#Sam casually dropping this tidbit

[rechererdureveperdu]

I’m sorry -- why is no one talking about the lore drop that Scanlan Shorthalt is a rip off of Eminem’s actual life? 

[samsexualdeancurious]

Not a Duet But a Holy Trio | Chapter Five

Pairing: Wincest, Wincest/Reader

Total Words: 2,044

Summary: When Sam finally arrives in Heaven for the last time, he discovers that, somehow, he has TWO soulmates - his older brother and a complete stranger.

Warnings: Reader Death, Canonical Major Character Death(s), WINCEST, eventual threesome smut (vaginal sex, anal sex, probably some oral, I’ll try and update this as we go), some made up lore shit for plot reasons. If the SPN writers can do it, so can I xD

Header editing by me.

--

Things improve a little after that. Dean’s not as prickly and seems to be making himself at home in the cabin, especially the kitchen. He’s not as reluctant to spend time with you, either, which you’re grateful for because the tension when he entered any room you already occupied was getting to be uncomfortable. Sam seems pleased with this as well and shoots you a questioning glance the next morning when Dean willingly sits beside you at the bar for breakfast. He made waffles today and they’re absolutely perfect - crisp on the outside, light and fluffy inside. You just give Sam a shrug in response and dig into your breakfast.

Dean doesn’t necessarily talk to you that much more but what he does have to say is friendlier, his tone having lost that edge of distrust and bitterness he spoke with before. He invites you into conversations more as well, inviting you to tell him more about himself and occasionally offering up tidbits about himself. They’re small steps towards having any kind of relationship with the older Winchester but these are steps you’re more than willing to take.

In addition to Dean’s improved mood, the brothers are more open with their physical affection. They’re not a touchy-feely couple by any means but there are little things. The way Sam lays his hand in the small of Dean’s back as he leans in to taste whatever Dean’s cooking. The playful ruffle of Sam’s hair when he’s reading on the couch and Dean passes to head outside. You’ve yet to see them kiss - to do more than hold hands during a movie night if you think about it - but there’s a casual closeness between them that they’d been keeping hidden until they were sure they were safe to be open about it.

You’re glad they feel safe, even if the sight of them together sparks a painful loneliness in your chest.

The days pass slowly. More people come and go than before, old friends coming to visit the brothers. You’re introduced to several more people - hunters, civilians, people who rode the line of the hunting life, like a preacher the boys stayed with when they were younger. The most memorable by far is a grumpy older gentleman Dean introduces as their Uncle Bobby.

“The one who brought you to the lake when you were kids,” you say without hesitation, smiling at the man Cas had dropped off. Apparently Bobby pulled some heroics a few years ago and helped the boys a lot but landed himself in Heaven’s prison for his efforts. It took Cas and Jack, who you’ve still yet to meet, a while to persuade the Angels to release him. He’s gruff, with a greying beard and dirty trucker cap, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes when he looks at the brothers that tells you Bobby Singer is a bit of a teddy bear and he loves his boys.

“Thought I recognized this place,” Bobby says, glancing up at the cabin. “1996?”

“‘95,” Sam corrects. “I’m pretty sure.”

Dean just shrugs. “Sounds right to me. Bobby, you want a beer?”

Bobby, you learn, is less of an uncle and more of a second father in the eyes of the Winchesters. Someone who was there when their dad wasn’t, who gave them spots of normalcy throughout their rough childhoods that they never would have had otherwise. You can’t help but develop your own fondness for the older man, especially when he takes you aside while the boys are bickering over the after-dinner dishes and murmurs with a fond glance in their direction, that they may have a terrible way of showing it but he can see how much they like you already.

You’re surprised to find yet another important person from the Winchesters’ lives who not only approves of the… unconventional relationship the brothers have, but also approves of the addition of a stranger into their midst.

“You’re a smart kid,” he says, settling into the armchair that’s already becoming “Bobby’s Chair” with a sigh. “They’re smart, too, but. Well.” Bobby tosses another look of fond exasperation at the Winchesters. Sam has just snapped a towel at Dean’s ass, resulting in a surprisingly high-pitched yelp, and is now fending off his brother’s soapy hands. “Oy! Are you doing dishes or are you too busy flirting?” Bobby calls and they both freeze, cheeks bright red as they stumble apart.

“Sorry, Bobby,” they mumble, almost in sync but not quite, and Bobby just laughs.

“Idjits,” he tells you, eyes twinkling. “The both of them. You’ve probably noticed. They’re painfully oblivious on the best of days.”

You nod, toeing off your shoes and tucking your feet up on the couch so you’re leaning sideways against the arm. You’re full of mixed emotions these days. Growing fondness as you get to know the brothers both individually and as a couple. Bitterness that you couldn’t have met them in life, gotten to know them before they’d come together like this, and maybe have been a part of the mix from the beginning. Sorrow for all the lost opportunities, lost potential. Jealousy for what they have now, something you’ve never been able to experience.

You know that, with time, that might change. Castiel has assured you more than once since that first day, when he explained everything, that soulmates will inexplicably come together. It’s not the same as Cupid’s arrow - not a momentary increase in attraction building the foundations for what will hopefully be a solid relationship. Soulmates, as he explained, are pieces of the same soul scattered through different bodies. The bond between soulmates may not always result in romantic relationships but soulmates will always come together no matter what may attempt to pull them apart.

Perhaps if you’d known from the start that soulmates could be platonic, this wouldn’t be as hard. You wouldn’t have gotten your hopes up and would be able to settle for just friendship with the brothers. You’re not sure if that’s possible at this point, though. Your heart latched onto Sam within minutes of meeting him the first time. Maybe it was just because he was your first human contact in years, maybe it was because he’s your soulmate, but regardless. You find yourself drawn to the brothers in a way you don’t think Bobby would understand and seeing the two of them together like this? Sam looping the towel around Dean’s waist and pulling him in for a rare kiss? Dean relaxing into his brother’s embrace in a way he’s never relaxed around you? And being the outsider, the one without a place in this beautiful thing the brothers have?

You pull your gaze away and find Bobby watching you with a soft expression.

“Oblivious,” he repeats.

Your cheeks burn but a soft laugh is pulled from your chest. “Yeah,” you agree. “Yeah, they are.”

“Hey, Bobby!” Dean calls and you glance up to find that the boys have broken apart now. Sam’s drying the last dish, the sink draining quietly as Dean pulls open the fridge. “You want a beer?”

“Do trees have leaves?” Bobby replies.

Dean chuckles, straightening up with four bottles in hand. “Y/N? You want?”

You shake your head. “No, thank you. I’ll just have water.”

“Crazy,” he teases even as he returns the fourth bottle to the fridge and grabs your favorite water bottle from where you left it on the island. Something in his tone ignites warmth in your chest and it only grows at the cheerful smile Dean passes you along with your drink before settling on the other end of the couch. “Sam?”

“I’m coming.”

Sure enough, Sam drops onto the couch between you and Dean moments later, leaning over as he does to take his beer from his brother without disrupting whatever Dean and Bobby are talking about now. You pull your knees up a little to avoid having your feet sat on but maintaining that position isn’t practical. You consider your options for a moment - you could put your feet down but that wouldn’t be comfortable, especially with Sam’s weight tipping the angle of the couch cushions towards him - and make a split-second decision. You relax your body, allowing your sock-covered toes to press against the place where Sam’s muscular thigh dents the couch cushion.

Sam doesn’t say anything or move away but his gaze flits to you, lovely sunflower eyes questioning. Your cheeks warm, burning even hotter when his lips quirk upward in a small smile.

He turns his attention back to the conversation between Dean and Bobby then. You’re not sure what they’re talking about - something to do with a hunt, you didn’t catch the details. A wendigo, you think? The rest of the evening passes in a similar fashion, the men swapping stories and reminiscing over their beers while you listen and take it all in. Your toes stay pressed against Sam’s thigh the entire time, soaking in his body heat. Both brothers turn to you a few times during the night, making an effort to keep you included in the conversation in a way Sam has done before but is still a new occurrence from Dean.

Bobby leaves once Dean starts to drift off in his seat, apparently worn out from his long day reconnecting with the older man. Once Bobby’s gone, Sam ushers Dean into their shared room to get ready for bed while you take over cleaning up the empty bottles left on the coffee table. You’re not expecting Sam to come back out any time soon but he does as you’re dropping the bottles in the trash can.

“I really like Bobby,” you tell Sam honestly as he slides onto one of the stools at the island.

He smiles brightly, clearly glad to hear that. “I think he likes you, too, which is good. It would really suck if my - our - potential future partner didn’t get along with our family.”

Your brain stutters over Sam’s words, sticking on “future partner” for a moment. Even once you’ve unstuck your thoughts, all you can manage is a, “... What?”

“I want to be honest with you,” Sam says, earnest and more than a little hopeful. “I like you a lot. More than a lot. I think… I might not remember knowing you before but my soul does. I may not have known you long but you were here when Dean wasn’t and right from the start you’ve felt like home. He’s denying it still because he’s stubborn and reluctant to trust but I know Dean feels the same.”

You have no idea where Sam’s going with this but you nod and he smiles, soft and sweet. Almost like the smile he reserves for Dean.

“I know this isn’t easy for you.” His tone is gentle as his expression sobers. “It’s the furthest from easy, really, and your patience means the world. All I want to ask is that you be patient just a little longer?” His hands are twisted together nervously on the countertop, long fingers woven through each other. “I want to take our relationship further. I think you do, too?” You nod, which he echoes before continuing. “But if we’re going to do this, it needs to be all three of us.”

“We need to wait until Dean’s ready,” you finish for him, the pieces clicking into place.

Sam is nodding, leaning forward on his elbows. “Exactly. He’s getting there but you’ve seen how Dean is. He’s not a huge fan of destiny and the horse it rode in on.”

You can’t help a laugh at that, drawing the corners of Sam’s mouth upwards once more. “I can’t blame him, considering what you guys have been through. I understand, Sam. I really do. It’s frustrating and I won’t lie and tell you it doesn’t hurt a little to see what you and Dean have, but I’m willing to wait because I know the wait will be worth it.” The words are the truth and you can see that Sam knows it.

He seems relieved to hear this. “I think… I think Dean’s coming around.”

“I think he is, too,” you agree. “I don’t want to push him, though. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

—

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Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @emoryhemsworth @imsuperawkward @onethirstyunicorn

[fanfictionaries]

Love’s in the Little Things - SherryBaby14′s Prompt Challenge

Prompt: Steve and a musician. Like she plays the piano and writes her own music; does small gigs here and there. They meet while he’s at one of her gigs, would bond over music. Sex on he Piano. Something intimate, soothing and musical.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x female reader

Summary: A little story following the progression of Steve and a musician falling in love. With a little added extra at the end! 

