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renxzs · 4 years ago

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Beneath Neon Lights

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean seizes the opportunity to “tickle fight” you into submission on the couch in order to stake claim on the remote. However, one thing leads to another and he stakes his claim on your heart instead.

Dialogue prompt: “Give me the remote.”

Warnings / Tags: mutual pinning, the tiniest bit of angst, fluff, cursing, minor smut (dry humping, slight exhibitionism?)

Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: Thank you so much to @justkending for hosting your writing challenge last year! Congrats again on the follower milestone—you deserve each and every one of them! Also...since it’s been over a year since the original challenge due date (oops), I believe a happy belated birthday is in order! 💕 Thank you so much for your patience and understanding. I hope you like this! (sorry it took so long).

The sun begins to lower in the sky. Oranges and yellows filter through the flimsy curtains that hang in the window of the cheap motel room, casting a warm glow throughout. Muscles ache from the earlier hunt; a vamp nest, which posed a greater challenge in wiping out than initially anticipated. The lead you got from a fellow hunter up in northern Ohio suspected it to be a nest of four, maybe five. Easy enough; you’ve ganked worse.

There were ten.

Regardless - though, not without struggle and a few bruises and cuts - the job got done. The cost varies, but it always gets done.

Legs, crossed at the ankle and outstretched on the lumpy couch cushions, are cladded in your favorite pair of well-worn leggings. Your entire body sags in sigh as you relax against the arm of the couch. The TV dimly plays in the background, long forgotten as you scroll through your phone. Eyes flick up, pausing in reading the list of online news headlines as soft snores reach your ears. Casting a glance over the back of the couch has your lips involuntarily curling into a smile.

Dean is slouched in one of the beds, half propped up against the headboard, chin resting against his chest. He’s still cladded in flannel and jeans, too beat to change into something a bit more comfortable upon returning to the motel earlier. One arm now rests across his midriff while the other lays at his side with the TV remote in hand. You snort softly at the sight.

He looks so peaceful, face slacken with sleep. A tightness creeps into your chest as you revel in the rare moment of seeing Dean like this. Unguarded and soft. Hard lines of guilt, self-loathing, and self-accredited failure now smoothed away, barely there. Left exposed is a man with too good of a heart, starved of gentleness and love; of reassurance that things will be okay.

You yearn to give him those things. The love and gentleness he is more than worthy of. Deserves. To help carry some of the heaviness he willing shoulders, having such a visceral need to claim responsibility for every faced hardship you all encounter, every setback, in the pursuit of making the world a little less shitty of a place.

Never does he complain.

Always wanting to shield you and Sam from the inevitable struggle and pain of life as a hunter the best he can. So used to being his brother's keeper growing up. But the pressure of that kind of weight and stress causes cracks, and so many litter his armor. It makes your heart ache to watch it happen before your eyes. To have him refuse to share with you the burden. To helplessly watch on as he temporarily mends the cracks with a steady flow of whiskey.

Dean was tired.

Enervated.

Fingers itch to reach out and run along the line of his jaw, across the now smooth skin between his brows that’s usually pinched with worry. Your eyes drop back down to the phone in your hand, thankful you were settled on the couch, distance preventing you from doing something so foolish. The screen of the phone was now black, having dimmed into standby mode while lost in thoughts of the man gently snoring a few feet away.

Chest expands with a heaved sigh as you drop your phone onto the rickety coffee table nestled in the small space between the couch and TV stand. You scrub a hand across your face and stretch stiff muscles before pushing up off the couch and making your way to the small kitchenette. A growling stomach has you assessing the contents of the tiny fridge. A few bottled waters and a six-pack of beer are its only occupants. You fight off the eyeroll as you snag a beer and discard the twist-off cap.

No wonder Sam was eager to explore that little farmer’s market you passed on your drive into town this morning.

You raise the chilled bottle to your lips and take a swig, sidling up to a slumbering Dean. Gently you pull the remote from his loosened grasp so as not to wake him. He immediately stirs with a sharp inhale, eyes squinting against the fiery light of the setting sun. Years of being a hunter has conditioned him to wake at the slightest disturbance - you never know what could be lurking during your most vulnerable moments.

It’s difficult not to smile at the grumpy look on his face as awareness slowly comes back to him. Remote in hand and a cold beer in the other, you make your way over to the couch and drop down unceremoniously on the center cushion. Calling over your shoulder to Dean, “Mornin’ sunshine.”

You flip through the grainy channels while taking another swig of beer before setting the bottle down on the coffee table. Stretching out along the length of the couch and back leaned against the armrest once more, you make yourself comfortable.

Dean grunts in response. The bed creaks and sheets rustle as he resituates, most likely moving into a sitting position propped up against the headboard.

“Sammy still out?” Voice gravelly with remnants of sleep causes your insides to squirm.

Toes twitch to curl and you hum out an mhm, actively trying to ignore the way your body involuntarily responds to his voice. Your eyes carefully remain trained on the TV screen.

Unreasonably attractive men in scrubs catch your attention during the mindless flipping through channels. You backtrack to the passed over channel. Sure enough, Dr. Sexy, MD was playing. An exasperated groan sounds from behind you.

“This crap? Really?” Lips tug into a smirk at the notes of mock annoyance in his voice.

You scoff teasingly. “Don’t act like I haven’t caught you binge watching this before.” You raise the remote into his view with a taunting shake. “Besides I have remote privileges.”

“And you’re about to lose ‘em, sweetheart.” The threat sends an inexplicable thrill through you.

Bed creaking under shifting weight has your head snapping in his direction. A nefarious smirk plays on his lips and emerald eyes glint with an air of playfulness. Something twists low in your belly and your heart thumps in your chest.

Dean stalks around the end of the couch where your feet lie, intense gaze never straying from you. Like a predator hunting its prey.

“Last chance. Give me the remote.” His hand is outstretched expectantly and voice laced with a faux sternness.

Eyes narrow in challenge.

“Not a chance, Winchester.” Your tone is smug, definitive. Fingers tighten around the small plastic electronic to emphasize your words.

A long sigh drags from his lungs that clearly says, I warned you.

Before you have time to think, Dean wraps a large hand around your ankle and pulls you down the couch with ease. His name leaves your lips in a shriek. You make a half-hearted attempt to kick him away as he breaks into a full-on toothy grin, clamouring over the edge of the couch and trapping your legs beneath his weight. Your attempts to wiggle away are futile, so you stretch the remote up past your head to keep it out of his reach.

“Give me… the… remote…” He huffs out between low chuckles as he crawls up your squirming body.

A mangled “never” falls from your lips and you fail to bite back laughter. Fingers move expertly against your sides, knowing all of your most ticklish spots. Your body jerks, attempts to flinch away from his assaults.

“Dean!” A stitch begins to form in your side and you gasp for breath. Attention momentarily unfocused, Dean leans forward, stretching along the length of you for the remote still held past your head. He falls against you with an oomph, just barely coming up short.

His proximity is an onslaught to your senses - his heady scent, the weight and warmth of his solid body pressing against yours, his soft puffs of breath fanning your face. The laughter and lightness of the previous moment dies in your throat. The shift in air palpable, thick with an anticipation that unfurls a swell of liquid heat deep in your belly.

Dean’s gaze flits across your face, searching. What for, you aren’t sure. There isn’t time to mull it over, though. Not with your heartbeat thudding in your ears and your head feeling increasingly light because he’s shifting, sloting himself more comfortably between your legs. They fall open easily, unconsciously welcoming him.

The itch to touch him surges through you once more and this time you don’t quell it. Your free hand delicately ghosts up the plane of his back. You relish in the way his muscles twitch and roll beneath your touch. Green eyes briefly fall to your barely parted lips before meeting yours again, darkened and seemingly hopeful.

Dean begins to lean in, slowly closing the charged space between you. Your fingers tightly grip at the material of his shirt to steady the trembling in your hand. If only there was as simple of a solution to steady the erratic thumping of your heart.

Dusky lips linger just above yours for a beat and then he is pressing them against yours - soft and warm - gently working against one another.

Lips break apart momentarily but he doesn’t pull back, head resting against yours. A myriad of emotions wash over you. A potent mixture of anticipation, excitement, and nerves coursing through your veins. Heavy lids slowly open and you catch him staring back, the pretty green of his irises a thin rim around his dilated pupils - looking as if he could devour you whole - and you’re nearly thrown off kilter.

Breath catches in your throat, the intensity of his gaze scorching. Your body ignites with a returned want for him, unearthed from a place you had kept buried down deep. Without another thought, your head tilts up just the slightest bit to capture his lips once more.

Dean’s response is instantaneous.

Fingers thread through your hair as he dips down to kiss you back. Soft and slow until it's not, helpless against the building heat threatening to set you both ablaze. His other hand grips greedily at your hip, thumb smoothing over exposed skin.

The remote slipping from your fingers and clanking against the floor dimly registers in the back of your mind. It is clouded and filled to the brim with all that is Dean - the press of his solid body against yours; the radiating warmth from his large hands seeping into your skin as they explore; the mixed smell of pine, leather, and gunpowder infiltrating your senses; the trace of his tongue against your bottom lip; the low moan that reverberates in his chest as you let him in.

Your hands slip beneath the flannel and cotton undershirt to meet heated skin. Swallowing down his groans, nails graze up the length of his back then back down. Fingertips dip beneath the waistband of his jeans and boxer briefs, digging into the flesh just above the beginning curve of his ass in a desperate attempt to pull him closer, to take more. Hips roll against yours at their own volition in response.

You’d normally be embarrassed by the choked sound of pleasure that tumbles from your lips, but are too engrossed with chasing after that delicious friction to care. Dean seems to share your same sentiment as his hand smooths down from your hip to grip your thigh. Hitching your leg up, he slowly thrusts against the blooming heat of your core. Oh. You suck in a sharp breath and lift your hips to his.

Dean’s answering groan is low and throaty and coated with desire. His head falls forward and lips tenderly meet sensitive skin just below your ear.

Your mind is buzzing with how amazing it all feels. How good he-

The familiar rumble of Baby in the distance, signaling Sam’s return, is like a douse of ice water plunging you back to your senses. Movements fueled by raw desire and need were now frozen with trepidation. Dean’s eyes dart to yours but you can’t decipher the emotion behind them fast enough before the weight of him is gone.

Sitting upright, you rake a hand through your hair in an attempt to smooth it out just as Sam inserts the keycard on the other side of the motel door. A moment later, he breezes through the doorway and tosses the car keys on the small table next to the door, oblivious to what had transpired only moments prior. Two plastic sacks hang from his arms, inevitably filled with fresh produce and a variety of snacks.

Your heart ricochets in your chest and thumps loudly in your ears as you drag in steady breaths through your nose in an attempt to calm yourself. Cheeks flush with heat, surely a combination of the adrenaline and arousal still coursing through you, as well as a tinge of embarrassment for nearly being caught. You suck a kiss-swollen lip into your mouth, catching it between the bite of your teeth. Your eyes shift to Dean who is miraculously perched on the opposite end of the couch. As far from you as he can manage.

He won’t look at you.

Stones form deep in the pit of your stomach, suddenly feeling ashamed.

Eyes drop to the dingy carpet your toes curl into, finding anything to ground yourself to keep from down-spiraling. The sick churning in your gut has you feeling nauseous and your chest tightens with the threat of tears.

You suck in a sharp breath. No. You are not going to cry over this. Not here, not now. You have already made enough of a fool of yourself, you chide.

Sudden movement in your peripheral snags your attention. Dean is now standing, and still entirely avoiding looking in your general direction.

He hastily walks over to where his dirty boots were kicked off earlier and shoves his socked feet into them. Grabbing his jacket from its position slung over a dining chair, he shrugs it on and snatches the keys from the table.

Sam’s brows furrow. “Where are you going?”

Dean grates a gruff “out” in response, unwilling to offer any further explanation.

Sam raises an eyebrow just as the door is pulled closed behind Dean with a bit more force than necessary. He shifts a questioning glance to you. Hands rise with palms upturned, the plastic sacks still swaying from his wrists, in a manner that wordlessly asks ‘what the hell was that?’

You shake your head while offering a small shrug, hoping to any god out there that the remnants of what just took place between you and Dean couldn’t be read on your face. Sam’s eyebrows raise almost comically as he lets out a long breath with a shake of his head. It wasn’t entirely unusual for Dean to get into one of his moods and need some space with his thoughts. Sam appears to be chalking this odd situation up to one of those moments.

He pulls a chair out from the table and takes a seat as he begins to empty the bags of their contents. His head tips in the direction of where you are sitting and raises a food container. “Want some?”

The idea of eating anything now makes you feel sick. How could you be expected to have an appetite when the man you have been lovesick over for months just rejected you. He physically left the premises to get away from you.

