantee either way, he’s not changing.

Those people are just too uptight to see the things Dean enjoys as blessings, not temptations. Sam’s more of an everything-in-moderation type, but that even seems restrictive to Dean. And as long as they're safe and happy—

An older man stands at the front of the church and begins reading from Luke. The guy has a nasally voice, and it grates against Dean’s ears, but he soon passes the story on to Anna, who is wearing a simple black velvet dress with her hair pulled back.

They pause in the reading to lead the congregation in a verse of O’ Little Town of Bethlehem. Then Dean sees Cas for the first time. Not singing, but approaching the front of the church from the side aisle. He takes the Bible from Anna and stands with dazed patience as the melody trails off. Dean wipes his palms on his thighs as he mumbles the words he thinks are right, swallowing when Cas starts to read.

His voice is so much better to listen to than creepy guy’s.

It’s then that Sam catches up. Dean doesn’t look directly at him, but he FEELS the bitch face he’s getting across the side of his face and down the suddenly tight collar of his dress shirt. It’s uncalled for is what it is, it’s Christmas! Can’t a guy pick a church to go to without an ulterior motive?

Dean hates that he knows what Sam is going to say already and that he’s probably right. What Sam doesn’t know is that Dean is doing this to get in good with Cas’ family, not just get into Cas’ pants again. But he couldn’t exactly explain that without spilling all of Cas’ secrets, either.

Dean ignores Sam but misses the end of Cas’ reading. There are a few more songs and more scripture. They close with their heads bowed in prayer, and a simple chime from the organ sends them off, to proceed reflectively and silently into the dark night.

Their very conveniently placed seats for arrival suddenly are not so helpful as the people fill the aisles and bottleneck at the exits, either for donning their hats and coats, which Dean and company hadn’t bothered hanging up, or for socializing in whispers. Dean feels suddenly scrutinized as boomer after boomer eye him and Sam as fresh meat. He smiles and nods placatingly until he catches Michael’s raised eyebrow.

Dean is trapped. What was he even thinking— now he is actually going to have to interact with Cas’ family. And not the nice ones.

Michael lunges forward and grabs Dean’s hand in a tight shake, but takes care to murmur his greeting. “Dean, my man. Glad to see you.”

Dean squeezes his hand back. “Hey Mikey, this here, uh, is my little brother Sam and my Uncle Bobby.”

“Fellas,” Michael nods in turn. When Cas approaches and eyes the space between Michael and Dean suspiciously, Michael smirks. “Caught me fraternizing, huh, Castiel?”

Cas just rolls his eyes before nodding at Dean, his jaw is locked tight.

They share a glance as the crowd crawls out the back of the sanctuary, but nothing close to the reunion Dean was hoping for after weeks apart. He waits for the Milton-Shurleys to pass and then he follows them outside, completely unaware if Sam and Bobby are following or if they left him to fend for himself.

Dean keeps his head down, though his heart is in his throat and his stomach is in knots. He came to see Cas and seeing him just makes Dean miss him more. Once outside, he hunches his shoulders against the cold, stepping carefully down the stone stairs. The parking lot is packed with people mingling, despite the late hour and the weather. There’s a row of people waiting to be picked up along the small walkway.

Dean blows on his bare hands, rubs them together, and looks around, trying to find Sam or Bobby in the crowd. It’s like he’s been transported to an old movie or a Christmas card. Silver Bells’ lyrics run through his head as the snow gently falls on the retreating churchgoers. A throat clears behind him, and he spins, expecting Bobby.

It’s Cas.

With apologetic bright eyes, he smiles secretly at Dean. “Hello, Dean.”

This was all worth it, dragging Sam along, singing carols, and the awkward exchange with Michael. Because Cas is looking at him like he’s a gift and Dean has to swallow and remember to breathe all at once.

“Heya, Cas. Merry Christmas.” His cheeks prickle, but he can’t get any redder, from cold or blood.

Cas’ face softens further. “It is, isn’t it?”

They hold each other’s gaze, ignoring the dwindling crowd and even the rumble of the Impala’s engine as it pulls up beside them on the curb. Cas’ family is climbing into a beat-up van that’s parked in a loading zone. But neither of them really registers any of it. Because even in the darkness, Dean’s green locks on to Cas’ blue and holds tight, like spring leaves reaching towards an afternoon sky.

“Thank you for—”

“I should probably-”

A nervous beat breaks the stalemate and forces them to look away. And all the world rushes back around them. Dean shifts and holds up a finger to signal Sam to button it up before he starts heckling.

“‘S good to see you, man. Take it easy.”

Cas reaches out and grips the meat of Dean’s bicep and nods. “Merry Christmas.”

Dean wants to kiss him so damn bad. Instead, he licks his lips and does them both a favor by stepping back and breaking the contact. He waves at Anna as she approaches, folded in her puffer coat, big eyes full of concern. Impossibly, he walks away.

Dean doesn’t look back as he crawls into the backseat. Bobby’s got the keys, and there’s no way Sam would forfeit shotgun now. It’s almost two before Dean’s in bed, looking forward to a long weekend of good food and sleeping in. Exhaustion can’t stop him from checking his phone one last time.

It’s not in vain.

Cas

>>>How would you feel about getting coffee soon?

<<<Free now

<<<just saying

>>> *grinning emoji* Very funny.

>>> Monday?

<<<Monday! bright n early

>>>Until then. * kissy emoji*

Dean blushes and cringes in equal measure as he types a simple “x” and darkens his screen. Suddenly he’s very much awake.

I'd go runnin' through the thicket

I'd go careless through the thorns

Just to hold her for a minute

Though it'd leave me wanting more

Coffee gets crashed by Cas’ cousin Gabriel, and though he’s annoying and nosey, he seems to be someone Cas can trust. Then Cas has to drive Michael and their father to the airport the next time they try to schedule something.

Dean’s getting desperate, but he tries not to let his disappointment show. To top off all of their scheduling conflicts, Cas is taking a winterim course, three credits of work, and knowledge packed into three weeks’ time. Dean is worried he’s coming on too strong, pushing Cas away with his neediness.