Warnings: Smut, Love-making, FLUFF! A tiny dash of Angst, Mentions of death

Words: 6.3k

Author’s Note: Thank you @sherrybaby14 for this lovely prompt. I got the opportunity to join my two passions together - writing and music. Stick around till the end of the fic for a little bonus tidbit (written and performed by yours truly)! 

Also - I switched the timeline around involving some character deaths to suit my own person story needs. 

*** 

“You realize this is the fifth time he’s been in here this month. If you don’t make a move now, he may never come back,” said Roxy, pouring you your pre-performance liquid courage.

“Oh please, Rox. He’s just here with his friends. I highly doubt he’s here to see me,” you scoffed, knocking back the shot. The alcohol burned as it trickled down your throat, the effects immediately going to your head, giving you a light, fuzzy feeling. In reality, the shot wouldn’t hit your blood stream for at least a few minutes, but the placebo effect also did wonders for your confidence.

It didn’t matter how many times you did this – got up on stage in front of people and performed for them – it was still nerve wracking. Older musicians always advised you that it would get easier with time. One day you’d feel more comfortable on stage than you did off. Well, five years and you were still waiting for that day. Therefore, the last thing you needed was the ridiculous notion that Captain America was coming to a little dive bar to hear you perform. It was too much pressure.

“I’d consider that true if it weren’t for the fact that he only ever comes in here when you’re here.” Roxy, one of your closest friends and the bartender at your regular paying gig location, eyed you and then the group of gargantuan superheroes in the far corner. There were three of them tonight. Sometimes there’d be more, a few more guys and the occasional girl, but no matter what, it was always those three. You were pretty sure you knew who they were – it was hard not to. There was Sam (The Falcon); he was usually the chattiest out of the three, flirting with women and loudly cracking jokes. Then there was the moody one, Bucky you thought his name was; he was quiet but seemed good-humored and kind behind the eyes. Lastly, there was Steve. He was somewhere in the middle. Livelier than Bucky, but not nearly as attention seeking as Sam. And, for lack of trying you couldn’t help but notice the way he watched you with rapt attention every time you performed. You figured it was just him being a polite audience member. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. What could Captain America possibly want with a dive bar musician?

“Coincidence at best. Besides, how could he possibly know what nights I’m performing? They line-up isn’t posted,” you reasoned, checking your makeup in the mirror behind the bar.  

“True, but who’s to say he didn’t come up to the bar one night and ask for the monthly line-up? And who’s to say I didn’t give him a copy with all your performance nights highlighted?” Roxy proposed, looking away from you to polish a glass and place it on the shelf behind her.

“What? You didn’t!” you exclaimed, chancing a glance at the super soldier to see his eyes trained on you, before looking away bashfully to his friends, who immediately began to give him a hard time. Or at least you assumed that’s what they were doing based on the teasing punches and boyish looks they gave you and then him.  Your gut flipped. Maybe Roxy was lying to get on your nerves. That had to be the only plausible option.

“Alright—” began the DJ, Matthew, stopping the music and bringing everyone’s attention to the stage “—tonight we have a regular to the stage. If you’re an alcoholic then you’ve seen her here plenty of times, and if this is your first time joining us, welcome but what took you so long?” A smattering of laughter flitted across the bar. Looking back over, you found Steve smiling politely at the joke. God he was handsome…

“Give it up for (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!”

Applause filled the air as you walked to the stage, exchanging niceties with Matthew before sitting down to the piano. You breathed deeply, trying to quell your nerves, but that night they seemed to be on overdrive. Heart rate elevated, the alcohol in your stomach burned. Closing your eyes, you placed your fingers to the keys and let the familiarity of them calm you. You could do this. Going into a simple chord progression, you began the intro to your first song. It was a simple little number, nothing too controversial, too fast, or too slow. Just enough of a pep to grab the people’s attention, without being assaulting to the ears. It was fun and you always found it livened the room up nicely. By the time it was over, your nerves had cooled a bit, but your hands still possessed a subtle tremor. So, diverting from the normal path, you did a cover for your second song. A tried and true rendition of Falling in Love with Love by Fred Astaire. The chords and words were familiar like a childhood blanket, the song bringing you back to watching your mom and dance in the kitchen as a child. It was when you moved into your original work again, a sweet little thing about sunny mornings and fresh spring mountains, that your eyes caught Steve’s as you looked out into the crowd. The dim fluorescents of the bar lights illuminated him like a spotlight, swirls of dust floating around his figure in the musty bar air. Illuminated in hazy golden light, he looked as though the heavens had opened up to present him just for you. Flaxen haired and clear, blue eyes, he looked reminiscent of another time. And you guessed, he technically was. But he looked at you like a man seeing a beautiful piece of artwork for the first time – his gaze so intense, so openly earnest and honest, you couldn’t help but stare back.

You didn’t look away the whole time.

After your set, you found yourself sticking around – something you almost never did. But you knew you couldn’t just flee from the establishment like normal. Not when you performed for one person and one person only that night. After about twenty minutes you began to wonder if you had been wrong. Maybe the connection had been in your head. No, it definitely wasn’t in your head. Maybe you should just go up to him? After all, this was the 21st century. Women approached men all the time. But then again, he was from a different time. What if he found it insulting? Or too forward? You were still debating the pros and cons of the situation when a tap on your shoulder brought you out of your musings.

Looking up and expecting to see Roxy or maybe even Steve, you were surprised to see his friend.

“Hey, I’m Bucky. I just have to say, great performance tonight,” he said casually, extending a hand.

You took it tentatively, shaking his hand. Confused as to why he was talking to you but not wanting to be rude you gave him a small smile, “Thanks. I’m (Y/N), nice to meet you Bucky.”

“Listen, I’m gonna cut straight to the point. I need a favor from you (Y/N).” Bucky proposed, running a hand through his slicked brown hair.

Intrigued, you leaned against the bar top behind you, “Okay, I’ll bite. What can I do for you?”

“You see my friend over there?” He pointed across the bar to Steve, who was currently looking anywhere but at the two of you. “Well, I’ve got a bit of a problem, because he keeps dragging us to this bar every weekend and as much as I like it here, I just want a quiet Saturday night in, ya know? Now, he’d never admit that he told me this, but he thinks you’re pretty much the coolest thing since sliced bread – which is a high compliment as he was actually there for the invention of sliced bread.”

“Is that so?” you asked, trying to suppress the wave of giddiness his words created.

“Yea, he looks great for his age, right?”

“So, what’s the favor then?”

“Well—” he began, drawing his face into an exaggerated eyeroll “—for some reason, while the man is completely unfazed by jumping out of exploding buildings, he can’t build up the courage to come and talk to you. So, your favor to me, would be to just look over there and wave him over so that I can go home and watch The Great British Bake Off.”

“The Great British Bake Off? Really?”

Bucky shrugged, “It’s heartwarming and educational.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to him. But what about your other friend? Mister Tall, Dark, and Goofy?” you asked, looking to Sam who was currently attempting to tell your golden-haired man some kind of story that required an enormous amount of arm movement. The comment earned you a guffaw from Bucky.

“Him? He’ll be fine. He’s already got the bartender’s number. I think they’re leaving together after her shift is over.”

Jaw dropping in shock, you looked to Roxy and pointed to Sam in question. She shrugged, an excited smile on her face as she turned back to her customers.

“Alright,” you agreed, shaking your head. “Go enjoy Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood. I’ll take good care of your friend.”

***

“What?! That can’t possibly be true. I feel like you’re lying to me right now.”

“No, it’s the honest to God truth. Bing Crosby came right up to me and shook my hand,” said Steve, large hands wrapped around his beer bottle as he told you probably the coolest story you’d ever heard.

Sitting back in your chair heavily, you let out a huff of air, “Wow…I mean…wow. I guess being a war hero really does come with some perks.”

“I don’t know if I would call myself a war hero…”

“Oh, so he’s modest too. Tell me, is there anything you’re bad at?” you asked, teasingly.

“There’s plenty of things I’m bad at,” scoffed Steve.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, name some. What is the great Captain America bad at?” You lifted an eyebrow in challenge, unable to keep the smile from your face as you looked at the man in front of you.

“Well, for one thing, I can’t flirt with a pretty dame without help from my friend—”

“I think you’re doing a pretty good job of it yourself right now,” you interrupted, giving him a wry grin from across the small bar table.

Cheeks tinging a light shade of pink, Steve took a moment to drink from the bottle in his hand before continuing, “I can’t dance. Seriously, all I do is sway. I have trouble tying a tie. It always comes out crooked, no matter how many times I do it. Oh! And I’m a horrible singer. Couldn’t carry a tune to save my life – unlike some people.”

It was your turn to feel the heat form on your face, “I’m sure you’re not that bad.”

“Well, I’d show you, but I doubt anyone else here would appreciate it,” said Steve. At his comment the two of your looked around the bar to realize there wasn’t anyone else there to bother with his singing.

“What?” you asked incredulously. “What time is it?”

Checking his watch, Steve’s eyebrows lifted almost all the way to his hairline, “Three in the morning. Doesn’t this place close at two?”

“Yea, it does. I can’t believe Roxy didn’t kick us out.” Pulling out your phone you found a text from the woman in question.

Roxy:

You seemed a little too patriotic to interrupt. Have fun and lock the door on your way out. ;)

“I guess we should probably get out of here, huh?” you suggested, standing and grabbing your purse from the back of the chair. Steve stood too, taking his bottle and your glass to the bar and disposing of them appropriately. Walking across the stage, you went to turn out the lights on the far wall when you stopped. Looking at the piano in front of you, you turned back to Steve.

“While we’re here, do you want a free concert?”

“Depends…what are you playing?” asked Steve, rounding the bar and coming to sit on the bench next to you.

“Anything you want. I’m open for requests,” you announced, brushing your fingers across the keys and playing out a small arpeggio.  

“How about one of yours?” Steve suggested, surprising you.

“Really? Out of all the music in the world, you wanna’ listen to mine?”

“Of course, it’s my favorite. Haven’t missed a show all month.”

***

Too early. It was absolutely too early for your phone to be ringing. But there it was, laying on the mattress next to you annoyingly loud. You contemplated throwing it across the expanse of your small loft, but ultimately decided that you were in no way financially able to afford a new phone. So instead, you swiped your thumb across the screen and held it up to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey! (Y/N)!” Steve’s chipper voice rang through the line, bringing you out of your sleepy stupor.

“Steve, hey, what’s up?” you asked, trying not to sound like you just woke up. Unfortunately, you were unable to suppress the yawn that escaped the back of your throat.

“Oh jeez, I didn’t wake you up, did I?” You could already hear the apology on the tip of his tongue.