A gentle shake of the head and a small smile are all you can muster up. “No thanks, Sam. I actually think I’m gonna try to nap for a bit. I’m really tired.”

The softness in his eyes emanates understanding, and he nods. Always gentle and comforting. It nearly has the words spilling from your lips of what just took place in the moments before his untimely interruption, the urge to confide in him pressing against your tongue.

You bite it instead.

You ease back down onto the couch out of Sam’s view and tightly curl up into yourself. Tears prick behind your eyes. Blinking several times to combat the welling moisture is futile as one unbidden droplet slips from the corner of your eye and disappears into the scratchy material of the sofa cushion. A second quickly follows, running over the bridge of your nose before seeping into the material beneath you.

You are careful not to sniff too loudly as not to draw Sam’s unwanted attention and concern. You burrow deeper into the grungy sofa and bury your face into your hands, repeatedly wishing you were back at the bunker so you could properly wallow in the safety of your room.

Limbs feel heavy, and your heart more so. Physical exhaustion from all the hunts finally catches up with you, creeping deep into your bones. A complimentary mental exhaustion muddles your mind and tightens in your chest, heart twisting and aching. Breaths begin to steady as you let go and slip beneath it.

****

Eyes slowly open and blink the sleep away. It takes a moment to remember where you are. The room is dark save the dim flickering light above the kitchenette area and the soft glow of the TV. The digital numbers on the outdated VCR beneath it read 10:27 PM. You slept for nearly three hours.

The heel of a palm presses and rubs against your eye before dragging it down the side of your face. Slowly you rise into a sitting position, a soft groan escaping your lips as your body protests your decision to sleep so long curled up on a lumpy sofa that offers no proper support. Shoulders roll absentmindedly and a hand massages at the kink that has formed in your neck.

A dark object on the floor just off to the side catches your eye - the remote - and everything suddenly everything slams back to you.

You and Dean play fighting over the remote. Dean’s body hovering over yours. His lips pressed to yours. The dizzying high. His rejection and the plummeting feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You swallow thickly and twist around to cast a glance at the beds behind you. Sam’s oversized figure is sound asleep in one of the beds, his steady breaths filling the small room. Eyes shift over to the second bed- empty.

Your features pucker with a mixture of confusion and frustration.

Dean still had yet to come back to the motel and face you.

Knowing him, he was probably at the local bar sipping on a whiskey neat in utter denial until he could find a way to justify his earlier actions and take it all back.

A long sigh cuts through the silence as you reach for the warm beer still residing on the coffee table. You trudge over to the tiny sink in the kitchenette, soundlessly pouring out the bottle before depositing it in the trash.

Thirsty and in need of any distraction to keep your mind preoccupied, you fish out a few loose quarters from your wallet, shrug on a light jacket, snag the motel keycard off the table, and quietly slip out of the room. The nighttime air is a bit cooler now that the sun no longer hangs high in the sky. The crisp coolness helps clear your head and is easier to breathe than the stuffy atmosphere of the motel room.

A vending machine resides a few feet ahead, destination in sight. The hum and glow of its display lights grow as you approach closer. The machine is stocked full of off-brand sodas - lucky for you, you happen to enjoy Mr. Pibb.

At least you can have one good thing tonight, you think while depositing a quarter into the coin slot.

The metallic clank of the quarter sounds through the machine as it travels down to the small coin cup towards the bottom. Brows furrow at the returned coin as you reach to retrieve it, pushing it into the coin slot once more. The quarter is immediately spit out into the returned coin cup again. Belatedly you notice the small tattered sign taped to the machine above the selection buttons: Dollar bills only. Sorry for the inconvenience.

You drop your head back and groan internally while stuffing the now useless change into your jacket. Apparently you spoke too soon on having at least one nice thing tonight.

“In need of a dollar?” The unexpected voice nearly has you jumping out of your skin. Whipping around brings you face to face with the man you’re currently trying to push out of mind.

“Dean. You scared me.” A small hand falls to your chest as if that would calm your thumping heart. “What are you doing out here? When did you get back?”

He only offers a shrug as he pulls a well-worn dollar bill from his wallet and feeds it into the machine. It whirs a moment before accepting the dollar. You huff. Stupid vending machine.

Dean reaches in front of you to press a selection button - the faint smell of whiskey on him confirms your earlier assumption - and a can drops into the retrieval slot. He reaches down to grab the soda and holds it out for you to take. You stare blankly at the can of Mr. Pibb in his large hand, frozen in place because he knew.

He raises a brow at your hesitation. Pushing away the shock, senses return and you gingerly take the can from his outstretched hand.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

The silence that stretches between the two of you is awkward, and you hate it. It’s never awkward between the two of you. Your friendship has always been easy, as have the conversations. Maybe it was too easy and comfortable and that’s why your stupid heart got caught up in it all in the first place - in him.

Waiting a moment longer, the silence stretches on. With resignation, you begin stepping past him to head back in the direction of the motel room.

A large hand catches your arm and you look back to pleading green eyes. “Can we talk?”

Lips part to respond but nothing comes out. You offer a small nod instead.

You swear relief flashes across his face as he lets out a breath. The hand wrapped around your bicep drops back to his side, and he tips his head in a direction away from the motel building. You fight the nagling feeling of disappointment that creeps through you at the loss of his warm touch and silently follow him across the small parking lot towards Baby.

You lean up against the side of the Impala and trace a finger around the edge of the cold can in your hands. Lifting the tab, a loud hiss and crack fills the silence. The cool liquid is an explosion of sweet, crisp and bubbly against your tongue as you take a sip.

Your gaze lifts to meet his as Dean steps closer into your space, struggling to find the words he wants to say. The large blue and red neon motel sign buzzes in the background behind him.

“Listen, I… I just wanted to say-” His mouth snaps closed and his jawline tightens. Eyes avert to the gravel at your feet and a large hand racks roughly through his hair. He groans at his inability to form a coherent sentence. This is clearly uncomfortable for him to get out. It can't be easy turning down someone you have to spend the next 13 hours in a car with. You bite at your bottom lip as your fingers thrum along the side of the soda can before speaking.

“Look, Dean. You don’t have to say anything- I get it.” His eyes flit to your face. An apprehensive hope clouds them, perhaps wishing the two of you are in fact on the same page. A mistake between friends. A dreadfully embarrassing conversation you want to be over with. You work to keep your tone leveled and unattached, “What happened earlier didn’t mean anything.”

The crumpled expression his features unexpectedly contort into is a swift punch to the gut. Why does he have to look like that? He is the one rejecting you, again. Trying to let you down easy. Not the other way around.

“It didn’t mean anything to you?”

You swallow thickly and shift weight from one foot to the other. Eyes remain fixed on the aluminum can your fingers encircle, unable to meet his gaze. “Does it even matter?” voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t make the effort to brush back the hair that’s fallen forward into your face, welcoming the opportunity to hide behind the curtain of locks, suddenly feeling more vulnerable than ever.

Dean steps further into your space, gently smoothing the fallen hair behind your ear then braces his hands against the roof of the Impala on either side of your head. Caging you in between Baby and his large frame. Heat rolls off him in waves and his proximity causes your head to spin. The soda can, merely an afterthought, is dropped to the ground. The liquid splashes and fizzes around your feet. Neither of you pay the fallen can any mind.

Dean leans in close, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “It matters.” The low timbre of his voice sends a shiver straight down your spine and recharges those butterflies back to life deep in the pit of your stomach. His forehead falls against yours and noses brush. “It meant something to me.”

You blink once, twice, in shock at his admittance.

Honest spoken words hang between you briefly before pushing up on your toes, emboldened, and pressing your lips to his, kissing him earnestly. One of his arms drops to your back to pull you closer, the other cradling the base of your skull, shifting the angle to kiss you more deeply.

Laughing in the distance cuts through the fog and you break apart, spell broken. Exhaling shakily, your eyes dart over to the source of interruption. A young, giddy couple across the parking lot nearly falling over one another to rush into their rented motel room. Heavy boots scuffing against gravel pulls your attention back to Dean who is still hovering close in your space. He casts a cursory glance over a shoulder at the couple before his dark gaze settles back on you.

“Baby?” His voice a low gruff as he tips his head toward the car you are currently pressed up against.

You nod wordlessly, following after him as he opens the door to the back seat. Dean slides across the smooth leather, not leaving much room for you to climb in next to him. The corner of his lip curls into an impish smirk, green eyes sparkling.

“C’mere.” You take his hand and allow him to pull you into the spacious backseat, situating you easily astride his lap.

You tentatively drag a thumb along his jawline, the stubble there at least a day old. Dean’s heated gaze lures you in like a moth inevitably drawn to a lamp as you lean forward to press your lips to his once more in a searing kiss. His tongue is soft in your mouth, stroking and tasting. He swallows down your moans.

Fingers deftly push his jacket and flannel off simultaneously and trail down to the hem of the black t-shirt snuggly fitted to his chest. You want more, want to see and feel him. Tanned muscles roll as he raises his arms, allowing you to lift the t-shirt up and over his head.

Fingertips ghost over heated skin, tracing along puckered scars, the outline of his tattoo. Eyes greedily drink in his toned chest until a hand threads into your hair and slowly pulls you close. Lips drag against yours, softly at first, then with a devouring intensity that has your core aching and your pulse racing out of control.

Many nights have been spent in lonely darkness, wishing, hoping for a chance like this to come along. It’s surreal. Your mind reels as it tries to catch up with the rest of your body - your body that is currently astride a bare chested Dean Winshester.

Lips meet again, slowly and thoroughly; exploring and tasting. Large hands curl around your hips, anchoring you to this moment; to him.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs. “So many times.” Calloused thumbs dip beneath the edge of your shirt and ghost back and forth across your skin.

Eyelids heavy with desire flutter close as you breathe, “You have?”

Fingers smoothe up the nape of his neck and scratch gently against his scalp, eliciting from him a low groan as your forehead rests against his. “God, sweetheart, so many times,” he grinds out.

The warmth of his rough hands cause gooseflesh to rise in their wake as they inch their way up higher and higher. A shudder trickles down your spine and you pull him close for another dizzying kiss. His lips eagerly meet yours, tongue plundering your mouth. Hips rock against his, desperate to relieve the growing ache between your legs. A hiss of air rushes past Dean’s teeth, breaking your kiss, his hands dropping to grip tightly at your hips. Helping in guiding your movements, adding pressure to that delicious friction you both crave.

The cool evening air has turned warm and thick within the confinements of the Impala. Suddenly overheated, you peel off your jacket and tug the t-shirt up over your head in haste, leaving your top-half in a lacey bralette. Dean’s eyes nearly dilate to the size of dimes and the muscles in his jaw tighten at the barely there garment cladding your chest.

Large hands lift to fondle and knead your breasts without hesitation, thumbs brushing teasingly against your hardened nipples. A soft whimper tumbles past your lips, and your hips work to shamelessly grind your dampening core against the straining bulge trapped beneath the denim of Dean’s jeans. The mangled groan caught in the back of his throat short circuits your system.

His emerald eyes glisten in the soft glow of the red and blue hues from the neon sign outside. You rest a hand against the scratchy stubble along his slack jaw, thumb dragging over his lips. He presses a kiss against the pad, gaze never leaving yours. You can’t help but think how beautiful he looks like this.

You drop a hand down to the worn buckle clasp to work him free of his jeans. You can’t imagine he’s very comfortable in the tight confinement of denim. Dean grunts softly as he catches your wrist and shakes his head.

“This is about you, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your knuckles as he raises your hand to his lips. A moment later his hands are gripping your backside and grinding you down against him as if to emphasize his words. A pleased grin stretches across his lips as your head falls back with a strangled moan.

Dean dips forward to press a trail of wet kisses up the valley of your breasts and across your collarbone. He buries a hand in your hair and tugs on the strands to expose your neck. He places open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, sucking and biting gently.

“Fucking gorgeous…” he murmurs against your tender skin.

Arousal curls and flares in the pit of your stomach, fanning out to your limbs. Every neuron in your body is aching for his touch to relieve the building pressure.

The lingering hints of whiskey entangling with his natural scent is intoxicating, and you fail to stifle the groan that slips out. “Dean.”

“Wanna see you come, sweetheart,” he urges hoarsely. “Please.”

Slipping a hand below the elastic waistband of your leggings, his thumb quickly seeks out your sensitive, swollen clit drawing from you a string of breathless gasps. His touch is just a hair on the rougher side than you usually prefer, but it’s exactly what you need at this moment. A fire licks through your veins and your skin pricks with gooseflesh as the pressure builds and builds. The tension and desperation in the cab of the Impala palpable.

Without warning your orgasm crests.

A white hot pleasure washes through you in waves, Dean’s name singed on your tongue.