<<<If it doesnt snow maybe we can get lunch on campus tmrw

It takes nearly an hour for Cas to reply. Dean does not have a cigarette as he waits, impatiently. He has to stop himself from deleting the text or double texting three different times. Why is he like this?

>>>I’d love to. Subs or burgers?

<<< Burgers!

<<< The redder the meat the better

>>>Agreed!

Dean huffs out a chuckle at Cas’ earnestness.

<<<Meet you outside your class?

>>>Sounds good. See you at 12:45

It snows. From sun up until just before noon. Which means Dean has to work, clearing the sidewalks with one of the plow-fitted ride-on lawnmowers. During breaks, he fills in on the grounds crew to make up for the hours he loses with fewer custodial shifts available. The school’s recruiting brochure brags about the five miles of walking paths on a scenic, green, urban campus. Dean curses every inch of those five miles as he speeds to make it in time to at least tell Cas in person why he has to miss lunch.

He pushes the engine as hard as he can while taking the time to carefully plow the way from the parking lot to each building. He forgot his headphones and his phone’s tinny speakers do little against the open air, but Dean bobs his head and sings along, trying to keep up some momentum. And fight his growing anxiety.

The Humanities’ buildings all back up against a small pond and Dean gets to those paths as his phone reaches a glaring 11% battery life. He shuts off his tunes and keeps pressing forward, only thirty minutes or so to get done.

He’s gonna make it. He has to. Even if he only gets a thirty-minute break and getting back to the Union will take ten of it, he’s going to get to see Cas. One-on-one, finally.

Dean plows and backs up and plows some more. He clears the loop around the pond and kills the engine just outside the nearest side entrance to the History building. It’s 12:48 and Dean is swiping his staff badge to get inside quicker. He stomps his boots clean before charging up the steps to the second floor and nearly runs smack into Cas as he turns toward the discussion rooms. Cas apologizes without looking up at first, clearly irritated.

Dean grabs him by the upper arm and makes Cas see him, however late. Dean made it. He’s sweaty, and his nose is freezing, but Dean beams as Cas’ eyes take him in.

“Hey, sorry, I—”

“Yeah, I just made it. Sorry, I’m on the clock.”

Cas squints and closes his distractingly chapped lips. “I see.”

“Got time for a quick lunch, if you’re still game?” Dean cocks his head down to the stairs and holds his breath.

“It’d be a bit brief for a first date, don’t you think?” Cas asks, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder.

Dean licks his lips because he knows he’s got to salvage this. “This is just the pre-date. The real date will be longer— better.” He sighs and steps closer. “Maybe we can hash out the details over lunch?”

Dean ducks to meet Cas’ reluctant gaze, giving his best hopeful eyes. Castiel looks at Dean and sighs with his whole being.

“Okay, burgers?”

Dean slaps him on the shoulder and holds on. “Burgers!”

They ride to the Union on the lawn mower with the plow raised for safety, Dean speeding on the nearly abandoned pavement, and Cas holding on to the back, grinning like a fool.

Hold me close my dear

Sing your whispering song

Softly in my ear

And I will sing along

They've managed a handful of stolen moments since. And now, Cas is over at his place, attempting to watch football while not overtly flirting in front of Sam.

Their first date was indeed longer, but finding time and location that had both access and anonymity was difficult. The Italian food left much to be desired, though Dean couldn't ask for better company. Miraculously, Cas asked him out for a second date, and the movie wasn't bad.

Sam is not buying it. "You guys know you don't have to babysit me, right?"

Dean looks at Sam and silently begs him to not be a bitch. "What are you talking about? I wanna watch the game."

Sam cocks his head. "Who’s playing, Dean?"

Dean looks at the TV and tries to figure out the teams by their helmets and initials on the score at the bottom.

"That's what I thought. Go fool around, or whatever it is you keep stopping yourselves from doing. I get it," Sam clips out the last t's.

Dean pushes up off the couch, hovering over his seat as he looks at Cas and smirks.

Cas’ eyes go wide, but he nods, his lips hollowed out in query. Dean nods towards the back of the trailer and heads down the hallway without another word, away from Sam and to the thinnest illusion of privacy. He feels Cas follow but doesn’t see his fisted hands at his sides.

The hollow door latches loosely closed behind them.

Dean turns on Cas instantly. Before he even realizes he chose to, he’s cupping a nape, and his mouth is catching Cas’ on the uptake. Both open and filthy. Dean feels Cas exhale into him, feels his body still and his hands perch on Dean’s shoulders delicately.

Dean grins into the kiss and presses closer into Cas’ space. Tries to unbury that toga-clad energy from Halloween. However sober, Dean knows it's in there.

All while getting them closer to the bed.

Cas sighs and grips Dean tighter. Pushes in with his chin forward and gives back. Dean sucks his tongue into his mouth and moans at the thick, heavy wetness.

Fuck, he’s hungry.

Dean stagger steps them towards the far wall, which makes the bed less than three feet away, but for some reason, they can’t stop kissing long enough to get there. It’s like depleting oxygen tanks or the last slurp of soda at the bottom of the cup. They need to kiss until they’ve gotten all of each other, desperate and determined; they taste.

Until they start to laugh.

Dean feels Cas chuckle, hunching his shoulders as they peck around giddy smiles.

“What’s so funny, hm?” Dean asks, looking down at Cas’ scrunched-up nose as he tries to pull away.

Cas just shakes his head and hauls Dean by the waist, kisses him again, and notches their thighs tighter. And okay, Dean is all about that, but he still feels like he’s missing something, but he doesn’t really think too hard about it with all the friction.

Then the floor is out from under his feet, and Cas is on top of him, half off the bed and growling against his neck. Dean huffs and giggles. Because, damn. He should have had his guard up. Luckily Coach Sonny wasn’t here to see that, because that was a solid takedown and Dean let it happen.

Dean catches his breath, slides his hand under Cas’ sweater and squeezes.

Cas freezes and glares. Dean looks back under his lashes, challenging.

“Ticklish, Cas?”

“No, but I know you are— that , I remember,” Cas replies as he slides up and pulls Dean’s hands above his head. Dean stretches out, slinking further up the bed and Cas follows, fucking stalking up his body with heated determination.

Dean swallows and goes for broke. “You gonna lose the Sunday best? Been dying to see you— feel you.”