“No, no. I’m always up at this time. It’s—” you looked over to the clock on the wall “—Five thirty. Five thirty?!”

“Sorry. I’ve been up for hours. I guess I didn’t realize it was still so early,” Steve apologized. You could hear the distant bustle of city life behind him; why was everyone in D.C. such early risers?

Sighing internally, you concluded it was probably better you get up now. You were due at your day job soon anyway. Sitting up and swinging your legs out of the warm cocoon of blankets, you stretched out, bringing life to your body, “It’s fine. Really. You get to hear me make coffee though. I desperately need coffee.”

The soft, nervous laugh on the other end of the phone made you smile as you padded barefoot to your small kitchen. “I will gladly listen to you make coffee, if it makes up for the fact that I woke you up,” said Steve, his words causing butterflies to form in the pit of your stomach. You had to stop for a moment, hand paused on your kettle as you tried to keep your head. When you failed to respond right away, Steve went on, “Anyway, I just called to tell you, that I had a really great time the other night.”

“Me too,” you replied, placing the kettle on the stove and turning it on, before grabbing the coffee from the cupboard.

“I was wondering if you wanted to do it again. Preferably sometime soon?”

“I don’t think the manager will let us stay so late after closing again. Even if I do technically work there,” you teased, grabbing the French press and filling it with a few spoonfuls of coffee.

“I don’t know, I bet you could convince them to let us stay. You seem like you’d be able to talk any man into doing just about anything,” Steve teased back.

“Really, is that so?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe not any man – maybe just me.”

***

It was a nice, sunny spring day. Summer was just around the corner and midafternoons were beginning to warm up considerably. You were on your lunch break, iced lemonade in hand as you walked through President’s Park with Steve. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear in response to the light breeze, you glanced down to make sure that the skirt of your sundress was still in place. The last thing you needed to do was accidentally flash him on your first official date.

“Obviously performing at the bar isn’t your only job if this is your lunch break. Tell me about your day job,” said Steve, walking idly next to you, hands in the pockets of his khakis.

“I’m actually a music teacher,” you answered, taking a sip of your lemonade.

“Really?” asked Steve, a hint of pleasant surprise in his voice.  

“Yea, I guess you could say music pervades every part of my life,” you answer with a laugh.

“Do you like it?”

“I really do. Enough to do it for the rest of my life at least. I mean – performing is fun, but I don’t know if I could do it for a living. I’m much happier teaching kids how to read music or play an instrument.” The two of you came to a small park bench and sat down under the shade of a large tree.

“So, no dreams of being big and famous?”

You scoffed, shaking your head, “No. Absolutely not. I don’t think I could handle the pressure.”

“Yea, it definitely isn’t easy,” Steve sighed, looking down at the ground between his spread legs. At his comment, you realized how insensitive you must have sounded. For a second you had completely forgotten than he was Captain America – a famous household name. To you, he was just Steve Rogers, the man with a warm smile and a genuine aura that emanated throughout and around him.

“I think it was my music teacher in high school that really made me want to be a teacher,” you said, changing the subject. “She was always encouraging me to pursue my music and creativity. Which was great to hear when no one else in my life seemed to care much at the time. Who was your favorite teacher growing up?”

Steve seemed to perk up at your question, looking out into the expanse of the park as he pondered his answer, “Probably my art teacher. I always liked to doodle and draw, but he was the first person to tell me I had talent. After that, I actually took a few classes at the local college. Nothing too fancy, but I learned a lot about techniques and different mediums.”

“So, you’re an artist?”

“Well, I don’t know if I would call myself an artist…”

“There you go again being modest. Tell me, do you make art? Do you put pencil to paper or paint to canvas and makesomething with it?” you asked in a guiding manner.

“Yea, I guess—”

“Then you’re an artist! I bet you have a pencil and sketch pad on you right now. Am I wrong?”

Steve looked at you in bewilderment, before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small notebook, “How did you know?”

“Because, you’re an artist! And, I may have seen the outline of it earlier when we were walking,” you admitted.

“Were you checking out my ass?”

The question caught you off guard, leaving you gawking at the surprisingly forward question. Steve laughed at you, indicating that he was obviously teasing, and you slapped him playfully on the arm.

“Maybe I was. It’s a nice ass,” you teased back. “Now show me some of your drawings. You’ve seen all of my creative genius; I want to see yours.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t I draw something now and you can be the judge of whether it’s accurate or not?”

“Okay—” you looked around, trying to determine what would be the best thing for him to sketch “—that’s even better. How about that flower bed over there?”

“Nah, I think I see something much prettier,” responded Steve. Looking back at him, you found him already sketching away, pencil to the paper of his notebook as he glanced between it and you. He was drawing you. “No, no. Look back over that way,” he instructed. “The light was catching you perfectly.”

You did as he said, directing your gaze back towards the flower bed, the soft sound of pencil scratches mixing with the chirping of birds, and murmur of people walking by. Stealing glances at him out of the corner of your eye, you watched as he worked. Brow knitted in concentration, jaw relaxed, and soft pink lips parted, long, straight lashes brushing his cheekbones every time he blinked; it was in that moment you came to realization that you could watch him like this forever.

“Hey, no peaking,” he pouted, catching you staring when he looked back up at you for reference. You looked away, training your eye on a couple of squirrels chasing each other across the lawn. Perfectly content, you sat listening to him work until his voice broke the silence.

“Okay, all done.”

Turning back towards him, you scooted down the bench till you were hip to hip, peering into his lap to view his hard work. The sight took your breath away, a soft gasp moving past your lips as you stared at yourself in graceful strokes of graphite. He was right. The lighting had been perfect. Somehow, he managed to capture the rays of sun catching the side of your face, illuminating you like you glowed from the inside out. You held a small smile at the corner of your mouth and your eyes held a wistful romance to them as little tendrils of hair danced around your face. He even sketched some of your sundress – scribbling the lace and little pattern of peaches at the neckline. You were beautiful. He had made you beautiful.

Speechless, you stared at the sketch and then back up at Steve who looked down at you with an apprehensive expression. You beamed at him before gushing, “It’s amazing Steve. Thank you.”

Maybe it was a bit too soon. Maybe you should have waited till the third date, or even the second, but something just felt so right in that moment. Lifting up, you pressed your lips to his, the soft warmth of his mouth comfortable and exciting all at the same time. Brushing your lips against his softly, your heart fluttered when he did the same, kissing you back tentatively. When his large hand came to cup your face, you melted into him craving the feel of his firm hand against your soft skin. Surprisingly gentle for his size, but not for his demeanor, he kissed you like you were a flower and he a gentle breeze, caressing your petals with a tender confidence.

Pulling away, you found a softness in his eyes and in his smile that made your heart clench. It felt so strange to be already so enamored by a person you had just met. But you couldn’t help the lightness that coursed through your body when it came to him.

***

“You know, you really don’t have to keep coming to all of my gigs. You’ve already got the girl,” you half-joked to Steve as he swung your guitar over his shoulder and lifted your heavy amp with ease. Two months. That’s how long you’d been sharing early morning phone calls and lunch-time walks through the city. Peppering in the occasional dinner date, Saturday matinees at the theatre, and him attending every single one of your gigs, things were really beginning to click. However, you couldn’t help but shake the familiar monster of apprehension and doubt.

You knew perfectly well where your feelings stood with Steve, but did he feel the same way?

You’d been hurt in the past. Partners that left you guessing and clawing for any type of validation and affirmation that you were important to them. Countless hours spent worrying and wishing that they’d just show up like they said they would, and without complaint or snide remarks. Therefore, when Steve actually showed up, it felt obligatory – like he was doing everything right not because he wanted to, but because he felt like he had to.

“Do you not want me to come?” Steve asked as the two of you left the bar and headed down the street to your building.

“No—yes—I mean, of course I want you to be there. I just mean, it can’t be very fun for you to be in a smoky bar listening to me play the same ten songs over and over again. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to be there when you don’t want to be.” You couldn’t believe how stupid and insecure you sounded as you said the words, but at the same time you needed to say it. At the very least it would be an out for him to take, no matter how sad it made you seem.

“Hey.” Steve stopped you, grabbing you by the wrist and turning you towards him. “I’d listen to you play a rendition of Pop Goes the Weasel over and over again for the rest of my life, if that’s what you were passionate about. I love your music and I love listening to you play it. You’re my girl. I’m gonna’ be there to support my girl.”

Moving your hand, you intertwined your fingers with his. Unable to find the words to express to him how much his proclamation had meant to you, you simply nodded as tears of relief and happiness began to well in your eyes. Silently, he disentangled his hand from yours and reached up, thread his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulled you into him, bending down to kiss you sweetly, but firmly. His kiss was a promise and a reassurance that he was there, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The flutter of your eyelashes as they closed pushed a single tear down the side of your cheek, the warm wetness of it rolling until it reached the line of your jaw. Steve pulled away from you, using his thumb to wipe the stray tear from your face.

“Stay the night with me tonight?” you asked, the words leaving you like a physical need.

Steve’s eyes widened in response, before searching your face for any sign that you didn’t mean what you said. But you did.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

The room was lit by only moonlight as you slowly undressed. Each article of clothing removed, revealing more of your body and more of your soul to the man in front of you. Reverently he sat at the edge of your bed, shirt and shoes already removed, as he watched you bare yourself to him. Once completely free of your clothes, you were overtaken by a wave of insecurity, wanting nothing more than to cover yourself, but the sound of Steve’s voice broke you of the urge.

“Come here,” he whispered, eyes shining in the darkness.

Tentatively you stepped towards him, toes digging into the plush rug sat under your bed. He guided you onto his lap, his hands ghosting over the skin at your sides as he took you in. Steve looked at you the way he looked at you the first night you spoke – like a man seeing a beautiful piece of artwork for the first time. The heat of his gaze made you both unbearably aroused and unbearably uncomfortable. Wrapping your arms around his neck you kissed him, a mesh of lips and tongues that left you breathless and wanting. Moving your hands down his chest, you felt the unyielding muscle under warm skin. Like a Greek god, sculpted by the greatest minds of the renaissance, he was gorgeous. The feeling of his mouth connecting with one of your nipples stole the breath from your lungs, making you keen with desire as you arched into him.

He continued to lavish your chest, switching between breasts as he kissed, licked, sucked, and nipped. Within no time, you were putty in his hands, a garbled mess of pleasure and want. When you thought you couldn’t take any more, he flipped you over, placing you gently onto the mattress and pulling away to remove the last of his clothing. Standing in front of you, stripped and vulnerable, you had the lucid thought that you had never seen anything so beautiful in your life.