His hips jerk upward as the rest of his body tenses. Witnessing the peak of your pleasure inevitably dragging him under to meet his own. Your name falls from his lips in a low mangled groan. He forces his eyes to remain open, unwilling to miss a single moment of euphoric bliss painted across your features.

Dean smooths back stray hairs that have stuck to your forehead, dewy with perspiration. Glazed green eyes rove over your disheveled form with unyielding adoration. As if you are the sun itself and he’s rediscovering light and warmth for the first time after years of banishment in cool darkness.

You drop your head into the crook of his neck, unused to being looked upon with such intensity. Instead, you focus on the weight of strong arms wrapped around you - warm and safe - as you gather your senses and steady your breathing. Body still pulsing with echoes of pleasure. Limbs blissfully heavy and relaxed. Dean lazily strokes your back as you sit in a contented silence.

A few moments pass before an undeniable grumble disrupts the quiet. Dean quirks a brow, lips curling in amusement. Cheeks flush warm as you cast a bashful glance down at your exposed tummy. It rumbles again, a clear reminder that you missed both lunch and dinner.

“I guess I shouldn’t have passed on dinner earlier,” your voice soft with a sudden shyness.

Dean’s low chuckle spreads warmth within you and he catches your chin between his forefinger and thumb. He gently raises your gaze to meet his. The smile on his lips is cause for your heart to stutter. He pulls you close and gingerly presses a lingering kiss to your lips. And then another. He shifts his hand to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing absently along your cheekbone.

“Well, then let’s get some food in ya. There’s a 24-hour diner up the road. Can get a couple burgers.” He drops a sheepish gaze down towards his crotch. “Just gotta run inside to change real quick.”

Lips curve into a small smile and softly nod. The sound of burgers had your stomach rumbling again with an eagerness at the delightful prospect of food. But as much as your body wanted sustenance, it ached for Dean more.

What if this is your only chance to have him? What happens when the inexplicable magic interwoven in the late night air dissipates and the soft glow of neon lights fades as the sun slowly rises and morning comes? Will he still want you then?

Dean’s brows knit together, undoubtedly detecting your hesitance. “Hey… what’s wrong?” The low timbre of his voice wraps around you, gentle and soothing.

You lean into his touch as your eyes fall shut. “I just… don’t want this to end.”

Concern melts from his features as understanding dons. He shifts beneath you to pull you impossibly closer. “This ain’t ending, sweetheart.” A knowing smile plays on his lips and you have the sudden urge to kiss them again. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” His free hand smooths across your upper thigh and gently squeezes. “‘Gonna finish this properly, in a bed, once we get back to the bunker.”

Your stomach clenches at the insinuation of him properly finishing what you started tonight, and your heart lurches with a renewed hope that this wasn’t a temporary thing.

You nuzzle closer, lips brushing against his. “Promise?”

A slow smile eases across his face and you can’t help but mirror it.

“Promise.”

#justkendingwritingchallenge #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #renxzs #my fic

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avengerscompound · 4 years ago

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It’s You and Me - Chapter 10

It’s You and Me: A Hawkeye Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Clint Barton x F!Reader

Word Count: 1758

Rating: E

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, some kinda sexual stuff (though it’s light and probably pg movie worthy), some of this is canon comic stuff - so you may have already read it.

Synopsis: You and Clint Barton go way back. Since you joined the circus as a child, he took it upon himself to keep you away from the people who really wanted to hurt you. For years the two of you danced a line between dark and light.

When he chooses light the two of you go your separate ways.

Fifteen years later he tracks you down. Those feelings the two of you shared never went away, but now he is not only an Avengers but a single father. Can the two of you make it work after all this time when your lives have gone in such different directions?

A series told in flashbacks and current day.

Chapter 10: Then

Clint ran through the circus looking for Eden. He’d been in town getting some things when he’d spotted the paper. The words ‘Art Dealer Murdered’ were splashed over the front page, with a photograph of the man Clint recognized from when he’d had the meeting with Tiboldt and a picture of some of the missing art. He knew it had to do with the circus. That someone from here had killed him when they’d tried to steal the art. After what you had said about Eden potentially being involved, he was terrified that someone was her.

“Anyone seen Eden?” He called as he ran through the carnies setting up the tents for the show tonight.

He spotted Bruto the Strong Man hammering in some of the larger poles and rushed over to him. “Bruto,” he said, slightly breathless. “You seen Eden around?”

Bruto thrust his thumb over his shoulder. “Check Tiboldt’s trailer.”

Clint nodded and ran towards the orange trailer that had the large banner advertising the circus on the side. “Eden,” he called. “Tiboldt - you guys in there?”

The door opened a crack and the thin weasley face peered around the corner. “What do you want, Barton?”

“Where’s Eden?” Clint asked.

Tiboldt narrowed his eyes. “What… do … you… want?”

Clint thrust the paper forward, right into the Ringmaster’s face so he could see the headline. “This is the guy you were talking to a few days ago!”

“Really?” Tiboldt said, playing coy. “I talk to so many people when we do our shows…”

“He was the museum guy - we were gonna do some children’s charity gig for him?” Clint questioned.

Tiboldt chuckled drily and handed the paper back to Clint. “Apparently, we won’t be now.”

Clint scowled, taking it. “Where’s Eden?”

Tiboldt pushed the door open so that Clint could see inside. Eden was sitting at the dressing table, naked except for a small towel wrapped around her waist. She turned, obviously startled that the Ringmaster would give her away. “Clint!” She yelped. “I…”

Clint fumed. He wanted to yell. To fight Tiboldt. To do something to express how angry and hurt he was right now. Tiboldt was the boss though and he was stuck. He’d been sleeping with Eden and they’d gone and murdered someone together and Clint was just some dumb sucker.

He spun on his heel and stormed off.

He’d made it halfway down the big top before Eden came chasing after him, the towel only barely wrapped around her. “Clint! Wait!” She called. “It’s not what you think!”

“Yeah?” He snapped, tossing the paper into the air. “‘Cause I’m thinkin’ you’re with him when you said you were my girl -” he loosed an arrow at it and shot past Eden’s head, pinning the paper to the wall of the trailer she was standing next to, the arrowhead piercing the picture of the murder victim through the head. “- and you helped him commit murder!”

“You…” Eden stammered. “You really think I would murder someone?”

Clint faltered. He didn’t know what he believed. He loved Eden and had loved her for a while now. But seeing her naked in that trailer only days after you had warned him about what was going on, he wasn’t sure if he could trust her. “I - no… no, I don’t…”

She approached him running her hand up into the back of his head and leaning into him. “As for Tiboldt and me - please - I was posing for a new trailer poster.” She looked into his eyes and tilted her head. “No one touches me - you know that. No one but you.”

She opened her towel, and wrapped it around him, bringing her naked body to his right out in the open in front of everyone. Heat flushed Clint’s skin and every coherent thought left his head. He kissed Eden deeply and hungrily the only thing even remotely resembling a coherent thought was the deep animalistic hunger he felt for her.

That night as you and Clint got ready for the show, he’d all but forgotten the incident from earlier and the murder of the art dealer. You were fussing with the horses as he checked his equipment.

“Five minutes ‘til showtime!” Tiboldt called. Clint flexed his bowstring and the bow snapped. “Ah, nuts!” He cursed and looked around, while Tidbolt called out the run list. “Anyone got a soldering iron?”

You shook your head while the other performers ignored him. “Hurry, Clint,” you said. “We’re first.”

“I’ll be quick,” he agreed and ran out the back of the tent. Eden was coming in from outside. She was wearing a bikini that would match her flesh if it wasn’t covered from neck to toe in intricate tattoos. “Eden, baby, I need a soldering iron,” he said.

“Oh, I got one, Clint,” she teased.

“You do?” He said, completely missing the teasing in his desperation to fix the bow before curtains up.

“You wanna know where I’m keeping it?” She smirked

Realization dawned on him. Of course, the woman who was basically naked didn’t have a soldering iron on her. “Oh,” he said.

“Try one of the storage chests, you big dope - the purple one, I think,” she said.

He rushed down to where the storage chests were but instead of one, there were three purple chests, each identical to the other. “Aw, man…” he whined. “Eden… three of them are purple!”

“Two minutes!” Tiboldt called.

“C’mon…” Clint muttered, opening one of the trunks. Sitting on top of the chest was the painting from the paper. It had been Tiboldt, just like he’d thought. Which meant it was probably Eden too.

His heart sunk. He didn’t know what to do. It was one thing when it was just stealing - but murder? How could he stay with the Circus knowing they were doing that?

“Ladies and Gentleman -” Tiboldt called, his voice amplified over the big top. Clint cursed again and began digging for the soldering iron in the other trunks.

He’d well and truly missed his queue when he reached you. Eden was out on the floor working her contortionist routine. “Where have you been?” You asked. “You missed your queue.”

“I’m sorry!” He said and came over close to you. “I was fixing my bow and I found a painting… one of the missing ones. They killed that art guy.”

You frowned. “Shit.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?” He asked.

You held up your hands. “I swear I didn’t, Clint. I thought about it, but I knew if they had that over me, then they’d have control of me.”

“You think Eden did?” Clint muttered.

You looked around and pulled Clint behind the horses more. He tried to see what had got you spooked and noticed Tiboldt watching you both. “I don’t know. Maybe,” you whispered. “You should ask her that.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged. “I might get us a motel room. Maybe if she’s away from the circus she’ll tell me.”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Hawkeye, Sugar. You already missed on queue, you better get this one,” Tiboldt snapped, appearing around the front of the horses.

“Yes, sir!” You said, getting on your horse.

Clint did the same and waited for his queue. You leaned over to him. “Clint, what are you gonna do if she did do it?”

Clint shrugged. “I dunno. I dunno if I can stay here. Would you come with me?”

“Where would we go?” You asked. “We ran away to the circus, what’s after that?”

“Welcome to the ring, the man who can’t miss, Hawkeye!” Tiboldt announced, interrupting Clint’s train of thought. He spurred his horse on through the curtains. Not that he was sure what he was going to do, but if he turned everyone in, there was no way that the answer could be this anymore.

You sat next to Clint by the payphone in the street. He’d done what he’d said. He’d taken Eden to a motel. They’d gotten dirty and then clean again, and while they showered he’d asked her about the murder. She denied the murder but not the theft and then got mad at him for not trusting her. Clint had gone to bed feeling sick to his stomach and the next morning he woke well before Eden, come back to the circus, and got you.

“You really gonna do this, Clint?” You asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. They killed someone. That guy has a family. Friends. They deserve some kind of closure.”

You nodded. “The circus will be done. What will we do?”

“Go on the road together,” Clint suggested. “The act won’t be quite as good without the horses and the clowns, but we could do a pretty good routine. Maybe some solo work too.”

“Maybe if you do it anonymously they won’t know it was you,” you suggested.

“Eden will know,” he said. “So will Tiboldt. This is gonna burn us. I already got my leg busted because I threatened to turn them in once.”

“I guess… make the call, and we go back and … pack our things?” You said. “If we can get as much of our stuff as we can, we won’t need to start from scratch.”

“You’re really going to come with me?” Clint asked.

“Clint,” you said softly, lowering your eyes. “I know you don’t know exactly what happened to me before I joined the circus, but when I joined, and Jacques said I needed to take those pictures - he said that he wouldn’t touch me. That it’d just be some naked pictures and that’d pay for my upkeep. I didn’t like it, but … it was like levels, you know? When someone keeps breaking your bones, and then a different person says, come here I’ll bruise you, but I won’t break your bones, you go because compared to the broken bones, the bruising feels like heaven. And you… you said you’d protect me from anyone hurting me at all. And you did. You kept Jacques away from me and you gave me a way to protect myself. And you’ve never expected anything from me. I kept expecting that one day you’d be like ‘well look what I did, now you owe me so open up those pretty legs of yours’ but you didn’t. So yeah, Clint. I’ll go with you because it’s you and me. You’ve always got my back, it’s only fair I have yours too.”

Clint looked at you and smiled sadly. “You and me,” he said and patted your thigh. “Okay. I’m gonna do this.”

// NEXT

#clint barton #clint barton x reader #hawkeye #hawkeye fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #it's you and me

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jaymax88 · 5 years ago

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How to fix a sagging headliner without removing it in less than 10 minutes.

What is a headliner?

In your vehicle like your car or track there is a headliner which involves beauty and classy mood in your car. It is covered with fabric materials that are located in the vehicle's roof to secure the framing of the roof. It adds smoothness in texture, which is also able to absorb crowd and noises. It offers you a larger and practical purpose which is really interesting! For your kind information day by day, for bad weather, your headliner’s fabric may deteriorate and also may become separated from the board. This worst condition is called sagging.