Dean looks Cas up and down, crumpled and creased. His starched khakis do little to hide his desire, even in the gray afternoon light of Dean’s one-windowed room.

Cas rears back, kneeling on the bed between Dean’s legs and yanks the thick crocheted sweater over his back. It leaves his hair messy, but Dean’s too busy watching the way his shoulders flex as he pulls his arms out of the sleeves.

Cas balls up the shirt and tosses it in the corner, shrugging as if to say, ‘and?’

Dean rolls his eyes but scoots to sitting and starts unbuttoning his flannel. Castiel plays with Dean’s necklaces until it’s time to take off his t-shirt. And now that he’s got Cas in his lap, topless, Dean’s a little shy about his own bare torso. He’s not exactly super-defined or anything. He knows his strength, but he likes to eat, okay? Being poor you don’t skip meals unless you have to.

He’s kicking himself for not letting Sammy talk him into matching tattoos. Any tattoo automatically makes you hotter. But the kid’s got another two years before Dean could get him into a legit parlor anyway. He inhales and ducks out of his shirt, and immediately surges up to restart making out, unwilling to watch Cas see him just yet.

Cas’ hands roam Dean’s back, groping and kneading, dexterous and distracting.

Dean gets lost in the fog of want, too tight in the pants to dwell on his shirtlessness. Then Cas cups his jaw and pulls back to look him in the eyes. Insistent, imploring blue.

“Can we turn on some music?”

Which was not, at all, what Dean was expecting Cas to ask him in that moment.

Dean laughs and nods. But Cas keeps talking, “it’s just I know we’re probably louder than we realize. And with a younger sibling within earshot— I’d feel better if we— at least pretended—”

Dean kisses Cas, shutting him up. “Dude, yes.” Peck. “I’ve got tunes.” Peck. “Just give me a sec.”

Dean carefully unwraps himself from Cas’ body, giddy and grinning over all the skin he can see and finally feel . He pulls out the thigh of his jeans, trying to create room as he half stumbles and half struts to the bookcase and the ancient boombox he found at the Goodwill that has a double tape deck and a six-disc changer.

He had been making compilation tapes during his downtime before spring classes start, and had intended to make one for each year to give the impala some diversity without letting Sam use his damn phone all the time. He just pushes play on the last finished tape. The old hiss from recording from vinyl starts and the room is filled with the crooning of Tommy James and the Shondells.

When Dean turns around Cas’ head is cocked and he’s resting back on his palms, broad chest and strong arms on display. Dean wants to crawl into his lap and pink up his lips some more. But, ever the little shit, instead he unbuckles his belt and drops trow, kicking out of his pants and making Cas’ eyes bulge like a treefrog.

Cas licks his lips and sits up, trying to open his fly and watch Dean step closer at the same time. If there’s one thing Dean knows it’s the art of distraction, and if his dick is out, there’s less chance Cas is gonna be staring at his softer-than-he’d-like torso.

He grabs Cas by the back of the neck and leans down to kiss him filthy, kneeing between Cas’ legs as he feels Cas’ shaking hands find his hips. Dean smiles into the kiss and slows it down, pulling back to watch Cas’ lids flutter open, dopey and bright.

“Wanna see you— can I?” Dean gestures down to Cas’ khakis and instantly draws attention back to his ruddy cock. Cas mumbles something but then nods, sitting taller and leaning back, forcing himself to look away as Dean sinks to the floor.

He starts with Cas’ shoes and then his socks, and sees Cas flex his toes before falling fully onto his back on Dean’s bed. Dean drags himself back up and pulls open Cas’ pants, hands snaking beneath his thighs and tugging the fabric as Cas rocks from side to side. Dean looks him over, strong runner’s legs and dark hair, flat stomach, and messy hair. Fuck! If Dean didn’t know he went every which way already, he’d be so screwed. Castiel is gorgeous, and Dean’s got him in his bed naked as a jaybird.

Happy early birthday, Dean thinks to himself and sets his hands alongside Cas’ waist to crawl up the miles of skin, trying not to stare at Cas’ fat dick that's hard and leaking for him.

“I don’t want you to penetrate me,” Cas blurts out of nowhere.

Dean stops in his tracks. “Uh, wasn’t even close to that yet, buddy. But, okay. That’s fine.”

Dean looks down at their laps and then away, resting back on his heels, needing Cas’ to say more or even look at him. Cas’ eyes are shut tight, and he’s rubbing the bridge of his nose. Dean feels his anxiety in the air, so he starts rubbing Cas’ thigh and waits.

And does not touch his own dick, even though it’s begging for any sort of contact.

“Cas?” Dean asks after a solid two minutes of tense silence. “Is this your first time?”

Dean knee-walks to Cas’ side and tries to pry his hands from hiding his face. “Because it’s totally okay if it is. I, uh, I haven’t really done much with guys— and I’m just excited we’re finally getting a chance to be alone— and all that.”

Cas sighs and glares at Dean.

Dean drops his chin and glares back. “What’s that for?”

“You are being completely understanding, and I really don’t need another reason to like you,” Cas explains.

“Thanks?” Dean guesses a polite response.

Cas rolls his eyes and sits up, apparently unaffected by his own nakedness. He reaches for Dean’s hand and fiddles with his mother’s ring. “Can we go back to the kissing? I can handle that, and it’s goo—”

Dean doesn’t let Cas talk himself into more embarrassment. Yeah, the kissing is good, great even. But Dean doesn’t want Cas worrying either. So he lays them both down, on their sides, knees knocking and dicks not quite touching. The heat between them lays in concentrated hollows, making the rest of them pucker in the winter air.

Dean cups Cas’ jaw and runs his thumb along his cheekbone. “You okay?”

Cas holds his wrist and husks out, “yeah. You?”

Dean breathes out a single laugh. “Yeah, I’m pretty effin’ okay.”

Dean kisses Cas’ chin, and nudges down to kiss along the underside of his jaw until he can suck on his pulse point. Cas’ breath hitches and Dean goes for broke, sliding his pelvis across the neutral zone they’d silently negotiated, in search of progress and the throbbing relief of the press of flesh against flesh.