Climbing over you, he kissed his way up your body, leaving little bites and marks from your hip bone to your neck. You felt the hot, weight of him at your center, causing your hips to buck in response. A small whimper escaped you as he slid his length up and down your folds, grinding into you as bit down on your lower lip. Hot and wet and hard, he eased into you slowly, watching your face as he did. Eyes endlessly light blue, he stared into your soul as he panted heavily at the tight feel of you around him. Impossibly full of him and only him, you took deep breaths as you adjusted to it. Pulling your arms from around his back, he pinned your hands to the pillows behind your head, threading his fingers with yours as he pulled out of you slowly and pushed back in. The sweet friction was enough to make you sing.

Steadily, his pace picked up speed as he rocked in and out of you. And while neither of you had said the words, he made love to you like they had been uttered a thousand times before. Your sweat-slicked bodies glided over each other as he fucked into with a devotion unlike any other. And you did the same, your hands and lips amorously worshipping his body as he brought you closer and closer to the brink of ecstasy. Fingers plucking and hands strumming, it was as if the two of you were making music of your own, playing each other like instruments in the moon-soaked bedroom. The sweet sound built and built, an orchestration of harmonious balance rising higher and higher until you both reached the peak of your crescendo, only to fall blissfully from it in a lilting melody.

Laying in the aftermath of your song, you couldn’t help but think the words: I love this man.

***

“You really should eat something,” you said once again, pointing to the tray of untouched room service breakfast.

“I told you. I’m not hungry,” Steve snapped, moving in front of the mirror to tie his tie.

You sighed quietly to yourself. It had been a hard week. For both of you. This was not the first time Steve had been short with you today and you expected it would not be the last. Then of course, you couldn’t blame him. You were going to a funeral after all. Grabbing your cup of coffee from the tray, you wordlessly excused yourself to the bathroom to finish your makeup. Once in the crippling silence of the surrounding white tile, you braced yourself against the bathroom counter and took deep, calming breaths. You could do this. You had to be able to do this. For you. For your relationship. But most importantly, for Steve.

And you were trying, really you were, but nothing had prepared you for this. Although, you doubted anything really could. Supporting your boyfriend through the death of a past love was not an everyday scenario. He was trying to keep it together; you knew he was. You could see the sadness in his eyes and on his face when he thought you weren’t looking. But you were always looking. It was not easy watching him mourn the loss of another woman. It brought up all the ugly insecurities you tried to mask and move past. In no way did you blame him either. Peggy was an important part of his life – a part that you would never fully understand – and he had loved her. You respected that, but it didn’t stop the evil thoughts that crept into your mind. The ones that whispered things like he would never love you like he loved her, that this loss would make him realize that you were nothing but second best, that he would realize that you weren’t good enough. Shaking the nagging voices away, you unzipped your makeup bag and began pulling out the items you needed.

Steve cared for you; if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have asked you to be here with him. He wouldn’t have flown you all the way to London with him for this funeral. He wouldn’t be depending on you for support and companionship. All of this you knew, but every jab and harsh word left you feeling more and more doubt. Of course, this was not Steve’s fault. He was grieving and if that meant you had to be strong for the both of you, then so be it. You would put your hurt aside and put on a brave face so that Steve could be the weak one. He deserved, at the very least, that.

Brushing on a bit of mascara and pulling out a sensible lip color, the sound of a light knock brought your attention to the exit of the bathroom. Steve, in black suit and tie, stood in the doorway, hair neatly jelled and tie crooked. He pointed to the askew item of clothing in utter defeat, a hopeless expression on his face. You set your lipstick down and crossed the room to him, reaching for his tie and undoing it before going through the familiar routine.

“I’m sorry.”

Too engrossed with the movement of your hands, you didn’t look up when you answered, keeping your voice light and casual, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” You finished the knot, straightening it snuggly against his Adams Apple and giving the length of the tie a little pat. He caught your hands before you could bring them down to your sides, holding them in his own and bringing them up to lightly kiss your fingers.

“Thank you for being here with me. I don’t think I could have done this without you.” His words were honest and sincere and meant the world to you. The fact that even when he was falling apart at the seams, he still cared enough to keep your emotions in mind, held more weight than any cynical thought your brain could create.

Standing on tiptoes, you held his face in your hands and looked into the depths of his blue eyes, “Today is going to absolutely suck. It really is. And I’m so sorry that it has to happen. But I’m right here. Anything you need, I’m right here. I promise.”

Steve nodded, his eyes becoming misty and red. Silently, the two of you exited the bathroom and grabbed your things. You, a coat and purse; him, a coat and a slice of toast.

You were just out the door, Steve following behind when you felt the soft brush of his fingers as he tucked in the tag of your blouse. The act though small and seemingly insignificant, was like a whispered proclamation on your skin. A murmured promise of I love you.

***

A year and a half and blissfully content, you lounged in your bed, staring at the expanse of Steve’s naked back as he stood in front of the kitchen sink. Muscles rolling and flexing, he scrubbed at the dishes from dinner.

“How is it, that I always end up doing all the cooking and cleaning when this is your apartment?” Steve asked teasingly over his shoulder as you stretched out in satisfaction across the bed, sheets still wrinkled and twisted from your after dinner ‘dessert’.

You laughed, rolling over and smiling lazily in his direction, “Because you’re a much better cook and you love me.”

Steve chuckled, a short, barking sound you had come to know as sarcastic, “I don’t know what me loving you has to do with getting stuck doing the dishes every night.”

“Shall I play you a song to make the job easier?” you asked, reaching over the foot of the bed and pulling up your guitar from its careless place on the ground. You pushed yourself into a sitting position against the headboard and began to strum a series of chords.

“Mmmm, I guess that’s a fair payment,” Steve responded warmly.

“I knew you’d say that!” you exclaimed happily, starting into one of Steve’s personal favorites.

A half hour later, dishes done, and Steve now laid on the bed with his head propped up on your outstretched legs, you were still playing. Languidly, you plucked and strummed through all the songs you knew until you found yourself playing something you hadn’t planned on showing him yet. He picked up immediately on the unfamiliar progression, turning his head to look at you.

“I haven’t heard that one before, what is it?” he asked, running his fingertips tenderly up and down your bare calf.

“Just something new I’ve been working on,” you answered sheepishly, continuing to repeat the first few chords.

“Something new? What’s it about?”

“You.”

Your profession took him by surprise, a delighted smile spreading across his face as he looked up at you, “You wrote a song about me?”

“Maybe,” you answered, nudging his far shoulder with your toes.

“Is it a sad song?” he asked playfully as he turned his head to stare up at the ceiling.

“No, it’s not a sad song.”

“Oh no, is it an angry song?”

You giggled, “Definitely not.”

“A happy song?” he questioned once more, knowing full well that that was the answer all along.

“Yes. It’s a happy song. A very happy song,” you stated, looking down at him and wondering how in the world you got so lucky. “The happiest song, actually.”

“Well then, play away.”

And you did. You played, pouring every ounce of love and adoration into the melody and lyrics, as Steve listened quietly, looking at you like the world began and ended with that one song. You played knowing that you had never been happier than in that moment, and you played knowing that life could only get better from there on out.

To listen to the song written for Steve, please follow this link: https://soundcloud.com/user-144129307/steves-song

Marvel Taglist: 

@caffiend-queen 

@hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

@grincheveryday

[kanamesharisenwrites]

kh’s story snippet celebration sendoff, entry #10

And for my final entry...

Okay, so this movie gut-punched me in the feels, and I just had to explore what happened to the characters after the movie, especially Rachel and Billy. I planned to explore what it might look like if they met again as adults, what their relationship might look like. Most likely, this would have been a platonic-soulmate type story

(it might have eventually transitioned into a romance if I felt I could manage the subject with an appropriate level of sensitivity and wisdom. of course, that's a big "if")

Either way, this movie moved me in ways I wasn't expecting it to, and this snippet is the result

Fandom: Miss Stevens Pairing: Rachel Stevens & Billy Mitman Word Count: 1214 Genre: found family, timeskip, future fic Rating: T Warnings: profanity, canon-typical mature themes

... [ just a little (will you love me?) ]

At the end of the school year, Rachel resigns from Franklin High School.

Her departure is a quiet affair, marked by the indifference of casual acquaintance. There is a cake in the teacher’s lounge, well wishes for her future written in bright blue buttercream. Rachel’s name is misspelled, and that fact seems to sum up her time here: lonely, impersonal, and brief. Her existence over the past year revolved around her interactions with this staff. Yet, no one knew her enough to get her name correct on her fucking farewell cake. Rachel stabs through the  a  that should be an  e  with her fork. As the sugar melts on her tongue, she wonders whether the fault is theirs or her own.

Rachel receives much the same treatment from her students. She is generally well-liked, she knows; she has ears, and the students are less than subtle in their rumor-mongering against despised staff members. But she also knows English isn’t exactly a favorite subject for the average high-schooler, either. Her resignation garners as much attention as the change of menu in the cafeteria.

There are a couple of noted exceptions. 

After school, Sam and Margot team up to send her off in a modicum of style. There is another cake, yellow with rich chocolate frosting – which is, coincidentally, her favorite. It’s one of the few personal tidbits Rachel shared with the class, dropping the information on the altar of student participation. It hadn’t worked, of course. But seeing her name piped carefully and correctly across the top of Margot’s homemade cake, Rachel can’t bring herself to regret it. 

The three of them pack her meager personal supplies and belongings into a large, wheeled storage tote as they reminisce over classroom trivialities. When there’s nothing left to do but leave, Sam pulls her into a tearful hug. Rachel pats his back, awkward as she tries to maintain a sense of propriety, and laughs as she feels a trickle of saline fall down her cheek. Margot clears her throat and asks if they could have Rachel’s email address in case they want to use her as a reference for scholarships and the like. Rachel nods and rummages through her tote for a pen and some paper. As Rachel hands out the slips, Margot’s chin wobbles. The girl breathes out a shaky, “thank you for everything,” and then the two closest things Rachel has to friends walk out the door.

She stands there, frozen.

A bell, loud and grating, resounds through the complex, signaling the end of the detention period. With her heart in her throat, Rachel sprints to the bathroom and locks herself in the nearest stall. She lets the tears fall freely for the first time since that night on the hotel balcony. She feels cold, in spite of the summer heat, and desperately alone. Eventually, the tears stop. Splashing cold water on her face, she pushes her hair behind her ears and heads back to her classroom.

Rachel marches to her desk and unlocks the drawer containing her purse. The off-brand, faux-leather bag rests heavy in her hand, so she pulls it into her lap as she slumps in her chair one last time. Rachel rifles through the odd assortment of objects she keeps in her purse. The keys to the classroom, the teacher’s lounge, and the supply room have to be turned in before she leaves today. It takes some finagling, but she manages to remove them from the rest of her keyring with minimal damage to her nails. She sighs and closes her fists, her personal keys nestled in her left hand and the school’s keys in her right. A dark chuckle escapes her lips as she realizes what she’s giving up weighs more than what she’s keeping. A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over her, and she flops her head onto the hard, cold surface of her desk.