People only give their attention to their vehicle’s seat and modify them, pay a large amount to decorate them but overlook or avoid the other vehicle’s part. Among them the overlooked vehicle’s part is the headliner, generally people don’t give any attention to these parts until it gets out of their hands! But you must take care of the headliner because this is one of the most essential and useful parts inside your vehicle.

How to fix a sagging headliner without removing it in less than 10 minutes:-

A headliner is an essential part or tool because of its great advantage. It can ensure the vehicle’s securedness or protections. A headliner gets sag because of worst maintenance and constantly absorbing the heat of the sun. so it becomes damp. But there is good news because your problem has a quick solution!

1. Use the old fashioned gluing:-

For getting the best outcome you can undoubtedly use this process. If fabric gets sagged then this process will do its best. You can apply this around the headliner or the fabric.

2. Pin it down:-

This is the most fast process. You have to collect pins to sag your headliner. Here you can push the pins again when these pins will become loose or coming off.This is the most secured process. Because this method is permanent. Once you set up your headliner with pins, then you don't need to worry of losing the fixing.

3. You can use staples and hair spray:-

You can use staples and hair spray to fix your sagging headliner quickly without removing it. It is mostly an unusual process but this process is actually budget friendly and it works great. Here you need to staple the headliner to fix it on the back board. The important point is, a conventional stapler won't work perfectly or flawlessly so you can use a stapler gun. Then for headlining, you need to use hairspray to let them dry. While it would dry, you have to remove the staples.

Note:- There are also so many important guidelines about what you can do to fix a sagging headliner without removing it in less than 10 minutes. So if you still face any confusion, then please visit Best Headliner adhesive.

Final recommendations:-

Everybody should repair their headliner while it gets worse because it is the most important thing. Without a headliner, it is completely a mess or problem. So you should reform it for your own support. If you need to quickly fix your headliner and your budget is also low, then you can definitely follow these tips which are given above. These are fast and budget friendly.

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pearl-renaud-blog · 6 years ago

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--- A B O U T

“At every sunrise, I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day with a most precious delusion.”

Skeleton: The Guileless

Age: 19

Gender/Pronouns: she/her

Hometown: Gatineau, Canada

Major: Political Science and Economics

Faceclaim: Josefine Frida Pettersen

Character blurb:

Her lips are painted a soft red, and you imagine it’s stained on the rim of a coffee cup somewhere. She’s shorter than average, her camel coloured coat coming down to her knees. You smile as you watch her struggle with her luggage, seeing her flush as she accepts help from an attendant, muttering a flustered and unnecessary apology. A lock of short, white-blonde hair has unhooked from behind her ear, and her voice is high and accented. She’s looking past you, mouth pursed as she rolls up onto her toes to scan the platform as it empties. She doesn’t seem to find who she’s looking for, the crestfallen expression could break your heart. Her name is on the tip of your tongue, you know she is an Augustine student, and you remember it as something precious. Pearl. Taking care to pull her bags close to her, she waits as the next train comes and vacates. Finally, she perks up at the sight of someone at the very end of the platform, nearly bent over under the heft of a cello case. She’s hopeful again, her green eyes are bright and her smile inches upwards, her hands clutched together like a child.

Developed Head Canons:

There’s often a baby in a big family like her own. She was the accident, the unplanned, with two older sisters in their teens at her birth. With her status as the youngest, it would’ve been easy to take advantage of the perks that came with it-- but Pearl was content to simply shine. She was her mother’s favourite, and she remembers her mother the most. The woman’s life had not been kind to her. She faded with each of her pregnancies, each swollen belly leaving her hair a little grayer and her crow’s feet a little more visible, each birth leaving her a little more hollowed out until she was nothing more than a living ghost. Her father was a crooked French-Canadian; his breath was always sour with whiskey. He didn’t bother with her much, his youngest, his bird-boned girl. She doesn’t remember a cruel father, just an absent one. She does not recall a weak mother, only a soft-hearted one. Her older sisters grew up like weeds, fast and strong; but she was allowed the languid, unhurried growth of a delicate ivy vine.

Hers was a soft prologue. If Pearl’s early years could be any colour, they would be painted in broad pastel shades– gentleness curves around all her earliest memories. They mask the darkness that really haunted the entire Renaud family. When she closes her eyes, Pearl doesn’t remember half-finished bottles of Jack Daniels sitting on the kitchen counter, or her mother’s lonely tears; her memories are rose-hued, paired with calliope music and romps up and down rickety steps, harmless misadventures and wonderful discoveries. In those days, her fingers had grasped at everything, but she’d always been kept safe and protected from real danger. She’d been given the opportunity to embrace a childhood of innocence, one that her sisters were ushered out of so quickly.

Her family wasn’t that good together, but at a time, at least they’d been whole. Patrice Renaud had inherited the family business, a trucking company that had expanded across the country. Trucks bearing the Renaud name cut the distance between provinces, carrying everything and anything. It was profitable, and it took her father away from home often enough. Bernadette Renaud was a high school sweetheart, too young to know what real love was until she was two babies deep into a relationship that was empty of it. She stayed at home to raise the children.

There are ten years between Pearl and her sisters. Adeline is the eldest Renaud sister. She’s finished medical school and her residency in Vancouver is almost complete, she hopes to lead her own family practice in the next two years. They keep in touch, the odd guilty phone call exchanged between them. The middle child is Laila, she took the most after her father, inheriting his best and worst traits. She should’ve been the one closest to Pearl, but she’s the furthest away. A lost girl, and one Pearl mourns just as equally as she does her parents.

They owned a decent chunk of property, the family home backed onto the Ottawa river. The house was old, it’d been in the family for generations. The porch was rotting and sagging, her father always swore he’d get someone to repair it, year after year. It looked like it was smiling at passerbys from the street. The stairs all creaked and the windows didn’t seal properly-- you could hear the wind howling through them in January. Her mother would stuff blankets into the cracks so they could sleep warm at night, and the little wood stove in the kitchen puffed a curl of white smoke into the sky. Development on the banks of the river made the property sell for something grossly inflated, and split three ways the profits of the sale were enough to line the pockets of the remaining Renaud’s significantly. With this money and a partial scholarship, Augustine turned from a pipe dream to a reality. The house has long since been bulldozed over, and the skeleton for a condominium has been erected over its bones.

Hardly sixteen and the glass walls of her snow globe world shattered, dissolved into headlines and sensationalized media stories. They called it a drunk driving accident, but this is what it was: man, late fourties, driving a sports car painted baby-blue, a few harsh winters away from speckling with rust. It’s between two in the morning and daybreak, and he’s travelling fast eastbound. His blood is soaked with alcohol. Witnesses say the vehicle swerved for fifteen miles, weaving between the yellow lines like a needle pulling through dark fabric. His wife is seated beside him, her face is scared and pale, her right cheek brushed with faded purple and yellow. The car drifts into the other lane. It’s chased out once by blaring horns, but the second time-- impact. There are no survivors.

It wasn’t childhood that was painful, it was growing out of it. After her parents passing, Pearl couldn’t find anyone to take her in. Her sisters had their own lives. Adeline was across the country in school, and Laila was thought to be somewhere along the east coast, hard to pin down and unwilling to be found. Pearl, still underage, was sent to various estranged aunts and uncles, tossed between the scattered remains of the Renaud family. She couldn’t always find kindness when she was intruding on other’s lives. She couldn’t count on the compassion of people she didn’t really know. Acceptance to Augustine with a partial scholarship promised her a home.

She’s a different girl now. She’s still soft, but she’s not reaching out blindly anymore; there’s no one left to protect her except for herself. Life without the rose-coloured glasses is certainly a little bleaker, and facing it can be too much at times, but it’s better this way. Now, she can finally see clearly. Now, she has to apply all her hard-learned lessons. This is her downfall, and her most precious, most beautiful quality. She still believes that the world has a way to right itself, to pick up the pieces and mend. She still believes in purity, in picket fences. Her heart will still beat and break in her chest, and it will continue to bleed for the girl she once was, and for the girl she is bound to become.

She has such a delicate heart; she doesn’t wear it on her sleeve so much as she offers it up in open palms. Life has been cruel to her, and it has made her stronger, but she hasn’t allowed it to make her hard. This is Pearl’s most prevalent theme-- she loves this world, even when it makes itself difficult to love. Her hopefulness is stubborn like that; she’s a girl who chooses to see the best in people, not because she’s unaware of their capability to do harm and cause pain, but because she believes that the good always outweighs the bad. She’s so hopeful that it’s almost naive, so hopeful that there’s something beautiful about it.

More Headcanons

Her roommate is a Russian musician named Oksana. She’s absolutely terrifying, and Pearl has spent the past year and a half treading carefully as she navigates the murky waters of Oksana’s dark humour.

She’s a double major, and also doubles up on multiple clubs and activities on campus. She’s always busy with something, even in the isolation of the Alps she manages to maintain a packed calendar. Slotting in time for her friends and Peter are high on her priorities, and you can always count on her to be there, exhausted, but present.

#background #about #late is better than never!!!

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whirlybirbs · 7 years ago

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TAKE IT SLOW -- #bittercoffee

this is a stupid little smutty drabble i want you all to have as a thank you for being so patient with the next chapter of #bittercoffee.

here we have some stupid, early-relationship sexual tension culminating into something other than dry humping. consider it a little tease for the real deal, which will inevitably happen in later #bittercoffee chapters!

beware, a little smut below the cut!

“You’re distracting, you know.”

One hand is under the back of your shirt, ghosting along your spine and raising goosebumps with each tender pass. His other is occupied with his phone — he’s been trying to figure the contraption out these last few weeks and with the newest discovery of the Instagram explore page, Bucky is waist deep in cat videos and bad DIYs.

His attention is pulled from his phone and he gives a little grin, sitting up and pressing a warm kiss into the curve of your shoulder.

“It’s late, doll.”

His voice is soft.

You huff, dragging your eyes up from the scattered papers across your comforter before letting your shoulders sag. Bucky’s hands continue to scale up and down your back until you finally give in, pushing your glasses back up your nose. He smiles, tight lipped and tired.

“You’re right,” you mumble, gathering your thesis notes and your laptop before standing, “Probably won’t memorize anything at this hour anyways.”

Buck hums in agreement and flops back down into the pillows.

Bucky likes watching you. It’s not a secret — he’s obsessed with the way you tiptoe across the bedroom, the way you bend and stretch and tug your hair up. He can hardly tear his eyes away from a brief flash of your midsection or a peek of your bottom. It’s incredibly difficult when he’s so damn enamored with every part of you. He tries to hide his apparent staring behind his phone.

You turn after shutting your desk lamp off, dropping your glasses to the table, before taking a moment to admire the supersoldier currently taking up three fourths of your bed.

He’s reclined against the pillows, blue eyes following you. He really is something out of a dream — you watch his chest rise and fall with each breath, the bare skin there scattered with scars and reminders of his past. His abdomen jumps when you chew your lip.

“What?” he asks, a coy amusement heavy in his voice. He drops his phone to the bedside table with a heavy thwunk.

Your eyes dart down his thighs, boxers bunched messily there. Bucky kicks his feet a bit, tugging back the sheets.

“You done ogling?” he chides, cheeks a bit pink, “Staring is rude, you know.”

“You stare all the time,” you murmur, “Just let me admire Bucky Barnes for once.”

“There’s not much to admire,” he grudges out, rolling his eyes and scrolling on his phone again, “I have a nice set of baby blues, but they’re up here.”

He raises his brows, catching your eyes rake up from his waist. You laugh a little, tugging your hair back as you crawl into bed. You’re not embarrassed about it anymore — not really. The staring has become second nature. Mutual pining.

“You do have a nice set of baby blues,” you says, crawling over his legs and settling across his waist. You straddle his hips, hands smoothing against the rigid planes of muscles across his stomach. Bucky huffs. You grin, “You have a nice set of everything, if y’know what I mean.”

You shoot him an overly flirtatious look. He laughs — it’s genuine and throaty and bright. He smiles when he does it and you love it. You duck down, quick to kiss the smile with your own tilted lips before Bucky’s hands scale up the front of your shirt. His fingertips crawl up the skin there and you hum, enjoying the sensation of being touched. It’s enough to quiet you down and you tuck your head into the curve of his neck as his ministrations round the back to your spine.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your temple, “And smart. Kind... I’ll let you have ‘funny’, this time, too. I’m feeling generous.”

You laugh, chest quaking as you speak. “I am funny!”

“Funny lookin’.”

“Whatever you say, Grandpa.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “I’m not as bad as Steve.”

“No,” you laugh, sitting up and shaking your head, “You are so much worse!”

His face lights up, laughter shaking his shoulders. His hands fiddles with your own that’s splayed across his chest, “What, just because I didn’t know what Pinchagram was?”