Cas moans and Dean reaches down and grabs a handful of Cas’ ass. Then he rolls them both so Dean’s on the bottom and Cas is the one in control. Cas licks into Dean’s mouth and grinds down, feeling the way their dicks slide together between their bellies.

“What do you like?” Cas asks suddenly, hips rolling long and languid as Dean squirms and pecks at the parts of Cas he can reach.

Dean looks up at Cas and smirks. “Do your worst. We can try whatever you want to try first.”

Cas stills and bites his lips. “Are you sure?”

Dean spreads his legs and feels Cas fall harder against him. “Yeah, it’s okay, just see how it goes. No stress—- this is supposed to be fun.”

Cas nods seriously and kisses Dean’s cheek. “Thank you, Dean.”

He looks down at their bodies, nestled and sticky, their dicks have been impossibly patient. “I’m not sure about the taste of semen. Do you mind if I taste you?”

“Do I mind?” Dean stares slack-jawed and appalled. “No, I do not mind. Fucking taste away, Cas, Christ. Blow jobs are only some of the best things humans have invented, up there with music and pizza.”

“Hmmmm, I may have to ask you to prove your hypothesis, but—.” Cas clears his throat. “Later.”

Then he inches down Dean’s body and takes Dean’s dick firmly in hand. He traces the head with the pad of his thumb, making Dean whine as he tugs the skin of the shaft, watching carefully as more precum beads at the slit. With a flattened tongue, Cas laps the head of Dean’s dick and Dean goes cross-eyed watching him.

Still holding Dean’s shaft, Cas starts licking Dean like an ice cream cone, and it’s not bad, it’s just very apparent the guy has never watched porn. Dean moans and starts rolling his hips, trying to at least get some stroking going on if Cas isn’t gonna take him into his mouth fully.

When Cas starts to mirror Dean’s movements, Dean husks, “yeah, now, uh, can you suck on it? You don’t have to take it all, just start slow.”

Cas watches Dean’s face as he holds the tip of Dean’s dick on his bottom lip and mouths around the girth. If he wasn’t so worried, Dean might have laughed, but Cas’ bright-eyed earnestness is making it hard for Dean to keep talking him through it.

“Okay, now try and use your tongue, like we’re kissing,” Dean offers. “And take a little more in.”

Cas obliges, words buzzing around his mouth as he asks, “like that?”

Dean nods, licks and bites his bottom lip as Cas rolls his tongue and squeezes with his lips.

“Suck, Cas, and bob,” Dean says, trying to stay still as Cas finds something like a rhythm.

He pulls off breathless, but smiles. “Your dick is quite big— I, uh, I have to try again.”

Dean chuckles. “Hey, look who’s talking, that monster between your legs is gonna be a full meal.”

Cas blushes, but grabs Dean by the base and takes him even deeper. Dean’s starting to throb, the storm in his belly makes him thrust against Cas’ efforts, but he forces himself to keep it shallow.

“You’re doing so good, babe, sucking me so good,” Dean murmurs, voice pitching higher with each wave of pleasure.

Cas groans around Dean’s dick, tonguing the underneath as he dips his head down and up, down and up, dooooown and up. Dean’s right on the edge when Cas starts to gag. Dean catches himself a second too late from whining in defeat, but he gets Cas upright and coughing before it can go beyond repair.

“Just breathe, it’s okay,” Dean says, watching Cas for any signs of regret or vomit.

Cas clears his throat and takes big breaths through his nose, eyes wide with alarm.

Dean hugs him around the shoulders and just squeezes until everything evens out. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes his lips along Cas’ hairline and waits it out.

“Sorry,” Cas gasps out.

“Sorry? Don’t be sorry— you don’t apologize for going whole ham on me like that, okay? We’re figuring shit out. There’s a learning curve to this, too, you know.” Dean says firmly, not making Cas face him just yet.

Cas chuckles mirthlessly. “I do now.”

Cas side eyes him sheepishly, but Dean just smiles and waggles his eyebrows. Cas rolls his eyes but lightens up the more Dean goads him with flirty faces.

Dean kisses him softly, hands brushing over Cas’ face and down his neck until they start leaning back towards the pillows. Dean thinks about the skin mags shoved beneath his mattress and the lube he’s got in an old shoe box beneath that. He thinks about how none of that feels like this.

Having Cas here, to himself, has been the true fantasy since Halloween. But this is real, and it’s happening. And Dean isn’t going to waste it.

“Do you touch yourself?” Dean murmurs.

Cas exhales and stretches back against the covers. “Sometimes, but I don’t have much privacy for anything elaborate.”

Dean guessed as much.

“How do you like it?” Dean asks as he reaches for Cas’ dick, just a gentle tug as if he’s gripping his shoulder in passing.

“Harder,” Cas sighs, eyes cautious.

Dean stops himself from rolling his eyes and squeezes as he starts to pump, leaning on his side as he watches Cas relax into his touch. He stops and licks his palm and over the pads of his fingers, easing the slide against Cas’ thickness.

Cas groans at the wetness. “Faster, Dean.”

Dean speeds up, dropping his free hand on Cas’ flat stomach and down to the ridge of his pelvis poking out. He keeps Cas’ face in his periphery but focuses his attention on the gorgeous body before him and the fat cock in his hand.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Dean says, mesmerized by the straining muscles and the throbbing heat. “Wanna get you there, Cas. Let me?”

Cas moans Dean’s name over the sound of CCR’s steady opening to Proud Mary.

Dean kisses Cas’ chest and reaches down to cup his balls, stroking faster, careful to swipe the tip for a more natural glide. Dean looks over his shoulder and sees Cas watching him.

“Like this?” Dean asks, voice as wrecked as Cas looks. Cas whimpers and bends in half around Dean’s hold, coming hot and hard all over Dean’s bed and hands.

“Shit!”

Dean almost giggles because Cas never swears. He strokes Cas through it, easing until Cas is whining from the contact. Dean kisses Cas’ shoulder and tugs the comforter out from under them, careful to avoid the mess and wipe his hands off at the same time.

With just the sheets left on the bed, Dean falls beside Cas. Cradling him into the curve of his body, Dean tries to avoid direct ass-to-dick contact. He doesn’t want Cas to panic again.

“You have incredibly strong hands,” Cas mutters into the pillows.