Only, it’s not cold or hard.

Her head lands on something dark and soft, with lingering traces of heat running through it. Rachel lifts the fabric, examining it, and the movement reveals an accompanying note written in a familiar hand. Her purse and keys clatter against the floor as she rushes to the door. Rachel looks up and down the hallway. When she doesn’t see him, she makes a loop through the building, his hoodie tucked in the crook of her arm and her fingers clenched around his note. 

But Billy is nowhere to be found.

Rachel gives up and trudges back, scooping up the mess of her purse. She throws the bag over her shoulder and leans against her desk, surveying the room with a melancholy eye. Everything is in its place. There’s nothing left for her to do now except walk out.

Laying Billy’s hoodie over the back of her chair, Rachel folds his message up and tucks it into her back pocket. She hasn’t read it yet. Since the drama competition, she’s been careful to be professional in her interactions with him. Adult authority figure and teacher, rather than a friend. He’s responded in kind. But yet, she has her suspicions. Billy is a brilliant actor. If he wants her to think he’s given up trying to be her shoulder to lean on, he could easily manage it. There’s a niggling in the back of her brain that says she should wait for a more appropriate setting to read it – like off-campus when she’s no longer employed as his teacher.

Rachel retracts the telescoping handle of her tote and heads for the door. Her last glance across the room sweeps over her chair, and her chest tightens. She should leave it there. Every fiber of her being knows it to be true. But she can’t do it, can’t ignore this token from the one person in this whole damn place that she ever felt a real kinship for. Before she can overthink it, Rachel snatches it up and puts it on.

Then she walks out.

The secretary is on the phone when Rachel enters the office. The older woman greets her with a questioning raise of her drawn-on brows, and Rachel jingles the keys in the air. Covering the bottom of the phone with her hand, the woman whispers, “Leave them on the counter, dear. This call is going to take a while.”

Pasting on her best approximation of a smile, Rachel nods and leaves the keyring in the secretary’s care. Then she shuffles out the door, dragging her teaching supplies and bruised self-esteem behind her.

Rachel makes it to her car before curiosity gets the better of her. After shoving her stuff into the trunk, she pulls the paper out of her pocket. Rachel starts the old Volvo, cranks up both the radio and the air conditioning, and locks the doors. Looking around to verify she’s alone in the parking lot, she takes a deep breath and unfolds the note. 

I’ve been one poor correspondent, And I’ve been too, too hard to find But it doesn’t mean you ain’t been on my mind

(You know the rest, right?) 

Rachel sits there for a long time, staring at the America lyrics written in smudged black ink. 

She refuses to answer Billy’s question even in the safety of her own head.

[authoressskr]

Write Into My Arms [1]

Characters: f!Reader, James “Bucky” Barnes, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, James “Rhodey” Rhodes, Peter Parker, Hope Van Dyne, Natasha Romanoff, Scott Lang, Wanda Maximoff, Vision, Okoye, T’Challa, Shuri, Clint Barton, Happy Hogan, Dr. Strange, Wong, Bruce Banner, Amelina Rodrigez (OFC), with mentions of Thor, Carol Danvers, Rocket Raccoon, Groot, Peter Quill, Gamora, Nebula, Mantis and Drax.

Warnings: Language, Action (in last chapter) and no Beta (just me and Grammerly up in here)  ::  Word Count: 8885  ::  Pairing: Bucky x f!Reader

This was written for @jewelofwinter’s Writing Challenge!! I also incorporated a prompt for @jaamesbbarnes + @sgtjbuccky’s D&S’ Milestone Celebration!!

Prompt: “Tin Man lost Y/N.” (@jewelofwinter’s prompt) + “Publicly, I agree. Personally, I think it’s chickenshit.” (D&S’ prompt) Bolded in text below. Prompt #1 will appear in the third part while Prompt #2 appears in the second part. The next two parts will be posted by the end of this week. All three will be linked.

Summary: You’re a small time blog writer who is invited to interview the Avengers. ALL the Avengers. 

Please do NOT repost, copy & paste, post or share my works on any other platform without my EXPRESS PERMISSION.

-+- REBLOGGING is fine and very appreciated! -+-

Looking around the compound’s living room, you can’t help but openly stare. Everything is expensive, even the doorknobs seem to know their elevated worth.

You’ve circled the room three times so far, each time slower than the last as your keen eyes searching out every minute detail. You’ve been waiting for nearly twenty minutes, which isn’t too much of a bother, and from what you’d heard from other reporters and writers isn’t that long of a wait for Tony Stark. Although your boss said that the article was supposed to cover all of the inhouse Avengers…

Happy, Tony’s chauffeur/bodyguard and right-hand man, had brought you into this room and at this point, your overthinking has begun to wonder if being made to wait here is a diversion so that he can get all the Avengers to clear out. After all, Stark Industries controls most of the press about the Avengers and they don’t do interviews...except Tony and every so often, the good Captain Rogers.

You wonder briefly if watching some YouTube would be extremely unprofessional or just a mild, millennial version of unprofessionalism.

Deciding against it, you sit on the plushest and buttery soft black leather couch, fishing around your large purse for your notebook. Carefully flipping past the first pages, you look over the list of Avengers you’ve compiled - along with basic stats, going over them for the umpteenth time since being assigned this article. And, being the person you are, you had arranged them by age, willingness to talk to you, and then on difficulty on opening up for the story.

Fishing out a pen, you make a few last-minute notes, only to feel that tell-tale prickle at the back of your neck alerts you to the three figures lingering in the large entryway that leads towards a hallway. You pop up, smoothing out your dress bottom nervously.

“Oh! Hello. I’m Y/N, writer for Undefined Muses. I’m, uh, here to interview you?”

“You don’t seem to know if you are or not,” Hawkeye, Clint Barton, says with a big smile - the last yellow traces of a bruise fading on his left cheek.

“I wasn’t sure who all had agreed to participate - and I don’t want to force anyone to do if they aren’t interested.”

“Normally, the reporters are kind of rabid about these kinds of interviews,” Natasha replies smoothly, moving into the room and perching on the arm of an oversized loveseat. She’s dressed impeccably, looking like a glamorous movie star from the thirties, with high waist black dress pants and a dark blue silk shirt with tiny red roses dotted all over.

“Well, my boss sent me because I’m,” You pause, searching for the right word. “Demure.”

“I honestly was waiting for you to say ‘unrabid’.” Clint chuckles out, tossing himself into the loveseat that Natasha is perched on directly across from where you stand.

“I’m not sure what writer would use the word ‘unrabid’. I’m also 90% sure that isn’t a word.”

“Only 90%?” Natasha queries, smiling so knowingly it makes you a little wary.

“Well, he said it, so thus it has been made a word. But you won’t find it in a dictionary. So yes, 90%.”

The large brunet, whom you knew as James Barnes, still stood by the hallway they must have come from, watching the interactions with storm blue eyes. Your shoulders tighten, straightening as you realize that they’d sent all the previous assassins in first. Quite the unsettling welcome wagon… Wait. Was this a weird sort of game? Like chicken? You very nearly chuckle, if that’s the case, because little did these people know you weren’t the bravest person - content with hiding behind your words, telling others amazing and heart wrenching stories.

“Will you all be participating?” You finally manage to get out with a smile without nerves making it forced.

“They will,” Comes the answer from behind you - Tony Stark himself, Iron Man in the flesh, says with a confidence you’d only seen on tv. “Miss Y/L/N. So glad you could make it. Plane ride enjoyable?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you so much for the use of your plane.” He waves a hand as he flashes a megawatt smile.

“No problem. No problem at all. Now, I know they’ve probably introduced themselves but that is Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, and one of the 100 plus pair, Bucky Barnes.”

“Nice to meet you all,” They all nod as Tony rubs his hands together then claps.

“Now, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying, I’ll have Happy drop your luggage in there while I show you around -”

“I’m sorry - uh, staying?” You tilt your head a tad to the left, blinking at the illustrious Mr. Stark.

“Yes. Of course, you’ll be staying here in the compound. Rhodey, Steve, and Sam are headed home as we speak, should be here sometime early tonight. Wanda and Vision are on their way back, they were having brunch at a nearby vineyard. Oh, and Thor, the Guardians of the Galaxy, and Captain Danvers should be in - oh, I don’t know - maybe 3 or 4 days. Everyone else is on site.” Logically, you know your mouth is open. You also know you should close it, but the shock…

Every. Single. Avenger.

Fuck.

“Um, I just...Sir, I didn’t mean...I only just brought...ALL OF THEM??”

“To answer your oh so eloquent questions, I did tell your boss I would be getting you as many as possible. I would have thought Mrs. Rodrigez, was it?, would have conveyed the seriousness,” He gives a little huff, smile firmly in place. “Anyhow, you’ll manage. FRIDAY will have a list of shops that will deliver here - we have a tab, just feel free to add to it.”

“Sir -”

“Tony,” He corrects.

“Tony. I will manage my own clothes, thank you. My boss did stress the importance of this interview block. I was told, however, that this was by choice for the Avengers or Stark Industries staff. Not that you’d make them come from outer space to be riddled with questions. And, Tony, I honestly don’t know why our little site was chosen to write these interviews to begin with, sir. How do you even know who I am…” You were so focused on Tony that you hadn’t realized that Wanda Maximoff, Vision, Pepper Potts (Stark?), Bruce Banner, Scott Lang, Hope Van Dyne and a man of Asian descent you couldn’t place had entered the room. Tony moves closer, peering over the couch and down into your purse, finger pulling at one of the edges to see into it.

“Well, that’s simple. I asked for you.” Eyebrows shoot upward in shock before your forehead furrows. “See, Pep read a piece you did on library and book importance - specifically in young and all school-age children. It was lying around, so I read it. And you know what? I liked the emotion. The thoughtfulness behind it. Every word was picked with such care - constructed to paint a picture. And that’s what I want you to do for us.” He gestures for you to sit, which you give a gentle shake of your head at and takes up the seat you’d been in before. He leans forward, one elbow balanced on his knee as he looks up at you. “We get good press, bad press too, but I want people to see the big picture. We’re a team. We’re a family. We sacrifice a lot to be able to do what we do. Paint that picture for me.” The spell Tony seemed to have cast on you raised and you look around to see the whole room staring at you, waiting.

You swallow hard and nod a couple of times. “I’ll do my best, Tony.” He rises and gives a nod of his own, flashing you a smile tinged with sadness that he quickly hides.

“Good. Good. Let’s get you into a guest room and then the tour. But first, some more introductions.”