“Instagram!”

“Same thing.”

“I can see the headlines now,” you muse, slipping from his hips to lay beside him, “Winter Soldier seen fumbling with iPhone.”

“Listen,” he prods at your hands in the air, “Back in the day —“

“Oh no,” you mumble, rubbing your face, “Here we go...”

Buck rolls his eyes, moving to press his weight partially on top of you in retaliation. You make a mock-pained sound, squirming slightly. He has you pinned.

“You’re a brat,” he chides, fingers tugging at your waist. You squeak, trying to get away from the pokes.

“Whatcha gunna do about it, Buck?”

There’s a moment of pause between the both of you — Bucky knows how this is going to end, but still he’s drawn in like a magnet. All it takes is one challenging look and his lips find yours in a flash, hands pushing your own above your head as you grin against his mouth. There’s nothing sweet about the kiss, it’s all lust and passion and pent-up feelings that you’ve both been battling these last few weeks.

They come in waves — you both feel a little bit like teenagers, making out at inopportune times and grinding against one another like it’s a dying wish. You were both adamant about taking it slow, and Bucky was adamant about being careful; mostly since he had no idea if he even had enough self control to keep himself together during sex.

So, you both happily settled on sloppy make-out sessions and calculated touches through jeans or leggings or whatever happened to be in the way.

But, nothing felt slow about this.

His lips meet the column of your throat and he bites a deep pink mark into the skin there. You sigh. His hips rocks against your own. The thin fabric of his boxers doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It’s sinful. You wrestle out of his hold, nails scaling his back as Bucky’s mouth dips to your jaw.

“We,” he starts, breaking from another kiss as you tug his hair, “We always do this.”

“I’m not complaining,” you sigh, stomach tensing as his hands scale the skin there. He tugs your shirt up and off without a word, mouth dipping to bite a gentle trail up your sternum. You whine.

“I... We shouldn’t,” he mumbles, large hands skimming the curve of your breast. His eyes are dark, “We shouldn’t.”

“Probably not,” you breath, head dipping back as his stubble grazes the soft skin there, “Not with Marissa home.”

“I... I won’t be able to—“

“Control yourself? Me neither.”

“And this should be special —“

“Mhm,” you mumble, nails grazing his scalp, “When the time is right —“

But his movements don’t stop, not until his hand settles between your legs and two metal digits push against the wet fabric there. You’re quick to hammer a hand over your mouth, smothering the yelp of surprise as you writhes against the sheets. Your other hand darts out, catching his wrist as Bucky grins. You urge him onwards, hips bucking against the cold metal as he laughs quietly and drags himself downwards for a kiss.

“I think I could settle with this, though.”

It’s dark and whispered into your ear before his mouth trials lower, stubble grazing the skin of your collar bone as he bites dark marks into your décolletage.

He’s never done this before.

This is so not dry humping.

You whimper against your own hand, eyes screwing shut as he sets a pace, fingers dancing against the fabric there. The touch is cool. You tighten your grip on his wrist.

Bucky smiles, peeking up at you as his mouth dances against your breast. He leaves another mark there. Your back arches. You try and work out a sentence with some sense of coherency.

It’s nearly impossible.

“I th-thought you said...”

“Forget what I said,” he whispers, other hand gripping your jaw as he kisses your cheek, “This is plenty.”

“At least let me touch you —“

You whine, chewing your lip as you try and touch him — anything would help, but his other hand catches your fingers and intertwined them with his own. Bucky grins. You swear you’ve died and gone to heaven. His fingers brush a particularly wonderful spot and you gasp, moans smothered by a languid kiss.

His stubble pricks.

“I’m feeling generous, remember?”

You come apart rather quickly after that, mouth pressed to his and hips rocking against his hand. It knocks you back, mind going a bit hazy as the white hot build of an orgasm washes over you like the break of a tsunami. Everything is Bucky -- he’s warm and strong and his stubble is really starting to tickle. Your nails dig into the muscles of his back as he watches, smug, eyes half-lidded -- you’re an angel pressed into the sheets, face hot and limbs slack.

He sits up, only to tap your hip -- a signal to move your leg -- and settle back in bed beside you.

You pull your eyes open after a moment, face flushed and brain a little mushy.

Bucky’s face soften. “You alright?”

“Better than alright,” you mumble, “I think it’s your turn --”

Bucky shoos your hand away from his hips, rolling slightly to pepper kisses across your face. “It’s late. You have class early tomorrow morning. I think it’s bed time.”

You groan, limbs heavy the post-orgasm high. “Buck...”

“I was serious when I said I was feeling generous.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm,” he hums, kissing your nose, “I sure am.”

He’s not. If anything, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

#BITTERCOFFEE TAG LIST:

@cutiefrankie @luxieluu @justalittlebitofhisheart @oh-glory@dutchnorkat@buckyb4rnacle@chuckennuggets1213@pandalandalopalis@valiantlymysticfestival @soggysouls @buckywhitewolf@radrouda @moony-you-fold-your-socks @kitty-and-bats-0 @rulesbyproblematique @allltheships@im-not-insane-im-a-fangirl@louieisbae42 @itshinothey @simplystarsinthesky@model-howell @marveltotheendoftheline @moroiboy @ghost-with-spaghetti-arms@swimmeranxiety@sigynwrites @shadowhunters-warlock @magic-from-the-ordinary@josiehosiedaninja @smarvills@rollcalls@simplyonehellofapilot@marassberry@shrekssunflowers@myboyfriendgiriboy@dameronstars@avengedhearts@commanderrpoe @roadtripsonspaceships@whyisbuckyso@meme-lord-and-savior-sebastian @bulletproofseb @boyzines@nataliarxmanxva@alexblrus@henrietteoaks@omg-imagines-for-days @iamgabby22 @silence–in–the–library@sebashtiansatan@fangeekkk @llianniall @mymourningtea @artemis521 @anise-d-castle6@sighodinson@mischievousweasleys @potterglory @poedamn-ron @seltsamkind @odysseys-and-oddities@happily-beinghappy @listeningtothewalls @im-sebastianstan@daytripper45@crispychrisevans@paintedkylo @superxbarnes @swimmeranxiety @capkitkat@vechkinfan@paleflames @dxrkrxse@daybreakseventeen @buckys-plumbs @chook007 @alisible@part-time-patronus @alex-hamiltonian @sebstanwassup @steemy @sebby89@mymourningtea@poopybadwi @inconvenientvoid @dianedancer18 @radrouda @breathlessgirl1991@lamia-maizat@kileybird @laurafloradora @ranialih @mashtons-dirtbag @justasoutherngirly @as-long-as-theres-light @russian-empress @jennifersier @saltiestdemon @mllx-anazra@picturethisfantasy@snipsnapyappap @wh1sk3ypr1nc3ss @alisible @chipilerendi@battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @daybreakseventeen @faunacea @bookgirlunicorn @bleulady01@rollcalls @disgustingpatdstan @superxbarnes @vaguelyminty @killerfirewolf @lazyhistorian@sarasxe @im-sebastianstan @queendade

#bittercoffee #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #winter soldier imagine

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 6 years ago

Text

Lena and the Winchesters, Part 3

Over the next six months, they continue to monitor the headlines that soon spread from California to the national news circuit. National City becomes ground zero for a series of Super vs Luthor face offs. It all remains distant, though. The three of them don't have any any ties to the city, and give it a wide berth whenever they wander back to the West Coast.

"That'd be one hell of a cat fight!" Dean remarks, and it's about as much thought as any of them give the conflict.

Their lives are wrapped in much smaller, more harrowing tasks. Lucy's gift of seeing things for what they extends well past small-town ghouls. Vampires, skinwalkers, shtrigas-- anything with the ability to hide among humans can't hide from her.

Lucy proves a voracious reader, consuming everything they have on hand about the things they hunt, plus any reference she can pull from from the libraries they visit. Her mind works like a steel trap, and each new fact she learns takes her fear away, until she as learned--and brazen-- as the brothers who took her in.

Dean prays to Cas what they learn about Lucy. It starts with her uncanny gifts, and progresses through the oddities that slowly emerge the more she experiences the world.

Like the fact she's a wizard at making weapons-- especially improvised explosives. Or her pickpocket skills, which match her ability to hustle pool better than even Dean (a fact he attributes to her other, unlearnable assets). She prefers whiskey to beer and likes scotch over both.

Lucy also knows code, which is the final straw for Sam.

"She's gotta have another life out there, Dean," he says one night while Lucy is busy playing darts with a young woman in a stetson. "A ghoul or a shell wouldn't be created with knowledge about computer code! It just isn't-- I don't think she was created from nothing. That cult abducted her, did god knows what, and somehow erased her memory."

"O-kay," Dean returns.

"She could have people looking for her! People who care about her, who are probably worried sick!"

"And what do you expect me to do about it Sam? We don't exactly have much to go on with Cas in silent mode!"

Sam takes a deep breath, and leans his arms against the table between them. "All I'm saying is that maybe we should devote a little more time to figuring out WHO she is, rather than what."

Dean doesn't know what to say. He glances towards Lucy and catches her eye just as her darts competition tilts her head and whispers something low and smooth in her ear. Lucy throws her head back in a sudden laugh, breaking eye contact with Dean to then pull the girl even closer, close enough for the stranger's hand to slip into her back pocket and stay there, as casually as if it belongs there.

He can't deny that whatever Cas says, Lucy isn't a shell. Life spills from her with every smile, every crinkle of her eyebrow when she runs into something new. She's not empty at all.

But reluctance tugs at his heart as Sam's words roll across his brain. He doesn't want to look for who Lucy was. If they do, then sooner or later they'd find something. And when they find something... Lucy will go back to being who she should be. Lucy will leave them behind, and Dean is a selfish son of a bitch.

He doesn't want to lose this strange, surprising woman who's become a part of their lives.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," he says, before taking a long swig of his beer. "Why not."

The conversation niggles at the back of his mind for days, before he finally goes to Lucy. He explains Sam's theory, and waits for her response.

It's a long, long beat before she speaks.

"What if... I don't want to?"

"You don't want to what? You don't want to look?"

Lucy shrugs.

"Why not?"

"You and Sam... you help people. A lot of people. And as long as I'm with you I get to be a part of that. Doing good. Whoever I used to be... that person might not be a good person."

Dean can't help the laugh that pops out of him. "That's what you're worried about?"

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not, I'm not," he immediately surrenders under her sharp glare. "I swear."

Lucy softens then, and a shadow seems to settle over her, darkening her gaze, and in that moment Dean realizes that this isn't the first she's thought about it.

"Look, Luce..."

Green eyes lift to meet his, heavy and uncertain.

"Not that long ago, you put yourself between us and a monster."

"He was only a kid, Dean." It's the closest they'd come to falling out. The only thing that had kept Dean from shooting the kid anyway was the pastor who'd stood at Lucy's shoulder, and promised to ensure the child would never harm a human. "He hadn't done anything wrong."

"Not yet," Dean returns. Even now, deep in his bones, he knows that if the kid survived long enough to reach maturity, it'd be back on their radar.

Some ganks just don't change their stripes.

"My point is-- someone who does that isn't a bad person. In any life. Just like that kid has violence and bloodlust in his genes, you have something good in you. No memory will change that."

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Dean gives her an affectionate shake.

"If you don't want to look, that's fine. Whatever. But don't let that be the thing that stops you."

Lucy goes missing a week later, before they even know there's a thing to hunt. Sam and Dean leave for take out, and come back to a ransacked motel room. Nothing is missing but Lucy, and in her place they find half a dozen spent rounds and an alarming amount of blood.

They find her thirteen days later, chained by one wrist to a wall deep in the sewers.

"Luce? Lucy!" Dean pats her cheek, hard, desperate to find signs of life beyond the thundering of his own heart. "Come on!"

"Dean...?"

She can barely open her eyes, but his name slips thick and slurred from bloodstained lips. More blood oozes from the claw marks that rake her from shoulder to sternum, and another, deeper laceration rips the length of her thigh open. The cement under her is dark with her blood, and in the shine of their flashlights her skin is sallow and dull.

"It's us, Luce. We've got you."

"There were other girls," she mumbles, struggling to hold her head up. Only then does Dean notice the empty manacles lining the room. More than a dozen. "I'm the last. I think..."

She doesn't finish, and Dean taps her back awake. "Come on, stay with me, okay? We're gonna get you out of here."

Sam works furiously on the lock holding her prisoner, but it's too dark and their lack of knowledge on whatever took her presses against their spines, urging them to move faster.

"I think... he ate them."

"Who ate them?" Sam asks, jiggling the pick to dislodge it. It doesn't work. "What is it?"