Dean looks down and flexes his fingers. He’s never thought about his hands much, but he guesses Cas must be right. Years of working molded him into a very different animal from Cas, whose life is all Bible studies and textbooks.

“You’re welcome,” Dean teases.

Cas laughs, breathy and tender.

Dean kisses his temple, gripping his chest and pulling him closer. They lay in the comfort of each other’s arms, letting the mixtape run out as they spoon and joke, eventually twisting beneath the top sheet.

“When do you need to be home,” Dean asks against Cas’ chest, too content to even raise his head.

“Don’t remind me,” Cas replies, reaching off the bed for his phone all the same. “Ugh! Probably should leave soon.”

“How soon is soon?” Dean asks, sitting up while keeping the sheet bunched around his half-hard cock.

“Seventeen minutes,” Cas replies offhandedly until he glances apologetically to Dean and starts to crawl out of bed.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?! I still get your naked ass in my bed for at least another ten minutes.” Dean grabs Cas’ elbow and drags him down on top of him.

Cas smirks at Dean’s determination and shakes his head, snuggling closer. Then his hips slot against Dean’s poorly hidden erection.

Dean hums noncommittally.

Cas grinds down again, and Dean whines as he feels Cas’ growing interest.

“Fuck! We really don’t have much time, man,” Dean warns, rocking against Cas. Cas yanks the sheet away, leaving Dean bare beneath him.

“Next time,” Dean promises. “We’ll do more than the surface stuff, alright? Now I just want to feel you.”

Cas nods, mouthing up Dean’s neck as they grip each other and stroke in incongruous rhythms.

“I’m going to have to sit through dinner still smelling you on my skin,” Cas thinks out loud.

“Good! Want you thinking about me while those assholes play house. Want you knowing I’ll be thinking about you— your mouth— your dick in my hands— in me— however you want, Cas.”

Castiel gasps, but his hand moves faster on Dean’s shaft. “You want to take me?”

“Cas!” Dean warns, too strung out after hours of build-up.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice drops like a reprimand and Dean comes all over both of their stomachs.

Too blissed out to keep jacking Cas off, Dean groans and then wiggles down to mouth at Cas’ dick. Half wild and desperate, Dean sucks Cas into the back of his throat.

Cas, who is dumbfounded by Dean’s actions, keens at the new sensation of mouth and tongue and then comes again within moments. Dean doesn’t know if Cas is aware of how hungry he still is for him until he feels Cas tense when Dean catches Cas watching him lick his own spendings off Cas’ stomach.

Cas twitches and moans a warbly, “oh, Lord!” They both freeze at his blasphemy.

Dean looks up at him through heavy lashes, and Cas simply stares back. Dean kisses just below Cas’ navel and sits up, knees framing Cas’ thighs.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Dean rockets off the bed and throws a towel around his hips. But he realizes he’s still a mess, so he tugs it up around his chest. He opens the door and quickly ducks out, closing it tight behind him.

He rushes to grab an extra towel and a washcloth from the bathroom between his and Sam’s rooms. Dean’s gone less than three minutes, but in the moments they’re apart, he starts to worry that it was too much too soon.

Dean doesn’t know if he can go back from this now. If he can keep it strictly PG since he’s gotten to truly worship Cas’ body. Now that he knows how it feels to just be in his presence, the connection, the comfort. Dean misses him already.

He wipes off his belly and rinses out the cloth and adds some hand soap for good measure. He clutches the fresh towel to his chest and rushes back to his door, knocking.

“It’s me,” he says and slips inside.

Honey tell me how your love runs true

And how I can always count on you

To be there when the bullets fly

I'd run across the river just to hold you tonight

Dean sits in the impala, anxious. Cas is coming to dinner. And not just at the trailer with Sammy. He’s been personally invited to Seder by Uncle Rufus. And well, to say that’s a big deal is an understatement.

Bobby and Rufus have been a thing as long as Dean can remember. From what he gathers, since the mid-80s after Bobby’s wife, Karen, passed and they met at a grief support group. The way the men always bickered, it took Dean into his teen years to realize how and how deeply they loved one another.

Their home was probably the safest place for Dean to come to terms with his own varying sexuality. And after John disappeared for good, they were the only family he and Sam had left.

The months with Cas start to fly by, between their ever-increasing class loads and the necessity of sneaking around, it’s spring before either of them realize it. Actual spring, not whatever the school tries to pass for it giving its spring break in mid-March, either.

Dean knows Cas is curious about Rufus’ faith, among other things. He just hopes Cas’ blunt inquisitiveness isn’t met with mockery. He exhales and counts down the minutes until Cas is out of his last class of the day. He wonders what excuse Cas gave his parents for missing dinner with the family.

He hates having to be a secret.

With Cas’ family being so prominent and his father’s business at stake, Cas knows he has to lay low until he’s done with school. Because he’s on a scholarship for one thing, and another he doesn’t want to hurt his siblings or bring further scrutiny on them. Anna especially has had many struggles with mental illness that she’s had to fight without professional help because their parents insist it's a matter of faith and devotion, not brain chemistry.

Dean has to bite his tongue so often that he’s gotten used to the taste of his own blood. But this is not his battle to fight. He’s there as backup only. He lets Cas lead the way, which he always does with compassion. Even when Cas is asked to pray at services Dean’s attended or the occasional family meal, Cas always prays for the lost or the less fortunate. He believes in the love of God in a way his parents and their judgment never could.

He’d probably make a good priest, or pastor, whatever. Dean wonders which churches even let gay people be ordained. He bets there are some out there. He wants that for Cas, for him to find true community someday. Something like the crotchety old guys who wouldn’t pass for queer until they’re caught kissing in the toolshed. The type of safety and home Dean’s had the better half of his life.

But he’ll do it and keep doing it as long as it keeps Cas safe. Cas told him about what happens when queer people are exposed within his family’s circle of friends, or anyone, really not willing to fully conform. Either the kids, because they’re usually too young to be able to fend for themselves, are sent to those awful camps. Or the entire family is blacklisted. Jobs are lost and all sources of charity or socializing suddenly dry up. Then they have to start over, somewhere else.

Faith is something too commercial and too big for Dean to grasp most days. But he likes the ritual of it all, the tradition and the history. He knows Cas will love Rufus’ Seder. He just hopes Rufus and Bobby like Cas, too.