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The voice in your room, in all the building you suppose, FRIDAY as she introduced herself, announced that dinner would be casual dress and served in an hour. Tony had been a gracious host, informing you he’d canceled your room at the winery - that, coincidentally, Wanda and Vision had been having brunch at earlier - before sashaying around the compound with Pepper, Scott, and Hope all in tow like a little tour group. Tony dutifully recited when it was built, remodeled, rebuilt. The layout and their functions. He adds little tidbits about visiting when he was little, making everything a little more real for you. You walk beside him, with him sometimes latching onto your elbow as you talk softly into your recorder, reminding yourself to get pictures of certain areas later with your camera.

It had been nice, Scott was witty and said aloud most of the smart ass comments you’d been thinking. Pepper kept Tony focused and Hope spent as much time as you did asking questions. The tour of the basic facilities ended back where it had begun in the living room, rain beginning to splatter against the massive wall of windows to your left.

You’d managed to find your way back to the room, 5th on the right, to find your overnight bag sitting on the end of the bed next to a plush white robe and a note from Tony stating he’d still asked for the stores to bring over things for you to pick out tomorrow and not to bother fighting him on it. Kicking off your shoes, you’d wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling window in your room to watch the raindrops slide down the glass, tucking your legs under you as you sat on the very soft, thick carpet with your notebook and pen.

Amelina, your boss and best friend, had bought you a gray, faux-leather sunflower embossed one to butter you up. Your little addiction and she knew it. You’d accepted the notebook and the assignment with little hesitation. Only to look at the notebook lying on your desk later and think ‘What the hell have I just done?!’

The first page is an outline of what Amelina had said she wanted from the articles (she ideally wanted to break them into separate pieces with each Avenger getting their own spotlight), your notes on the Avengers from digging online and the preliminary dates the article, or articles, would be posted on the site. Taking a deep breath you flip past the Avengers you’d already made lists for, adding the Guardians, Captain Danvers, Doctor Stranger, Wong (whom you’d met earlier), adding Scott and Hope as well, since they are West Coast-based and you had a 50/50 chance of actually interviewing them initially.

Your recorder would hold the interviews, your verbal notes and memos to take pictures of certain locations...but your gray notebook, that was for your notes and thoughts on their habits, likes and dislikes based on observation, how they interact with you, and how they interact with each other.

The alarm on your phone drags you away from writing a few more observations on the page designated for Pepper Potts, letting you know that you need to get up and changed for dinner. You plug your recorder in to download the tour from earlier while you change and freshen up your hair and makeup.

Your hopping on one foot, trying to shove your foot into the stupid pump when your alarm goes off again. Tossing yourself onto the end of the bed, you unplug your recorder and wiggle your foot into the pump better before heading out the door. You shove the recorder into the pocket of your skirt, making your way down the hall when the intro to “7 Rings” begins playing from the phone in your hand. With a quick swipe you answer, stopping almost halfway down the hall.

“Yes?”

“Is that any way to answer the phone?”

“It is when I’m on my way to dinner and your long-winded call could make me late.”

“Harsh, dude, harsh.” Amelina barely takes a breath before continuing. “So, whatcha got so far?”

“First of all, that isn’t how I work. How long have you known me, Lina? By the way, I’m mad at you.”

“What for?”

“You didn’t tell me I’d be staying here or that I’d be here for two weeks. I looked like an idiot in front of Tony Freaking Stark and Pepper Freaking Potts!” You hiss into the phone, tapping your foot in irritation as she chuckles on the other end of the line.

“Sorry! I honestly didn’t know how long you’d be staying -”

“Well, it’s nice that you let me know that!”

“Mr. Stark just asked how long he could have you on loan. I said a max of three weeks.”

“Oh my god, Amelina,” you groan, letting your head drop forward as you repeat in your head to breathe.

“You are such a -”

“You’re being a real bitch. I would have packed. I would have been prepared. But nooooo! Now I’m standing in a hallway wishing that your brother’s new puppy would pee in your expensive shoes!”

“Now that’s just mean!”

“I’m hanging up now. May Jedi maul all the shoes you hold dear.” You jab your thumb against the screen before taking a deep breath and continuing your trek to the living room.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

Apparently ‘casual’ at the Avengers compound is a broad term. Clint is sporting a sweatshirt with the SHIELD logo emblazoned on the front with black jogging pants and loafers. Steve has a dark blue shirt that is miraculously being held together by mere buttons, which you’re afraid if he strains, will lose their valiant efforts to keep his shirt together. His is paired with khakis and the same loafers as Clint, which amuses you for some unknown reason. Sam Wilson has a red t-shirt with a black blazer over it, dark gray jeans and some well-worn boots. As you finish taking in appearances, standing like a wallflower half-hidden by the hallway arch still, you can’t help but wonder if you should pinch yourself to see if this was reality.

Sam spots you first, or is the first to acknowledge it, and makes his way over with a friendly smile painted on his face.

“I’m Sam Wilson, nice to meet you.” His hand extends and nearly swallows your own before giving it a firm shake. You liked that. He wasn’t treating you as delicate. You detested when men did that when shaking hands with women…

“Y/N Y/L/N, nice to meet you as well.”

“Heard Tony gave you the tour.” He’s got a smirk now, eyes bright and teasing.

“Oh yeah. He offered to let me try out a suit - but only when Pepper and Steve weren’t around.”

“Killjoys,” Sam gives a serious shake of his head, chuckling as FRIDAY announces dinner is ready to be served. “Let’s get you to dinner. We’re having it in the mess hall once everyone gets here - tonight we can still have it in the actual dining room.” He offers his arm, guiding you out of the living area. “You met Bucky, right?” You give a nod, very aware the aforementioned is right behind the two of you. “His article will be the shortest. Dude’s damn near a mute unless he’s lecturing Steve, so I wish you good luck on interviewing him.”

“And here I thought that your odd friendship was all made up…” You answer slyly, hearing a snort of laughter behind you - unsure if it belongs to Steve or Bucky.

“Hey Cap, you meet the reporter?” Sam flashes you a smile as he turns the two of you around, bringing you to a hard stop so you don’t ram into the super-soldier.

“Steve Rogers, miss.” He offers his hand and gives yours a firm shake, his blue eyes holding a wariness you weren’t expecting. Captain America, wary of you? Doesn’t inspire a lot of hope in you about this whole experience…

“Y/N Y/L/N, sir.”

“Sit! Sit!” Tony orders jovially from down the table before pointing to the man at his right. “Rhodey. War Machine. Liar extraordinaire. I may need to sit in to make sure he gets all the facts straight.”

“Don’t listen to Mr. Stank over here, ma’am.”

“Unfortunately, that’s why I’m here Mr. Rhodes.” Steve pulls out your chair for you, waiting until your seated to take his seat to your left. “Thank you.”

“I think we should all get to know each other,” Tony starts, only for Rhodey to roll his eyes and Bruce to scoff from the other end of the long table.

“May I record?” You ask, watching everyone sort of tense and shuffle.

“Of course!” Tony answers as you withdraw the recorder, clicking it on and sitting it beside your plate.

“I think it’s only fair since I’ll be bothering all of you for the next two or so weeks, that you can ask me whatever you’d like as well.”

“That’s fair,” Dr. Strange concedes from his spot to your right.

“Very fair, I think,” Scott agrees, giving you a big comforting smile.

“Okay, well let’s start with where you were born.” A handful of waiters come in, setting bowls and plates onto the tabletop before disappearing.

“Family style,” Pepper clarifies before looking expectantly to you.

“I was born in California. But moved to Seattle when I was little, maybe about 3. Right before I started kindergarten we moved back to California. Been there ever since.”

“And your business?” Pepper asks, dishing some green beans onto her plate.

“It’s more Amelina’s than mine. We’re partners in the site, but I do the money part, well I prep it for the accountant - and most of the writing - and she does the schmoozing, bossing around, the sports articles and the keeping up of the site. So she’s doing the lion’s share.”

“I would think you break even,” Hope pipes up. “Well, what with you having to travel and compile the information and then write it out. Plus anything to do with money is usually more stressful. Do you both hire and fire?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We tried to hire a sports writer after we’d had the site for a year, but it didn’t work out...”

“Wait. Wait. Was it that guy that kept inserting himself into the story?” Sam laughs out, peeking around Bucky who is beside Steve. You bite back a groan.

“Yes.”

“Bucky, Rhodey - it’s that article I sent you saying that Babe Ruth was only half the baseball player he could have been and that the writer could’ve been the next Bambino.” Rhodey is at least trying not to laugh, but you can see Bucky’s shoulders shaking as you lean backward in your chair.

“That was a huge mistake. All of his work we reviewed before hiring was impeccable. I checked to make sure it wasn’t plagiarized and we called all of his references. Apparently, he’d had some experience in coding and websites, so after he handed in his first final draft, he went in an hour after Amelina posted it, and changed it. We got so many emails - we were getting all these calls... Brian up and disappeared after he did that. To this date, still haven’t had as much traffic on the site as that day.”

“Brian sounds like a douche,” Wanda mutters with a smile, taking a sip from her wine glass. You look down at your plate, finding it overflowing with more food than you’d put on there. You raise an eyebrow at Steve, who just shrugs and puts a forkful of potato salad in his mouth with a smile.

“Yeah. I blacklisted him.”

“Blacklisted how?” Clint manages around a mouthful of bread.

“Oh, um, well I emailed almost every single media outlet in California, Washington, Oregon, and Nevada. Then I asked them to forward it to their parent stations or owners. So basically, after a year of emailing people, most blogs, newspapers, tv stations, circulars, and YouTube hosts in California to Kentucky know not to deal with anyone going by his name. I helped a reporter from Pennsylvania with her story, and she began emailing people on the East Coast about it. All emails included his picture too, just in case he went by another name.”

“Effective. A bit ruthless.” Vision is seated between Wanda and Rhodey, nodding in approval.

“No! Not ruthless!” You defend, voice rising a little before the heat rises in your neck and cheeks. “Sorry. I just didn’t want anyone to get dinged as we did. We had to say a lot of apologies and lost a lot of work because of his pointless self-involved rant. And I mean, who goes after Babe Ruth?”

“Balls but no brains,” Scott adds, the two of you nodding. He points his fork at your plate. “Eat.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“That’s what you’re here for.” Tony chuckles out.

“What do you guys do in times like these? When there aren’t aliens or Loki or HYDRA? Like a big spa day for all of you guys? Karaoke?”

“To be honest,” Natasha begins. “There aren’t a lot of days like this when we are all free at the same time. But honestly, it’s more watching and waiting than action and aliens.”