"Won't believe it if I tol' you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake Sammy, get back!" Dean stands and fires twice at the chain link that connected to the eyebolt anchor. The rusted metal cracks, and then shatters when Dean gives it a frenzied yank. Lucy struggles to stand with their help, only to lose consciousness as soon as she's upright.

"Shit," Dean curses as he catches her. He tosses his weapon to Sam and scoops Lucy into his arms, pulling the trailing chain into her lap so it won't trip them up.

Sam takes in the blood Lucy's leaving behind, and meets Dean's gaze with fear in his eyes. "She's lost a lot of blood."

"No shit," Dean snaps. "Let's get the hell out of here."

A door behind them slams open before they can hit the next corridor.

"THAT'S MINE!" a voice roars, before something big and solid slams into them from behind. Lucy and both guns go flying as Sam and Dean sprawl across the damp concrete floor, pinned by a single hand to each of their chests.

The man connected to both fists is diminutive, and doesn't look capable of squeezing the breath out of them, but their wheezing confirms there's something more to him than meets the eye.

"Thieves!" the guy hisses, spraying foul-smelling saliva across both of them. "You'll pay for trying to steal from me."

"Steal?" Dean gasps. "No, no, no, we were just borrowing--URK." A hand clamps around his throat.

"You talk too much." The man leans in close, sniffing deeply. Then he grins, and leans in close enough for Dean to spot the bits of meat still stuck between its teeth. "You have its scent on you. A protector, perhaps... I'll enjoy eating you too."

"Hey, asshole."

Lucy fires her pistol from where she landed. Barely able lift the gun clutched tightly in both hands, her shots go wide, but the pressure on Dean's chest disappears. He heaves for breath, the rolls and paws his way over to Lucy while Sam goes for the second gun.

"Good job---"

A deafening, bellowing roar cuts him off, reverberating off the walls and rattling their skulls.

"Time t'go," Lucy and Dean tell each other. Dean once again reaches for her, prompting another bellow of rage.

"MINE!!"

With the sound of crunching bone and cartilage, the man's shape starts to shift, distorting into something larger, longer, and much, much scalier.

"Is that a...?"

"Tol' you," Lucy mumbles, slumping against the floor.

The next roar comes with heat and flame as the man-turned-dragon comes barrelling towards them on all fours, wings scraping against the rusty pipes over head and sending metal shard flying in every direction.

Its tail catches Dean across the chest, flinging him into Sam and sending them both to the ground. Lucy blindly reaches around her for a gun, a weapon, anything, and comes up with nothing but a piece of pipe. With the beast bearing down, she has no time to do anything but angle the sharpest end up and brace for impact.

"LUCE!!"

Dean's shout gets lost in a cacophony of shrieking metal and agonized wails. But then an eerie silence fills the air around them. No snapping bones, no rending flesh-- just a jagged sigh that trails to nothing.

"Dean..." Sam prods him, but Dean can't move. Every muscle locks tight, waiting for the worst to be confirmed. He only forces himself to look when Sam yanks him to his feet. "DEAN!"

The dragon sags upright against the pipe impaled through its chest, dead. The force of its attack had shoved the base of the pipe against the stone floor, gouging a deep furrow in the concrete, but Lucy's hands were still wrapped loosely around the base. She lay as lifeless as her assailant, and just as bloody.

"Lucy!" Dean slides to his knees next to her, searching for a pulse. When he can't find one, he sticks his palm under her nose, and almost jumps when he feels the faint puff of breath. "She's alive!"

"Dean, we gotta move! Now!"

Dean scoops Lucy up just as the carcass above her starts to smoke. In seconds, it's consumed by flame, reducing it to little more than a puddle of noxious, black ooze.

Sam snaps a picture with his phone, then shoves Dean towards the exit. "She needs a hospital, now!"

They book it out of the sewers and back to the Impala. Dean loads Lucy into the backseat with him, holding her close as Sam peels towards the nearest hospital. His heart pounds in his ears, chest tightening with every second that passes.

He starts humming Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, and doesn't stop.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Interlude, Part 6a, Part 6b

#i wrote dis #lena and the winchesters #lena luthor #dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural #supergirl #here be dragons #whump #peril #let the existential crisis begin #written and posted entirely from mobile

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haikujitsu · 7 years ago

Note

What's going to happen to Vlad? Surely Danny is going to get suspicious of his mysterious disappearance. I feel like this is a possible bomb shell that could wrench the family even further apart if he ever discovered that Vlad was being imprisoned inside a thermos. AHhhhhlhl! He just got comfortable too! I can't

Danny finds out, of course. Neither of them were really planning on hiding it from him, but there just never seemed to be a good time.

Jack lets Vlad out for a meal when he thinks no one is around and discovers that Vlad’s condition has seriously degraded– he reverts to human, but can no longer speak or stand. Jack doesn’t have time to do much more than open the containment field before Danny walks in.

It only takes a few rapid-fire questions to discover what happened. Danny doesn’t bother asking permission. He flies Vlad to the nearest hospital and drops him in a bed at the ER. Then he storms off to Shannon’s and refuses to speak to either of his parents.

Imprisoning Vlad–for months–when Maddie knew that containment felt like slow torture to a halfa went against everything his parents had said they’d changed about their ghost hunting. Danny doesn’t realize how much that matters to him until it’s suddenly violated. He’s furious and hurt and even though it’s Vlad, he feels betrayed.

Vlad, meanwhile, is making national headlines as lawyers scramble to recover his estate and police try to puzzle out how a millionaire vanished from his luxury apartment and then randomly reappeared in a hospital months later. It’s eventually pinned on ‘unspecified ectoactivity’ and the Masters representatives are pointed in the direction of the GIW… which they quietly ignore. The GIW, which is in its death throes at this point, barely notices.

Vlad will spend the next year relearning how to walk, talk, speak and eat. He can’t communicate to express what he’s been through, but anyone who looks in his eyes can see the unbridled rage simmering under his sagging features.

It takes weeks to sort out the mess between Danny and his parents. Valerie, surprisingly, finds herself advocating for Maddie. She of all people knows just how dangerous Vlad can be.

Eventually Danny agrees to go back and talk things out with their joint therapist mediating. Mending this probably takes some vulnerability from Maddie that she’s not used to having with her children– a detailed description of that creepy fantasy-fulfillment dinner that Vlad had arranged, his cold-blooded attempt to murder Jack. Danny has to understand that Vlad was committed to acting on his threats this time.

In the end he gets it, but it’s hard to let it go. Rebuilding takes time. It doesn’t ruin things forever, but it’s certainly a big step back.

#soad ama #soad asks #in short it's a whole thing #which is why I didn't try to tackle it in SoaD #anon

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thatbluegibson · 7 years ago

Text

CH 11

“Hold the pin straight,” Liz called from underneath the sidecar.

Dave did as he was told, peering down at her through the mounting bracket. “This isn’t going to fall on you, is it?” he asked, watching her loosen the last bolt. Her dark hair fanned around her as she wrenched on the bike.

“The legs are down, dummy,” Liz teased. She finished removing the last bolt and looked up at Dave. “K, pull the pin.”

He pulled the lynch pin away from the bracket and winced as the side car lurched down towards Liz’s face. The heavy metal barrel dropped a half an inch before it’s steel legs steadied it. Dave let out a long breath and a wide smile spread across Liz’s face before she burst into giggles.

“Get up, fucker,” Dave laughed, pulling himself off the concrete.

Liz slid out from under the side car and hopped up. She pulled her leather jacket out of side car and slipped it on while Dave started his bike. She jumped at the roar from the Harley Deuce, spinning around towards the bike with wide eyes. Dave threw his head back in laughter, but Liz couldn’t hear him over the rumble of his bike echoing off the parking garage walls. She quickly hopped onto her Ural, now free of its side car and fired it up. She nodded at Dave when she was ready and they took off down the garage ramp.

They rode easily through the city, avoiding traffic due to the early hour. Dave led her onto the 101 headed north and eventually onto I5. Liz felt her mood improve the further they rode from LA. The cool air felt amazing against her skin and the sunrise was turning the sky to the east a vivid pink as they passed Glendale and Griffith Park before exiting the freeway in San Fernando. Dave pulled into a tiny parking lot next to an equally tiny mid-century style building.

“Sorry about the distance. This is the best time of day to ride and I get carried away,” Dave admitted, taking his helmet off.

“I don’t mind at all,” Liz said as they walked towards the building. “Feels good to finally get miles on that bike.”

Bells hanging from the door handle jingled as Dave pushed it open for Liz, causing the old men sitting at the bar to look up, but immediately return to their coffee and newspapers.

“This is the only place to get breakfast in Southern Ca-,” Dave explained, but was interrupted by a shrieking noise from the kitchen. A short older woman burst from behind a double hinged door and ran down the tiled walkway behind the counter towards them. Liz took a few steps backwards out of her way as the woman crashed into Dave, wrapping her arms around his waist. He staggered a bit and handed his helmet to Liz once he regained his balance. The woman was excitedly speaking in mixed English, but was holding Dave so tightly that his shirt muffled her words. Liz held back a laugh as he tried to untangle himself from the woman.

“Hi Gloria, I know-,” he tried to interject, but she was too excited.

“And now a-nother Grammy, David?” she cried. “What else is there left for you, young man? You work too hard, too much, so much that you can’t stay marri-“ she suddenly stopped when she noticed Liz and looked up at Dave. She slowly released him and stepped back, pushing her hair into place and adjusting her crisp white apron. Turning to face Liz, she crossed her arms and slowly inspected every inch of the girl Dave had with him. Liz felt her face getting hot under Gloria’s intense stare. “And who is this?” she asked sharply, never taking her eyes of Liz.

Dave stepped around Gloria and next to Liz, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Gloria, this is Liz. She’s a friend.” He over enunciated the last word to drive his point home.

Gloria stared for a moment more before her face broke into a wide smile. “Your spot is open, David!” she said, happily throwing her hands in the air and returned to the bar.

Dave sat a stunned Liz at the counter and took the seat next to her.

“Come here often?” Liz teased once he had settled.

Dave laughed, “You could say that.” He pulled a laminated menu from behind the counter and handed it to her.

She looked it over before deciding on an omelet and slid the menu over for Dave to look at, but he immediately put it back behind the counter.

“Same thing every time, huh?” she asked, thinking of her dad who did the same at his own favorite joint.

Dave shrugged, looking a little guilty.

“My dad-,” Liz paused a moment wondering if she should even bring her parents up, “is the same way. Eggs over easy, two strips of bacon, toast and three pancakes. Every time.” She watched as Dave’s eyes widened a bit and immediately regretting bringing it up.

“Your dad has excellent taste in breakfast foods,” Dave finally replied as Gloria returned with two cups of black coffee.

“What to eat?” she asked Liz, leaning on the counter in front of her.

Liz gave her simple order and turned to Dave expecting him to order as well, but Gloria just smiled and disappeared into the back. “Are you not eating?” Liz asked, confused.

“Same thing, every time,” he replied, picking up his coffee.

They sat quietly drinking their coffee for a moment before Liz spoke up. “So do you live around here? Or do you make the epic journey just for the same breakfast, every time?”

Dave set his cup down and shifted so he was facing her. “Just up on that hill,” he pointed out the large window behind her to a swath of large homes covering a desert hillside.

“And you longingly stare out your window at this place, waiting for the open sign to light up?” she laughed and took a sip of her coffee.

“No, I have a telescope and an alarm clock. It’s much more scientific that way,” he shot back. “We have a studio right around the corner. I come here to write in peace most of the time,” he added looking down at his hands.

Liz glanced around the restaurant at the red vinyl booths wondering which songs he had written there when Gloria appeared from the back with plates stacked all the way up her arms, gracefully setting them down on the counter in front of them. She turned to grab the pot of black coffee and as she refilled their mugs she gasped, “Oh linda, I’m sorry! I didn’t bring you any sugar!”

Liz shook her head. “Black coffee is best,” she said with a smile.

Gloria’s eyes darted to Dave. “Tu alma gemela,” she mumbled before refilling the other coffees at the counter.

Liz didn’t realize how hungry she was until she saw all the food set out in front of her. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said as she picked up her fork. “I would have been stuck with shitty Starbucks and a bagel if it weren’t for-“ Liz stopped short when she looked at Dave’s plate.

Eggs over easy, two strips of bacon, toast and three pancakes. “It’s a really common breakfast combination,” Dave offered, sheepishly poking the eggs with his fork.

“You are such a dad,” Liz giggled, turning to her own plate.

They chatted a little while they ate, Dave recalling how nervous he was when he first met Paul. “I thought I was going to throw up when he shook my hand,” he laughed.