“Hello, Dean,” comes Cas’ standard greeting as he pries open the door.

“Heya, handsome. How was class?” Dawn checks his mirror and waits for the parking lot to clear as Cas tells him about his day. They hold hands across the bench seat because it’s dark enough for it to be hidden from any passersby.

It’s a long drive this time of night, rush hour pushing them past sundown, which Dean knows will earn him a reprimand. But he’s not worried about himself. Sam was with Bobby helping out at the garage for some part-time money, so Dean knows at least they’ll be on time for dinner.

Rufus will just have to deal with them crashing in.

When they pull up to the well-worn bungalow, Dean takes his hand back to kill the engine and wipe his palms off on his thighs.

“So, uh, this is Rufus and Bobby’s place. Dinner’s probably already started— so we’ll just go in quietly, especially if they’re singing. Neither of the bastards can carry a tune— but it’s tradition, so.”

“Understandable, as you know, I’m not one to judge someone’s singing voice,” Cas even self-deprecates with empathy.

“Okay, but, before we head in, can I?” Dean leans in and kisses his boyfriend without waiting for an answer. Cas slides closer across the seat and enters Dean’s mouth, thoroughly agreeing with the further delay.

Dean breaks the kiss to breathe, resting his forehead against Cas’ as they both regain their composure.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“We should go inside.”

“Yeah, I know— I just—.” Dean squeezes Cas’ forearm and searches his eyes in the darkness of the car.

“I missed you, too,” Cas says softly, eyes big and hand warm against Dean’s cheek.

They kiss once more for good measure and head inside.

All things considered, it was a good night. Cas’ cheeks are flushed from the wine, and he’s grinning as Sam and Bobby regale him with the story of Dean’s last significant other to make it long enough to attend a family gathering, Cassie.

Except Cassie hadn’t been invited to Sam’s birthday dinner, she just showed up.

“So get this— we’re grilling out back— about to start a game of two-hand touch with a bunch of middle school guys and —,” Sam sets the scene.

And Bobby cuts in gesturing wildly, “a flipping diva. Hair out to here, walks in.”

“She had more makeup on than I’ve seen on professional drag queens,” Rufus adds as he clears their dishes.

“Okay, let’s be nice,” Dean interjects. “It was bad timing— I’ll give you that.”

“It was weird, Dean! It was my party. I was twelve!” Sam argues.

Cas chuckles and watches Dean as he shrugs, Dean ducks his head and tries to hide the heat in his cheeks.

“Anyway, this is better, right? See!” Dean asks everyone with insistent eyes. ‘Don’t embarrass him like you’re dragging her,’ he silently begs.

“Much,” Sam agrees. “But I already know Cas– more or less.”

“What is it you’re going to school for again?” Bobby asks carefully, popping some leftover matza into his mouth. Dean only eats the stuff when he has to, but Bobby doesn’t let any go to waste. The conversation flows easily and before long Cas needs to get home.

“Thank you so much Mr. Turner for having me— I hope the second night goes just as well for you all.” Castiel shakes Rufus’ hand.

Rufus preens under all the attention, earring sparkling in the glow from the front porch light. “I’m sorry you can’t make it, but there’s always next year, am I right?”

Cas, clearly surprised, smiles all the same. Dean scratches the back of his neck and waits for the goodbyes to be over.

“Alright, young man, drive safe,” Rufus says to Dean. He can’t remember Rufus ever using his actual name. He’s always ‘hey you’, ‘punk’, or if he’s been on his best behavior, ‘young man’.

Dean shakes Rufus’ hand and leans in for a quick hug. Sam follows behind shaking hands and nodding his gratitude.

Dean glances at Sam to sit in the backseat as they make their way down the driveway. Sam pretends to think about it, the sacrifice of giving up shotgun is a pretty big deal when it comes to being sixteen in your brother’s legacy car.

But before it gets too noticeable that they are silently arguing, Sam relents and lets Cas have the cherished spot. Dean isn’t impressed, but he mouths a ‘thank you’, though it could be interpreted another way. He slides into the driver’s seat and grins over at Cas. Cas smiles knowingly back, and Dean cranks the volume.

They don’t kiss goodnight, and not just for Sam’s sake either. It’s just too rushed, and Cas has to transform back into the stoic machine he is around his family. Dean hates these moments the most. Not just parting with Cas but watching him bury so much of himself.

“Thanks for the ride,” Cas says sadly before ducking out of the open passenger side door. He nods to Sam and marches dutifully up his front steps. Dean ignores Sam when he turns down the music and settles into the front seat. Something pulls at Dean’s insides, but he stays put watching Cas. Then Cas turns around, waves, and opens the door to return to that damned prison.

Dean slowly blinks back to reality and puts the car into gear. He drives home on autopilot and Sam’s smart enough to leave him to his thoughts. When he gets home, Dean reworks some details on a design for his automation class. Then tries to get ahead on some reading for a seminar he’s taking. Nothing sticks, but maybe it will come back when he needs it.

Guess he’s an optimist now.

A week later, Dean chances a phone call when he knows Cas will still be on campus, but out of the obligation of any classroom.

“Hey— this is stupid—- but I was wondering if you— maybe— like this summer— when the semester is over, and classes aren’t so crazy—- I talked to Sam and he’s cool with it if you help out. But like— no pressure or anything—- and only if you wanted to. It would be awesome. So, do you think—- maybe— you’d like to move in with me? I mean with us?” Dean hadn’t rambled this long since he tried to talk their way out of a parking ticket for a passed-out John, in middle school.

He must have lost oxygen to his brain because when he hears Cas on the other end of the line, it’s only a thready plea of his name.

“No, listen, I know you’ve got your scholarship shit, but you can get grants and a job at the student aid office or tutor for money or something. They can’t stop you from finishing school—- they can only make it a little bit worse. But everything else can be better, Cas, I swear.” Dean wasn’t supposed to be so desperate about this, but he really wants Cas to be happy. Well, safe and out and happy, but still.

“Dean—- we’ve only been dating for a few months,” Cas sighs. “They’re my family forever.”