“Kind of miss SHIELD to kind of take care of the day to day bad guy cartel and mafia stuff?” You manage around a mouthful of pasta. Sweet Jesus, it was decadent and cheesy.

“Sometimes I miss the help,” Clint admits.

“What Clint means is that he misses telling people what to do.” Sam teases, tossing a bread roll at him across the table, which Clint catches without even looking away from you.

“Hey! I didn’t tell people what to do. They just did it.”

“Did you buy a bar just to tear it down, Tony?” Tony smiles around a forkful of steak.

“Yes. Yes, I did. Ross just rubs me the wrong way.”

“To be fair, I think he rubs everyone the wrong way.”

“You’ve met him?” Steve sounds surprised, eyebrows raised in what you hope is astonishment.

“Unfortunately. I was in college and had to write a piece on something or someone whom you don’t agree with. Now I am all for soldiers but upper management sucks in the military, no offense Mr. Rhodes. But, everywhere, really... I just think the old guys in Congress and equally old guys in the upper ranks are calling the shots on things they shouldn’t be interfering in, as far as college me was concerned. Ross irritated me for the simple reason that he was the smartest person in the room and no matter what I said, what facts I had, what questions I asked, I would always be wrong. Never disliked being called ‘sweetheart’ so much in my life. Hard to have a conversation with the other side when they talk to you like that. Plus, I got a D on that paper, so he sucks in my book.”

“I told him to call me if he needed help. Then I left him on hold. In my own defense, I did warn him earlier I did like to watch the light blink.” Rhodey snorts into his glass at Tony’s admission.

“Like a tiny Christmas light of joy.” Steve comments, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

You shove a forkful of green beans into your mouth, giving a little sigh at how damn good it tasted before spearing a few more and eating those as Scott launches into the tale of him, Cassie, Luis and his ex-wife’s husband all hanging Christmas lights - only for the new husband to find he’d rewired and programmed them to blink in super slow motion with the fastest Christmas songs he could find and vice versa. And every 9 hours and 45 minutes, it played La Cucaracha, perfectly in time with the lights. There are a few chuckles around the table, but you’re laughing pretty damn hard.

“That’s brilliant actually! The deviousness lies in the amount of annoying that they could take. Having to time your exit must have been a bitch.”

“He and one of his buddies took it all down, bought new lights and hung those up. Cassie told me she missed hearing the Chipmunks, so I remotely programmed a timer so it would play the Christmas Don’t Be Late song right before her bedtime.”

“Cassie sounds like a wonderful girl. And very lucky to have you for her father.” Scott looks flustered but gives you the brightest smile before looking down at his empty plate.

“Th-thank you.”

“Of course. Do you guys do Netflix around here? Movie night?”

“Your mind is everywhere…” Hope says with a grin. “That’s good.”

“And to answer your question - yes. We have Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime…” Sam trails off as the waiters reappear, clearing the table only to return seconds later with plates of beautiful personal assorted desserts. If this was how they ate, you’d hate to see their exercise regime. Oh god, you hoped you weren’t expected to work out with them...

“I was just wondering how you all decide on a show. Do Steve and Bucky have lists? Like are you all working through AFI’s 100 Greatest Movies? I think I’ve only seen 20 of them. Do you all binge shows together?”

“Pep started a rotation. So if it’s your Sunday night and you’re in the compound or tower, then you pick the movie or show. If you aren’t here, it goes to the next person on the list.”

“Sometimes after a mission, it’s usually just decided to watch tv shows just cause we all sort of zone out,” Steve whispers after Tony’s answer, taking a big scoop of his parfait.

“We’ve never been invited,” Wong pipes up, frowning at Tony.

“Oh, I invited both you and Strange right after Pepper made the schedule. If Strange didn’t relay that…” Dr. Strange just rolls his eyes.

“I mentioned it.”

“You didn’t say it was a regular occurrence.” Wong huffs out before biting into a ladyfinger.

“Like an old married couple,” Clint chuckles out, his desserts all gone as he leans contentedly back in his chair. You give your head a small shake at their exchange before reaching to stop your recorder.

“Well, thank you so much for that delicious meal. And thank you for letting me record. I hope I get less awkward as this goes on.”

“This was awkward?” Wanda raises an eyebrow, making you fiddle with the recorder before tucking it into your pocket.

“Okay, well, um then it will get more awkward before it gets less awkward.” You all rise, pushing in your chairs before wandering out of the dining room and back towards the living areas.

“You’ll find out we’re all awkward. Well, except me.” You nod seriously at Tony’s words, managing to see Bucky roll his eyes at Tony’s words. Huh. Who knew… “Nightcap?”

“Oh, no. Thank you. I’m so full I don’t think I could even manage that.”

“Then we’ll say goodnight.” A chorus of goodnights echoes around the large living room.

“Goodnight everyone.”

You totter off to your room, cursing the fact that you’re so sleepy right now. After washing your face, brushing your teeth and changing into your pajamas, you shuffle down under the covers.

“Well, that wasn’t the most awkward or silent dinner I’ve ever been to…” You mutter before sleep drags you under.

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In the morning, you wake up earlier than you usually tend to, sitting on the floor in your pajamas in front of the rain-splattered window with your headphones on - going over the recordings, transcribing them and making notes in your dotted notebook, since it better served to add afterthoughts to. Not the nice orderly layout of your new notebook. And you’re so involved in listening and typing, snatching up the notebook beside you to jot down memos, that you don’t hear Steve and Tony calling your name and you sure as hell don’t hear them enter.

The scream accounts for that, Bucky and Sam barrelling through your door as you look up at Steve and Tony with wide eyes, shoving your headphones off.

“We’re sorry.” Tony barely restrains a chuckle. “I’m sorry. I had FRIDAY see if you were awake, then came to get you for breakfast, but,” He laughs now, the skin by his eyes crinkling. “You didn’t answer.”

“Maybe we should think about a different system!” You blurt as you stare up at the four men.

“Yes. Definitely,” Tony chuckles. “Next time I’ll have FRIDAY blink the lights to alert you.”

“Thank you!”

“Our pleasure.” Steve grins out, extending a hand.

“No, I’m fine here, thanks.” Steve shrugs, the smile not disappearing.

“Well, we’ll leave you to get dressed for breakfast. The shops are due to arrive after breakfast for you to pick some more clothes for your stay. Sam has also requested to be your first interview.” Sam winks at you from Cap’s left, sporting a wide smile as Bucky’s gaze goes from Sam to you.

“Thanks again.” You peer around Steve. “And thank you two for coming so quickly.”

“Anytime, Y/N.” Sam delivers smoothly, Bucky rolling his eyes before making a swift exit. The other three leave with smiles on their faces.

It takes you several minutes to realize you were in your pajamas; a worn and oversized ‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’ shirt paired with sleep shorts that could barely be seen peeking under the hem of your shirt.

“Jeez…” You groan, rubbing a hand over your face before closing the laptop and tossing your notebooks on the bed.

Ten minutes later you have your teeth brushed and you’re dressed in adequate attire, shuffling nervously into the kitchen area on the other side of the bar in the living room. Clint and Bucky are cooking, Wanda weaving between the two expertly. You slip in the seat next to Hope, her hair in a ponytail and dressed in workout clothes.

“How long has everyone been up?” You whisper-ask, setting your recorder and notebook beside the empty plate that Natasha sets in front of you with a small smile. You return it as Hope cuts her pancake which is riddled with syrup, fruit and whipped cream.

“We all did a workout before breakfast,” She puts a big bite of sugar-laden pancake in her mouth, “Speeds up your metabolism.”

“Where’s Scott?”

“Here.” He mutters, slipping into the seat on the other side of Hope.

“Not a morning person?”

“I enjoy my sleep.”

“Thank god. Me too. Under normal circumstances.”

“Yes,” A new voice pipes up from the other side of the room, making you lean back to see who it is. “We heard about the intrusion this morning.”

“Holy - Princess Shuri!” After nearly tripping trying to slither out of your stool, you manage to get upright and extend a hand. “So lovely to meet you.”

“Thank you. It is lovely to meet you as well. I read your articles after Tony mentioned you were selected to do the interviews, and I must say that when you do scientific articles, there is a very nice flow and imagery that one does not usually get.”

“Thank you! I’m sure whoever I’ve interviewed in the science community doesn’t care for all the questions I have after the interview, so I’m glad that it reads well to a genius.”

“You will just make her head bigger, Miss Y/L/N.”

“King T’Challa, wonderful to meet you.” You breathe a deep breath of relief as he extends his hand, giving it a firm shake with a warm smile.

“Wonderful to meet you as well. Please sit, you must keep your strength up if you are to deal with all of us.” There is mischief in his eyes, the twinkle of a man temporarily unburdened.

“That bad?”

“Wait ‘til the Guardians are here!” A male voice pipes up, followed by a tossing sound and a huffed “Sorry!”

“Peter Parker, ma’am.” Your eyebrows shoot up as you automatically stick out your hand.

“Spider-Man,” Tony supplies as he walks by with a bowl of oatmeal. Honestly, your only thought is that he’s a baby and should be protected at all cost.

“Yeah, I think I saw a post on Instagram about someone in New York making Spider-Man ice creams...So you’re the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?” Peter blushes, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t worry, kid. Pep had her sign contracts before she even came. She can’t reveal your identity.”

“Oh. Okay then.” His smile brightens at least a hundred watts. “Did you eat yet? Mr. Barnes makes the best pancakes!”

“Does he now?” Bucky’s back is to you, so you can’t see his expression, but there are already two hot pancakes setting on your plate next to several pieces of bacon. “I’m going to gain so much weight while I’m here…” You sigh, actually not the least bit bothered by it once you bite into the pancake, it’s buttery soft fluff filling your mouth, the second bite revealing a tiny melted chocolate chip to add to the deliciousness. Flipping open your notebook, you scribble down a note: Bucky Barnes = wonderful pancakes. Peter sees it and ducks his head as he takes his plate over to where Shuri is sitting, the two of them bent over a tablet when you glance over your shoulder.

Everything is terribly domestic. Normal.

And you want them to enjoy it. Cause honestly, after all that’s happened, they truly deserve a little peace and camaraderie.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

”Okay, so is this alright?” You ask, settling a little more into the plush blood-red chair in Sam’s bedroom, his desk to your right littered with your notebook, your phone, the recorder, and several pens.

“Great. I’m good to go.” You pick up the recorder, clicking it on with a nervous smile directed at Sam before you began.

“Interview One: Sam Wilson, known as Falcon. Okay, Sam, please tell me a little about yourself?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Let’s just start with the basics - like speed dating.”

“I’ve never been speed dating.”

“Well, aren’t we the lucky one?”

“Wait - you’ve been speed dating?”

“Unfortunately. It was for an article but nothing really was romantic or fun about asking the same questions of men who aren’t looking you in the eye.”