Liz smiled and spotted some framed newspaper articles on the wall beside Dave. Rocker Donates to Save Local Boy the top one read in a thick, bold headline. Just below was a color photo of a younger Dave with short hair and a goofy grin, his arms around Gloria and a small boy about six. Liz slowly lowered her fork and stood up to get a closer look while Dave sat in uncomfortable silence as she read the article. When she finished she slowly turned around to face him. “How’s he doing now?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Dave shrugged. “He’s in college, doing fine,” he muttered and took another bite of his food.

Liz kept her eyes on him as she walked back to her seat, staring at him long enough that he set his fork back down and turned to her with a frustrated sigh.

“Look, they give me far too much money for fucking around with a drum kit. You know how much I get a month just in Nirvana royalties?” Liz took a breath to answer, but Dave went on. “Too. Fucking. Much. No one needs that kind of money. What am I going to do? Build a massive safe like Scrooge McDuck? You can’t swim in coins, Liz. That’s just physics.” He spun back around and snatched his coffee from the counter.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she said laughed quietly. “When I got that first Disney check, I paid off my student loans, bought the things I’ve always wanted, I secured my kid’s future, maybe not in that order, but I still had money left over. Why should we get to keep all the money when there are people that need it more than us?”

Dave nodded and held his hand out in agreement while finishing his coffee.

“Definitely explains your warm welcome here, though,” she added.

Dave laughed into his cup. “She’s my second mom,” he nodded his head towards Gloria, who was at the other end of the counter taking orders. “She tutors my daughters, too.” He nodded when Liz looked surprised. “Algebra, Geometry, Spanish and… uh…” he snapped his fingers trying to remember when Gloria walked by with an arm full of dirty plates.

“Trigonometry,” she mumbled, kicking the door to the kitchen open.

Dave snapped his fingers again and pointed at the flapping door. “That’s it! I’m clearly the high school drop out here.”

Liz smiled and shook her head, setting her empty coffee cup on the counter.

“Ready?” he asked and reached for their helmets.

“Yup,” Liz reached into her jacket pocket for her wallet when Dave snatched it out of her hands. “Hey!”

She swung for it, but Dave leaned too far out of the way. He opened the ball clasp and looked inside, laughing a little and pulling her ID from it’s pocket.

“Look at this picture!” he giggled as Liz tried one more time to grab it out of his hands. “You were blonde?”

“In my twenties. I just keep renewing my license by mail so I don’t have an updated picture,” Liz shrugged.

“Wait,” Dave flipped the card over a couple times in confusion. “Your name isn’t Liz?”

“Uh… no? Well, kinda” she laughed. “Stage name turned legal name thanks to the ‘No Duplicate Names’ SAG rule. Believe me, my mother is heartbroken over it.”

“So what’s your real name?” Dave asked, looking closer at the ID. “This just says Official Name Change To, then Elizabeth N Colbert. N…,” he said thoughtfully, “Is it Nancy?”

Liz laughed and made a face, “No, that’s actually my mom’s name.”

“C’mon,” Dave feigned a whine and looked back in the wallet.

“Nope!” Liz grinned and folded her hands in her lap.

Dave pouted a bit while slipping her ID back into its windowed pocket. He noticed all the other cards she had stuffed in her wallet and shot her a side smile. “I bet you didn’t change everything,” he teased.

Liz’s mind raced for a moment, trying to think of what she might have with her real name. “You can look!” she offered and smugly settled back with her arms crossed.

Dave began pulling out each of her cards and reading them before sliding them back in their pockets. Bank cards, health insurance, car insurance, coffee cards, studio access cards, laminate passes, elementary school volunteer badge… everything said Liz Colbert.

“God damnit,” Dave whispered, now pawing through back pockets and zipper pouches.

“I told you!” Liz laughed and stood up, reaching over his shoulder to pull a $100 bill from the wallet.

“Are you trying to get me killed?” Dave whispered harshly, snatching the bill out of her hand and stuffed it back in her wallet just as Gloria stepped up to the counter.

“So soon?” Gloria asked, gathering their plates.

“We’re on the bikes so we should try and beat the traffic,” he said, calmly pulling a $100 out of his own wallet and setting it on the counter. He smiled at Liz, who was glaring at him for paying.

Gloria looked between Dave and Liz for a moment. “You make that pretty girl ride on the back of that death machine?”

“I have my own death machine,” Liz replied cheerfully.

“Oh no,” she heard Dave whisper and hang his head.

Gloria narrowed her eyes at Liz and set the plates back down. “You’ll ruin your ovaries parading around on one of those… those… those… crotch rockets!” she scolded. Liz stifled a laugh, but nodded earnestly. “And you’re a young woman,” Gloria went on, “Several more years before you dry up and let me tell you, this boy,” she pointed a sharp, red fingernail at Dave, “needs a boy. He’s got three sweet little girls, but-“

Dave spun around in his chair and stood up. “Okay bye, Gloria!” he said loudly. He quickly grabbed their helmets and grabbed Liz’s hand, pulling her towards the door, but Gloria wasn’t missing a beat. She followed them on the other side of the counter, still scolding over the tops of the other customer’s heads.

“… he’s a good man and needs more babies! Just look at your hips!” she cried causing all the men sitting at the counter to turn and look at Liz’s ass. “Perfect birthing hips. They wouldn’t dare threaten a cesarean with hips like that!”

Dave desperately tried to speak over her to keep their humiliation at a low, “Right. Yes, Gloria. Okay. See you later!”

The last thing Liz heard when the door closed behind them was the best position to conceive a boy in. Dave walked as fast as he could towards the bikes, waving at Liz to hurry up, but as soon as Liz reached the bikes, she burst out laughing so hard that she had to lean on her bike to steady herself. Dave looked at her in surprise, he was sure she would be humiliated by Gloria’s little tirade. Finally Liz was able to take a breath.

“Can I just say,” she giggled, “that I’ve had two boys; one via c-section and that is not how they were conceived.”

Dave smiled and shook his head at her contagious laugh before handing her helmet over. “Hurry up before she comes out to finish her argument.”

#dave grohl fanfiction #dave grohl fanfic #dave grohl #thatbluegibson

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marksautotrim · 3 years ago

Text

Car headliner installation and repair service in Oshawa

The car headliner is an interior lining on the vehicle's roof to cover the hard material. It is produced using various materials, like polyurethane. The car headliner likewise has a little foam which is covered with vinyl, leather or fabric. It is one part of the vehicle that keeps the vehicle temperature under control and increases the beauty of the car interior. Car headliners are useful both in the summer and winter seasons. It is quiet expensive as it is made up of multi-layered materials. Foam, headliner cover, and hardback are attached to the headliner utilizing glue and adhesives.

Car headliner has many benefits to car owners like it helps reduce the sound from the outside and keeps the sound inside from moving out. The car headliner absorbs the sound. Furthermore, car headliner likewise help with suspending gadgets on the roof, for example, dome lights, Bluetooth microphones, little fans, and so forth. But over time, car headliner will eventually get saggy due to various factors and need a proper installation or repair according to the degree of damage of the car headliner.

Car owners normally don't give a lot of care to the fabric under the headliner of their car. The headliner of a car begins wearing because of excessive heat from the roof and other different reasons. There is glue that keeps fabric stuck to the board under. When the glue starts melting because of excessive heat from the headliner begins sagging, and the damage spreads slowly to all the headliner areas. If the fabric sags from corners or edges, you can utilize many tips to fix the car headliner. However, if the damage spreads to a bigger area, you need professional help to repair or simply install a new headliner.

On the off chance that the sag on the headliner isn't too much or beyond repair, it is recommended that you consider repairing car headliner than installing a brand new headliner for your car. If the headliner is beyond repair, asking a professional help to install a new one can be a good idea. Here are some benefits of car headliner installation and repair service-:

Time-effective process

Getting your car headliner install or replace yourself is a time consuming process; it may take up to 2 work days to repair or install the headliner yourself; however, repairing it with the help of car headliner installation and repair service will get it ready within a few hours. The service will utilize a couple of tools and equipment to repair the sagginess of the headliner. They will utilize the double tape, glue or pins to attach the fabric back to the rooftop. They will remove the headliner fabric from the roof, place the paste on the roof and a little on the material, and afterward put it back on the roof easily.

They will ensure to press against the roof lining cloth and clean out any air bubbles to guarantee that the fabric is safely glued against the car headliner. They could utilize pins to put the cloth back to the headliner, which only takes couple of minutes to complete.

The utilization of double tape is also done by them as it is not difficult to fix small damages on the car headliner. You might not have any desire to make any further damage; accordingly, they will be cautious while putting the tape on the fabric and sticking it on the roof. The tape the professional service uses is of good quality so that it will lasts for a very long period of time. With their skills, the professional will repair the car headliner in no time.

Warranty

You may have probably done insurance for your car but they don’t cover any installation and repair cost to the car headliner if it is damaged normally. Therefore it will cost you a lot of money to get the replacement on the car headliner. So, it is obviously better to install a new car headliner from car headliner installation and repair service as they will give you warranty of their service. So if your headliner gets damaged naturally after their service, they will repair it at no cost and if it gets damage due to accident they will repair it at cheap cost.

Product quality

If the car headliner is beyond repair, you need to purchase a new headliner. You may or may not be familiar with the quality or variety of headliner fabric available in the store. But, car headliner installation and repair service know about the top quality of products available and can offer you top services. You can ask them the best quality headliner on your car. So, hiring professionals can help you get the best quality of products for your vehicle.

Tools and equipment

Many tools are needed for installing and repairing a car headliner. You can repair the headliner that is damaged little utilizing pins or paste. However, to take out the whole headliner of your car to repair it or replacing it with new headliner, you need special tools that are not accessible in homes. Professional has every one of the tools needed to install or repair the headliner of any vehicle. Repairing headliner with the right tools likewise guarantee that it won't damage soon and you won't have to fix it sooner. Experts utilize the right tools; that is why they offer a warranty for their services.

These are a few reasons and advantages for which you should consider hiring car headliner installation and repair service for fixing car headliner. Experience and skills matter for every work and the same is true for the installation and repair of a car headliner. Besides, the professional offers you a warranty of their service that guarantees that you don't have to repair your headliner for quite a long time in the future. Also, you can hire car headliner installation and repair service without any worries.

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sceawere · 8 years ago

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rsvps | alfie solomons

anon wanted the shelby boys being little shits about reader marrying alfie and alfie dealing with it

“I’m home! S’only me – eh, I thought we cou-“

He heard you shriek and then there was a crash against the door. Alfie had to throw himself back to avoid smashing his face into the wood.

“Fucking hell, love. You nearly took it clean off!”

“Sorry, but you can’t come in”

“Why not?”

“I’m in my dress!”

“What about your dress?”

“My wedding dress!”

“What the hell you doing in that?”

“I couldn’t got to the shop for the fitting, so they brought it here. I’m in my dress, you can’t come in”

“Why couldn’t you go the shop?”

“Because you decided to go to war with the people whose neighbourhood it’s in! Kind of puts a dampener on my options for caterers when you keep fighting with people who make really nice cakes, Alfie. Ada, can you go out and talk to him, please. I can’t do this like this”

He heard you bickering, thought it was muffled through the door. He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets and leant against the frame, waiting.

The door peeked open a little and he popped his head forward to see Ada.

“Hiya, Ade”

“Alright, Alf? Listen, she told me to ask you to piss off for a bit. We’re nearly done, and there’s cake in the kitchen for you. Is that alright, love?”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, listen,” he whispered as she started to retreat and reached out to nudge her hand “she alright?”

“She’s…” Ada sighed, looking over her shoulder and then back “struggling I think. Wedding to plan, business shit still going on, we’re having trouble with the boys. Take your pick”

“What’s happening with the boys?”

“Sorry, have you met our brothers!?”

“Oh, they’re not causing trouble?”

“I’ve had a word, don’t think it did much. Tommy’s so hard-headed you could use him to take down a wall”

“I might have to just try that, actually”

“Don’t kick off, it’ll only cause more trouble”

“What they bothering her about anyway?”

“Marrying you”

“Well that’s just…they couldn’t even get creative?”

“Alfie, they’re talking about not coming”

“What?”

“They’re threatening to not come to the wedding”

“They’re fucking what!?”

He heard your squeak from inside the room.

“Alfie! We’ve got company! I’m sorry ladies, my fiancé often forgets himself”

“My apologies ladies! Heard about these flowers she’s ordered, got myself all excited. I love a good Aster, I do” He shouted through the wood, leaning down to carry on his whispered conversation with Ada who by now had a furrowed brow and a squint.

“I’m going to rip out their throats and use ‘em for bow ties”

“Oh, no, Alfie. Too much”

“Not nearly enough”

“If you do that, I think maybe your bride might be miffed, to say the least”

“She’d get over it. I’d bring her a puppy, she loves puppies”

“You like puppies”

“Everyone likes puppies”

“They also like not having their brothers murdered”

“I don’t know, I thi-“

“Alfie.”