“They don’t have to be,” Dean says without thinking. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and then rubs his forehead with the back of the hand that’s holding the phone. “Not like you have to cut ties with them or anything— but, uh— well, Bobby’s always said family don’t end in blood. So, you know— you’ve got options.”

The seconds of silence coming from Cas’ side of the call last into the next century.

“And what happens if we break up, Dean?’ Cas doesn’t sound upset, but he still isn’t sold on anything.

Dean wasn’t expecting to go down that particular trail of possibility, and he flounders for a response. Both hurt and worried that Cas would think so little of him, of them.

Dean looks around the trailer’s living/dining/kitchen area and wonders what this could look like to Castiel’s eyes. He thought it was freedom, but maybe it’s just a trash hole to him like it was to the wrestling team and half of Dean’s exes.

“We’re both really young to be making such decisions,” Cas adds lightly.

“Look— I just want you to be happy. Are you happy, Cas?” Dean lays it out.

Cas exhales and shifts on the line, Dean can practically hear the gears in his head whirling a mile a minute. When he doesn’t answer, Dean presses on.

“Do you think you could be happy with me?”

“That’s not fair,” Cas counters. “You know this isn’t just about me. Would you leave Sam behind if it meant you could be happy?”

Dean locks his jaw, bitter and righteous. “No, but–”

“I may not be responsible for my siblings the way you are for Sam, but I do love them, Dean.”

“I know.” Dean feels it all slipping away from him. He doesn’t know what to say or do to make it better. He wishes he could take the entire conversation back.

“For what it’s worth—- when I’m with you—- that’s the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Dean pinches the tears out of his eyes and bleats out something like a chuckle. “Yeah, well, that’s great.”

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Do you work tonight?” It’s such an innocent question it throws Dean for a loop.

He looks at the clock on the microwave and sighs. “Uh, yeah, got like an hour before Sam’ll be home and then I’ll head in after we eat.”

“What are you making?” Cas’ voice is soothing, and Dean hates him for being able to distract him like this because it’s fucking working.

“Uh, just hotdogs and beans—- didn’t want to make a huge mess.”

“Because it’s on Sam to clean up and he’s probably got homework,” Cas concludes.

“Didn’t want him to leave it for me in the morning is all,” Dean reasons.

“Of course,” Cas agrees, knowing Dean’s thought process better than Dean would like.

“How late is the library open?” Dean turns the curiosity back on Cas.

“Ten, you know that: why?”

Dean shrugs though Cas can’t see him. “Was hoping to see you, maybe, if you’ll still be there when my shift starts.”

“Okay.”

Castiel is waiting for Dean in the parking lot closest to the Macleod Library. He walks him to the maintenance staff office so Dean’s not late for his shift. They shake hands and pat each other on the back goodnight. Just guys being bros.

Dean doesn’t mention the sheet of folded-up paper Cas passes him. It’s just a time and place, but it brightens Dean’s mood better than any placation or even kiss probably could at that moment.

His shift has never been longer.

Just before dawn, Dean finds Cas right where he had said he’d be. On one of the stone benches lining the small pond on Cas’ department’s side of campus.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Got your note— a bit cryptic— but I chose to interpret it like a middle school note— do you like me? Check yes or no.” Dean saunters closer, his hands fit around Cas’ hips beneath where his hands are wedged into his pockets.

“What are you checking?”

Dean kisses him because they are alone and because it’s his answer. Cas hums and pulls back. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Dean rolls his eyes at the lame joke, but kisses him again, deeper and more forceful until they both have to pull apart for air, grinning and giddy.

“How was work?” Cas presents one of his hands for Dean to thread their fingers together.

“Work— but I managed to get through. Might have been a little distracted.”

“Sorry about that,” Cas smiles mischievously.

“No, you’re not,” Dean murmurs against his temple, kissing him softly. “What’s up?”

Dean is dead on his feet, but he won’t be able to sleep until Cas tells him what all this build-up was for. Cas goes still, but he stays close.

“I wanted to tell you something—- and ask you for a favor,” Cas explains carefully, not making eye contact.

Dean watches the side of his face but aims for casualness. “Okay, a little dramatic, but shoot.”

Cas does face him then, eyes bright and brows high in hope or apology, Dean’s not sure. “It’s about your offer— sort of.”

Dean waits, but his palm is getting sweaty underneath Cas’ insistent grip.

“I want to be with you. I do. But since I can’t—- fully— until I graduate and Samandriel is an adult—- I want to promise to be true to you until we can both be our real selves.”

Dean squints and looks at Cas.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Cas glares. “You are an idiot. Are you seriously so tired right now that you interpreted me pledging myself to you as me breaking up with you?!”

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he puts on his best adorable apology face, essentially saying ‘I’m dumb but pretty.’

Cas rolls his eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

Dean reaches up to hold Cas’ face with both hands. “That’s already where I’ve been, Cas. That’s all relationships are— loyalty and devotion.”

Cas leans into Dean’s touch. “No, Dean. Maybe it’s not common in the secular world. But promising ourselves to each other is kind of a big deal with the people of my church.”

Dean drops his hands and steps back. “Are you proposing?”

“No-o,” Cas says it like it’s a question.

Dean grabs his hair and has a mini freak-out. But turns back and looks Cas in the eye even though he’s terrified. “Holy shit, you’re proposing.”

“Dean, I’m not proposing,” Cas says more sternly.

“And you were freaking out about me asking you to move in together.”

“To be fair, moving in together doesn’t happen in my experience until after marriage.”

“Yeah, but like half the people you know don’t even kiss before marriage,” Dean snarks.

Cas grimaces, but nods. Dean leans back in. “We’ve done a helluva lot more than kiss.”

“Your point?” Cas asks with a fragile sort of firmness.

Dean laces his hands behind Cas’ neck. “You are proposing.”

Cas, once again, rolls his eyes and tugs Dean closer by one of his front pockets. “Call it a pre-engagement if you must, but only if you swear to it, too.”

All the teasing leaves Dean’s body. Instead, he breathes deep and stares into Cas’ hesitant eyes. “I love you, you know that right? I mean— we don’t say it, but you know that about me.”

Cas softens in Dean’s arms, nodding as tears start to build in the corners of his gorgeous eyes.