He sighed, setting his jaw. He felt his nose flare as he tried to contain himself.

“Fine. I’ll be civil”

Alfie was sat reading his newspaper at the table, waiting for breakfast when the door slammed open and there was a commotion in the hall. His hand dropped to the edge of the table, ready to pull out the gun strapped to the underside, until he heard it was Tommy his guards were struggling with.

“Let him in, let him in. Been expecting him anyway”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Morning, Thomas. Would you like a brew? Rose is just putting a pot on for us”

“You burnt down my warehouse?”

“How d’ya know it was me? Eh? Could have been anyone. Could have been kids, playing where they shouldn’t have been. Shouldn’t leave flammables unattended, it’s a hazard. Oh look, here they are. Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-bloody-dum”

Arthur and John made their way down the steps into the kitchen, staring him down with scowls. Alfie flicked the paper so the edges uncurled from where they’d began to sag and looked back down.

“You deny it?”

“No, I don’t bloody deny it. Burnt the place down, I did. Myself, actually. Didn’t even use a guy this time. Had the pleasure myself”

“What the hell are you-“

“Not nice having your plans ruined is it, Thomas? Not nice. Not when you’ve put all that work into it. Had everything ready and perfect, din’t ya? Yeah…look at you. Can see you’re put out but it, thinking about all the sorting and dealing that had to go into getting that place perfect for what you needed it for and then I walk in with barely a barrel of petrol and a spark and boom. All that work, ruined”

“What exactly are you trying to achieve here?”

“A lesson, Thomas. It’s a lesson,” he folded the paper and slammed it to the table “I tell you what, the women in your family, they get all the brains don’t they? Barely a scrap left between you and your brothers, it’s pitiful, mostly. Funny, as well, but-“

“Alfie”

“You’re coming to the wedding. All of you. You’re going to sit there and smile like someone trained you if you have to. I’ll bloody glue masks to your faces if you can’t quite manage it yourself. Maybe pin your cheeks up, what d’ya think? Been a while since I’ve got handy with a face and a nail but I’m sure it’s like riding a bike. Skill you never lose”

“I’m not happy about any of this, Tommy”

“I don’t give a bloody monkeys, Arthur. You’ll do what you’re told. Your sister deserves better. Look at the lot of you. Selfish bastards, unbelievable. We all have to make sacrifices for the people we love, yeah?”

“What sacrifices have you made?”

“I wore…a homemade jumper. At Christmas. I’m not quite sure if you recall that. I do. I remember every bloody detail. Now I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate on the many, many reasons that was out of the ordinary course of things for me, do I boys? No. But I did it. Because it made your sister smile for a bloody week. And some other things that I can’t speak off, given present company. I’m sure you can fill those in using your own tiny minds”

John sneered and started pacing down the side of the room.

“Finn’s coming, ain’t he? He sent us his invite back, bringing his girl he is. Gonna be lovely, seeing them all done up together. We’re looking forward to it. So, if your brother, barely out a short pants, can find it within himself to grow the fuck up for the sake of family – why can’t all of you?”

“We-“

“That was rhetorical, Arthur. You can get your girl to explain that to you, I’m sure. Another lovely woman with a brain finding her way in with you lummoxes. I don’t usually miss much, but I’m continuingly baffled by this. How does it keep happening? Is it some magical, mystical nonsense, eh?”

“Is that all? The wedding?”

“Is that all? Is that fucking all? Your sister’s tearing herself apart trying to make this wedding a bloody sight and you’re pratting about like a-”

“You threatened everything to get me to sign an RSVP? You’re losing yourself, Alfie”

Alfie stood, squaring up to Tommy.

“No, Tommy. I’m getting married. Makes you think about shit. Makes you wise the fuck up and think about your priorities. And I don’t give a flying fuck about pandering to your immature little grievances anymore, ‘specially not when it puts my very-soon-to-be-wife’s health and happiness at risk. So sort your fucking shit out and buy a damn suit. Your insurance’ll pay out and we’ll all move on by the time the cake’s served, how about that?”

“We’re doing deep blue”

All the men turned around to where you were stood in the doorway in your bedclothes still. Rose walked over, handing you a cup of tea and you gave her a half wink before taking a deep slurp. You emphasised every step down the stairs, making sure the cup clinked against the table top.

“If you weren’t sure about your waistcoats. Deep blue”

You pinched the edge of the newspaper, flicking it down, and open. You lazed your eyes over the headlines, skimming while the men all huffed about. Alfie walked over and pecked a kiss to your cheek.

“Morning, love”

“You’re paying for the warehouse”

“Love-“

“I sort the insurance out and I can’t be arsed doing the papers. Pay him out the slush, will ya?”

You sniffed, swiping a finger over a stray piece of sleep in the corner of your eye, keeping them intently on the paper as Alfie grumbled next to you.

“Seen this about them changing the buses? Bloody idiots. Rose, is there any of that strawberry stuff left? John, you’ll like this stuff, try a bit”

@collecting-stories

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@thebakerstreetdragon

@ateliefloresdaprimavera

@weirdnewbie

@bloode-money

@photograiphy-00

@james-kezia-delaney

@yourenotmytype

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #|writing #alfie solomons

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frangipanidownunder · 8 years ago

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For Better or For Worse Part Three

This was the first fanfic I ever wrote - just as the Revival spoilers were coming out. It’s heavy on the angst. You can read Part One and Part Two here. Part Three The case had been bizarre and gruelling. She scolded herself for feeling so out of touch. What could she have reasonably expected? Until a few months ago monsters and Were-Lizards were tabloid headlines. She hadn’t envisaged a life where she would chase them again. With Mulder. But despite her need to process, her feeling that the illogical and the ghoulish and the downright scary could be rationalised and represented in some report to be filed away under ‘sensible’, she found her fingers kept sticking on the keys. What could she write? How could she conclude? What could she possibly demonstrate in evidence that wouldn’t make her sound as crazy as him? As she stretched the kinks out of her back she mused that perhaps it didn’t really matter. That she was as crazy as him. This whole thing was crazy. Being back here, for real, chasing the truth dressed up as Halloween nightmares.

She conceded that the only thing that made crazy bearable this time round was that they were pursuing answers about their son. And perhaps, that she was pursuing them with Mulder. She was back on the circuit. For better or for worse.

Her phone bleeped. “Scully, it’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. Can you come by?”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re here.”

Of course he would.

The house yawned open from the dried out yard. Despite being gainfully unemployed for many years, the projects she and Mulder had talked about never came to fruition. Whilst the wooden steps to the door silvered and bent, and the flyscreen tore and the roof sagged, he sat in his office reading and clipping and whatever else he did to pass the time. Whilst the washing stayed in the machine and the plates sat in the sink and the shopping went undone, she worked.

Today, he was sitting at the wooden table in the living area surrounded by files and cuttings and dirty mugs. She’d spent years picking up the clutter, rubbing away the coffee rings from the tabletop, taking folders back to his study. She’d tried to maintain an air of neatness in the lounge and the bedroom at least. But it had become a never-ending, demoralising circle. He acknowledged her with a rising hand but his eyes didn’t leave the paperwork in front of him. She did note the smell of garlic cooking and she took in a sharp breath, trying to erase the memory that had wafted into her mind as the aroma wafted through her nostrils. She could see that last day as clear as ever in her mind.

***

It was a Tuesday afternoon. She’d come home early to cook a decent meal. It had become a weekly ritual. One that she recognised now as a way to control her own spiralling frustration at Mulder’s loosening grip on his mental health. It was a way to see him dressed to sit at the table, to see him eat, to try to talk to him, to tease out more than a few words from him. She always brought flowers home. Always a bright arrangement to set the table with. This time she’d forgotten and the ones from the last week were wilted and brown petals had scattered around the glass vase, curling at the edges.

The lasagne was her mother’s recipe, pungent with basil and garlic, the bechamel bubbling and golden. The green salad was crisp and lightly dressed. She poured two glasses of an Australian shiraz. He didn’t answer when she called him. She went to the study. He was sitting in his chair, facing away from the door, hunched over the back desk. A scraping noise, faint but rhythmical caught her attention. As she moved towards him she looked up. The ceiling was empty of pencils. Mulder was sharpening them all into curled piles on the desk. Some of the spirals had dropped to the floor, but she only realised when she was standing in them. Flinty grey speckles scattered across the wooden boards. He was oblivious, continuing his mechanical whittling.

“Mulder, dinner is ready.”

Nothing.

She reached a hand to his shoulder. He remained motionless.

“Mulder. It’s me.” She knelt by his side and looked up at his face. He didn’t stop sharpening the pencils. She took the one he was holding, slipping it out of his grasp and dislodging the small sharpener as she did so. He blinked, then focused on her face.

“Dinner’s ready, Mulder.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

He turned away.

“Mulder, what are you doing here? The pencils?”

“They were blunt. I couldn’t draw with them.”

She looked at the dozens of points left on the desk and floor. “You need to come with me.” She put her arm under his elbow. “I’ve made lasagne.”

“Do you think William likes lasagne?”

The question forced the air out of her lungs. “What?”

“William. What do you think he likes to eat? We should find out before he comes home.”

“Mulder, William is not coming home.” She tried to keep her voice even but there was a catch as she said their son’s name.

“He’s coming. He’s told me. But you’ve given up on him again. He knows.” It was such a throwaway line, dropped casually as she stood pinned to the floor.

She mentally ran through the catalogue of responses to what was clearly a major mental breakdown in the throes. “I think you should come to the dining room.” She held out her hand but the look he gave her made her withdraw it and she wrapped it round her abdomen.

“You have a nasty habit of doing that, Scully. Of giving up. Of walking away.”

“Mulder…”

“It would be so much easier for you to just turn around now and leave, wouldn’t it? I mean, you have this whole other life out there, with your colleagues and your hospital board and your patients and their families and your conferences. You even have your own escape room, a nice little pad with a view to die for. I don’t even know why you’re still here. You gave up William just like that so what’s keeping you from giving me up, Scully?”

Her jaw snapped open but there was nothing there, no sound, no way of connecting the swirling mass of thoughts in her brain to her vocal chords. She knew she would never be able to articulate a cogent answer to his rant anyway. Shouldn’t respond. Not whilst he was in this state. A stray tear betrayed her and he stood up, pushing the chair back until it clattered over, skittering pencil shavings across the floor.

“Why are you still here?” He grabbed a fistful of papers and launched them into mid-air.

“Stop this, Mulder. Please. You need to calm down. We can talk.”

He laughed. “We’ve never been good at talking, Scully. You skirt around the edges of everything and I’ve never been able to get past your dances. And every time I brought up our son you shut me down with some bullshit about having no choice. Well, you know what I heard every time you said that? Mulder, it was all your fault.”

She chewed her lower lip. “I did what I had to do. At the time there was no choice. You know that, Mulder…”

“I’ve had a long time to process this now and you know what’s funny?” He paused for her answer. She gave none. “I actually thought that I could stop the invasion and save him. Save our son. Did you know that? It’s what really kept me going. Not the truth. Not you. Not us. But him.”

His words were a fury of spit and venom. She moved back to the door.

“And then nothing happened. I didn’t save him then. And I still haven’t saved him now. And you, with your new life, you don’t seem to care anymore, Scully. You switched off your feelings and you got on with your life. You’re so proficient at running away that you’ve eliminated his very existence from your mind.”

“No Mulder, that’s not true. Please, stop this. I need you to calm down.” She held out her hands as a peace offering and despite the desperate need she felt to get out of the room she knew she couldn’t leave him. She tried to look away so as not to antagonise him further. But he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it. She saw the glint in his eyes; he was relishing her pain. She felt a knot of fear ball in her stomach and her breath dried in her throat. This wreckless Mulder was someone she’d seen before. With a gun aimed at his own head or one aimed at her.

“Do you know what day it is today?” His voice drove through her, harsh.

She knew. How could she forget? Did he really think she would have erased William’s birthday from her heart? “Yes.” Her reply was a faint whisper.

He lifted her arm so it was bent up between them. She could feel his heart hammering. His breath was hot on her face. His eyes bright with rage. “Now you leave.”

“I’m not going, Mulder.”

“Leave. Then the date can be marked in our life calendar as a beginning and an end.”

“You’re not well. Let me help you. We can work it out together.” He twisted her wrist, the burn bringing tears to her eyes. “You’re scaring me, Mulder.”

Her hot tears dropped between them, falling onto the skin of his arm, snaking through the dark hairs. She watched his face as he blinked again, looking down at the droplets as they skimmed down and fell to the floor with the shavings. He let go of her wrist, looked briefly at her face, then crumpled to all fours heaving out huge, wracking sobs.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #msr fanfic

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