“I’m yours, Cas. As long as it takes, okay?”

Cas swallows thickly and grins. “Okay.”

Dean looks down at Cas’ hands and between their bodies. “I feel unprepared for this.”

Cas cocks his head. “What are you talking about?”

Dean flexes his fingers and spots his solution. “I feel like I should be giving you something.”

“Dean, it’s not like I brought you anything.”

But Dean’s already untying one of his necklaces. It’s made of rough leather with a few beads knotted onto it. He bought it because he thought it was the right colors for the bisexual flag, but there’s a green one that throws off his reasoning.

“Here,” Dean insists, taking his mother’s ring off his right hand and threading it down the twine. “That should work— long enough to hide it, but still with you at all times.”

Cas doesn’t speak, just swallows and nods, turning so Dean can tie it on. Cas cradles the metal loop against his chest like he’s making the pledge all over again.

Dean beams at him, never realizing how satisfying it’d be to call Cas his. To have a claim on him, and his heart.

“Looks good on ya.”

“Thank you, Dean. I’ll— I’ll think of something to give you. Okay?”

Dean nods, hugging Cas close and whispering in his ear, “we’ve got plenty of time for that, okay?”

“We do, don’t we?” Cas grins his nose-scrunching grin and kisses Dean with more teeth than tongue.

Six years later

The arena is packed with people, families and friends filling the lower levels for the first round of afternoon graduations. Dean scans the crowd looking for Bobby and Rufus because, frankly, he’s sick of telling people the seats on either side of him are taken.

Then there’s the guy one chair over who won’t stop announcing that his cousin is getting his doctorate and how cute it is that Dean’s kid brother is only getting his bachelor’s. Dean isn’t going to let him bate him, it’s neither the time nor the place. But he clenches his fist anyway, just for something to pass the time.

Finally, Dean spots Rufus stiff-arming his way through the masses. He doesn’t say, “move, I’m gay.” But Dean imagines he is. Once they’re within earshot, he realizes Rufus is playing another card entirely.

“Senior citizens coming through!”

Dean picks up his coat and stands up to shake his uncles’ hands.

“Have trouble finding the place?” Dean teases.

“Don’t get him started,” Bobby warns, sitting in the now open middle seat. Leaving the far seat for Rufus, right next to Mr. Obnoxious himself.

Rufus settles into his seat and does a double take. “Don’t I know you?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes and acts offended. “Yeah, you do, Gramps. Forget your readers at home, huh?”

Dean tries to stifle his laugh, muttering, “he’s your problem now.”

The ceremony begins with a quick introduction and only two reasonably long speeches. The graduate students are announced first, but Cas is in the last row. It feels like Dean has been waiting for this moment as long as Cas has. He’s certainly put in the hours of research beside him. Fed and watered and supported them while Cas TA'd, wrote, and argued his thesis.

Dean shoves down the nervousness and focuses on the pride. There were only six doctoral candidates, and five made it across the stage that day. Dean couldn’t help but scream his head off when they announced, “Doctor Castiel Milton-Winchester.”

Everyone in the row beside him joined in, from a very pregnant Anna and her husband to Samandriel and Jess, Sam’s girlfriend whose nursing school graduation was in two and a half hours. Their tribe went hard.

Then they all had to wait for Sam’s turn near the end of the undergrads.

Dean doesn’t think it’s possible to be any prouder than he is at that moment. Seeing Sam’s floppy hair tucked underneath his square cap brings tears to his eyes. His brother was gonna be a lawyer someday, and not too far in the future Dean and Cas will be at another one of these robe parades.

Who knows, maybe Jess will still be around for it, too.

Dean grins and sniffles, because, yeah, Sam is graduating, but Dean helped get him there, damn it.

Not bad for two trailer park kids.

After the official time for applause, once the final name is called, the crowd returns to chaos. Dean bides his time, knowing Cas and Sam will find each other and meet up with him at the impala, sooner or later.

He watches his extended family gather their belongings and trudge outside into the spring sunshine. Rufus is loudly impatient the whole way. While Anna is almost to the point of waddling. Dean can’t wait to meet their niece already. Life is starting to slow down it seems.

Maybe they’ll finally be able to take the honeymoon they’ve been putting off for the past two years.

From somewhere behind Dean, Cas drawls a pathetic, “hey there, cowboy.”

Dean spins on the spot, smirking. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Really, Dean?! Bugs Bunny?!” Sam admonishes.

“Shut your face, Sammy,” Dean snips, not breaking eye contact with his husband.

Sam groans and turns to find Jessica. Dean’ll properly congratulate him later with the new juicer Sam’s been talking about, none too subtly, since the air fryer Dean got him for his birthday.

“Ready to celebrate your momentous accomplishment?” Dean asks, sliding in close and slipping his hands inside the now open sides of Cas’ faux satin gown.

“Please tell me there’ll be food. I woke up late and was too distracted to have breakfast,” Cas grumbles on Dean’s shoulder, shuffling his feet as if they’re dancing.

“Okay, but you never eat breakfast,” Dean argues since he was the source of the distraction in the first place.

“Because I eat between classes at like ten, Dean!” Cas bellyaches.

Dean sighs and gives him an unimpressed grimace. “Yes, there’ll be food, Christ. I’m not a sadist.”

They walk hand-in-hand to the car, Sam and Jess trailing behind them.

“Okay, quick lunch, and then back for round two?” Dean asks as everyone finds their respective doors. They all nod in agreement and Dean ducks into the car.

A memory of Cas’ first ride in the impala pops into Dean’s head. Having Sam in the backseat with Jess, it’s like looking in a funhouse mirror of that night. Sober and Garth-less, Dean chuckles.

“What?” Cas asks, amused.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Just funny how everything works out in the end.”

“Good things do happen, Dean,” Cas agrees.

“Yeah, tell me about it. I got you, didn’t I?” Dean revs the engine and pulls into the line of traffic making their way out of the parking garage.

Destiel Tags: @dolphincliffs, @lastactiontricia

Tell me what you think?

#supernatural fanfiction #destiel #dean/cas #destiel fanfic #college au #hea #drunken hook up leads to fluff #homophobia #bisexual dean winchester #closeted gay castiel #bobby/rufus #first time

42 notes · View notes