“Don’t gotta worry about that here. Our mamas all raised us right.”

“Noted. Alright, so I’ll ask the nice fluffy questions first.”

“Working our way up to the heavy hitter ones.”

“Exactly. What’s your favorite thing to do in New York, besides save it? What was your childhood dream job? Favorite Disney movie? How do you like your coffee?”

“Eat. Man, I love food. They have a little gumbo place in Harlem,” He kisses the tips of his fingers. “Best Southern food up here. As for my childhood dream job - man, I love birds. I wanted to train raptors, rehabilitate them...or I wanted to be a chef ‘cause I enjoy food. All kinds. Man, I haven’t seen a Disney movie in ye -- well, that’s not true because Spider-Nerd made us watch Toy Story 4 the other day...but probably a tie between Fantasia and The Rescuers. And coffee? That I take black with room so I can add cream and three sugars.”

“Good memory skills. Want more difficult ones now?”

“Oh yeah, I’m ready,” He rubs his hands together with a smile spreading quickly across his face.

“If Stark does a superhero calendar, which month do you want and what are you wearing for it?” His laughter is loud and boisterous, his hands braced on his knees before looking at you.

“Whew - went right for it, didn’t you? Are you asking everyone this question? Can I be there when you ask Cap and Bucky? I bet you twenty bucks that Tony says he’s thought of it before and he wants December cause of the gift he is.” You lean over and make a note of it in your notebook.

“I’ll take that bet. I counter with he doesn’t want to do one but he’d like to be July.” He extends his hand and you shake it firmly, mustering up a serious expression as you did so before settling in to wait for his answer.

“Man, okay. Uh, I think I’d like to be August. Not as hot but not cold either, with those pre-fall feelings. And I’m getting the tightest red shirt I own, along with my favorite pair of jeans. But I could be persuaded to dress sexier - nice fitted suit and tie.”

“Why’d you join the Air Force?”

“I just wanted to help people. And I wanted to see the world. My mom was okay with it since she figured the Air Force weren’t the first to deploy and that I’d be mostly out of harm’s way. But I enjoyed the regimen, the camaraderie I had with the other guys. But when my wingman, my partner Riley, died -- you, you know I just didn’t want to be apart of that anymore after that. I decided I’d get more out of life if I helped other soldiers deal with their problems.” He pauses, searching your face for something before continuing. “I met Steve one day when we were both out running. I knew who he was, but I also knew he was just like any other soldier who had come home and was looking to adjust - looking to find his place.”

“So you did what came naturally - you offered a sympathetic ear and some words for him to think on.”

“Yep. And, honestly, I enjoyed getting to know Steve Rogers. I think we have a lot in common, just morals and being a good soldier, but it’s more important to be a better man than all of that.”

“You really admire him.”

“Of course I do. He’s my best friend. I wouldn’t trade what I had to go through - what we all had to go through - to have it done any other way. I mean, it was brutal in some places, but I’d do it all again -- I sure as hell don’t want to, but I would.”

“May I ask why you chose to follow Steve instead of, say, Col. Rhodes? Both military, both having friends who sort of go rogue, both just wanting to do the right thing…”

“Rhodey and I are good friends, don’t get me wrong. But he had a lot on his plate: The military. Ross. Tony. Still dealing with the fallout of SHIELD in the upper ranks. I would follow Rhodey for a lot of things, but I won’t fight against any of the other Avengers again unless they’re mind-controlled or some shit.”

“Peanut butter and jelly or ham and cheese?” You ask softly, giving him a kind smile.

“Peanut butter and jelly.” He says with his own soft smile.

“Can I pet Redwing?” He perks up at that question.

“Yeah, come on, I’ll show him to you.”

“Maybe the suit too?” You tease, gathering up your notebook and phone, shoving the latter into your pocket before the extra pens you’d brought got shoved right along in there. You carefully pick up the recorder, holding it aloft as Sam holds open his bedroom door.

Once you’ve petted Redwing, letting Sam fly it around you. Luckily you were smart enough to stop at your room first for your camera, most of the time focusing on the light in Sam’s eyes as he looks at his little buddy before Steve and Clint come into the hanger, Clint playfully throwing a few rocks as Redwing dodges them, the three of them joking as they stand in a semi-circle and watch. All the while you watch them through the lens, happily snapping pictures before you notice Bucky leaning against the hangar door a handful of feet away. He looks like he’s a model, a small smile on his face that’s half turned away from you with one hand - his metal hand - tucked into the pocket of his black, worn-looking jacket. You snap a few pictures before he turns his head towards you, the smile disappearing. You snap a picture anyway before lowering the lens and smiling as warmly at him as you can. He gives a little nod before pushing off the door and disappearing around the corner.

Clint drags you to the archery range after that, carefully digging through his arrows as he answers question after question.

“Okay, Clint, last one: If Stark does a superhero calendar, which month do you want and what are you wearing for it?” Clint snickers, his shoulders gently moving.

“Really? Well, alright then. I think I’d like to be January. And I think I want to be dressed in a velvet eggplant jacket with a black shirt and some black underwear.” You nearly snort when he wiggles his eyebrows and gives you a lazy smile, twirling an arrow.

“Boxers? Briefs? Thong?”

“I think some nice fitting briefs. Don’t want to make too many people jealous if I bust out my thong…”

“I certainly learned a whole lot about you, so thank you for that, Clint.”

“Anytime, sweet cheeks. Anytime.” He leads you back to the living room for your last interview of the morning before you all break for lunch. “Wanda! I got your girl here!” Wanda is standing by the hallway, a cup in each hand with a smile gracing her too-pretty face. She gestures with her head, her red hair swinging slightly. Clint doesn’t let you go initially, pushing his cheek closer to you.

“Alright, alright, Mr. Sweet cheeks.” You concede, kissing his cheek before watching him saunter past the others, tossing himself down onto the couch beside Scott with a chuckle.

“Good luck!” Sam hollers, making Wanda glare at him for a second before you follow her down the hall.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

Wanda is teaching you a few words in Romanian when you emerge from her room for lunch.

Lunch is already laid out as you repeat “Nu, mulţumesc” until she nods.

“And that means?”

“No, Thank you.” You answer obediently.

“Now, combine everything.”

“Ce fasi! Mici sărutări pentru tine în această după-amiază. Nu, mulțumesc. Aș prefera să fac un tort.” [Little kisses to you all this afternoon. No, thank you. I'd rather have a cake.]

Bucky and Natasha shake their heads with a smile.

“And that means?”

“What are you doing? Little kisses to you all this afternoon. No, thank you. I’d rather have a cake.” Wanda chuckles out, giving your arm a loving pat.

“It was something my mother always said to my father. He said little kisses to us all and she said she would rather have cake. Y/N said it beautifully. Very naturally.”

“I am a wonderful parrot.” You smile out before Tony pokes his head in and whistles.

“Lunch!”

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

Bruce’s interview after lunch is filled with long pauses, his answers thought out and sometimes not what you expected. He takes you through his lab and then he suggests a short jaunt around the garden to finish the interview. When he excuses himself, you stay in the French-style garden, snapping a few scenic pictures and unwinding a bit from the interviews of today.

With four down, you’re feeling pretty perky about the whole series, trying not to think about the 25 or 26 more interviews you needed to do. Wandering through, your fingertips brushing over the perfectly trimmed hedges before spotting a few wild sunflowers towards the path leading into the woods. Carefully kneeling you take a picture, frowning as it’s just not quite right. You settle on your belly, one foot rising into the air as you refocus the camera and nail the picture you wanted!

You don’t even realize that Bucky is taking your picture as you grin at your camera, entirely too pleased with your results before you regain your footing and trek back to the compound.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

You shoot for six interviews the next day, just trying to get them done before the Guardians, Thor and Captain Danvers arrive...Tony having casually mentioned recording a video group interview of sorts before you left. Which didn’t stress you out at all.

Not.

Hope’s interview was witty and broadening...how she described quantum physics (which just led to more questions) was outstanding.

Scott’s was quick-witted, dry and peppered with his pretty broad knowledge of electrical engineering, Captain America, and songs from the 80s. He was very open about his conviction and time in prison, his decision to be ankle monitored to be with his daughter, and how he feels all of this may affect her in the future. He’s an achingly good person and you add him to your “Protect At All Costs” mental list you’ve started.

Steve is stiff. He doesn’t see the humor in your calendar question (you have to show him the Australian firefighter one with the baby animals for reference) to which he begrudgingly requests the month of May and says a casual suit with flowers in lieu of a pocket square. You suggest him sitting slightly towards a camera, painting a field full of flowers...he seems to like the idea and it makes him relax a little - and you’ll have to thank Sam for that tidbit of information he’d given you. You ask Steve a lot about his life before Captain America, how he thinks it would have gone differently if Dr. Erskine had lived, and what he initially liked about the modern world. He tells you about art school and Bucky, getting beat up on a near regular basis in alleys all over Brooklyn, how he discovered Mr. Rogers’ TV show early one afternoon after moving into the compound.

Vision, on the other hand, doesn’t have a lot of life experience to draw upon but he’s a wealth of knowledge. He talks about JARVIS and ULTRON, the differences between the two of them and Tony, he talks about how DUM-E knows who he is and how loyal he is to Tony. He then shows you who DUM-E is, the bot jerkily “shaking” your hand as you marvel over how not just Tony has evolved but his creations as well. Do you coo how smart and handy the robot it? Of course. But it’s worth it to see the robot nodding as you talk about how smart his dad is. DUM-E then gives you a tiny circuit board before you leave, Vision remarking that he likes you very much to have done so. You scribble down a note to ask Tony if that’s okay that you have that.

Peter is your last interview before dinner, and holy cow, everyone in the compound is a fucking genius. Peter tells you about his web fluid, the neighborhood where he’s grown up, and it’s clear how much he admires Tony from how reverently he speaks. Their relationship, you notice, is a little more parent/child than a mentor/mentee relationship. It’s adorable with a tinge of awkward. Peter shows you pictures he’s taken swinging all over New York and you show him where he can get a Spider-Man ice cream. He asks you just as many questions as you do and you chuckle when he refers to nearly every movie before his date of birth as “a really old movie”. You show him a few Charlie Chaplin shorts to show him what exactly “really old” is. He, in turn, shows you Tik Tok videos that you both laugh over.

“Do you like serial killer stuff?” He asks as you both head to the dining room for dinner, tucking his phone back into his pocket, both sets of your sneakers squeaking ever so slightly on the expensive floors.

“I think most women do.”

“Why do you think that?” His little focused face is adorable, trying to link it up in his head.

“Women always think they can do things better. And they’re usually right, just to let you know.” He nods seriously. “We’re outraged by it but intrigued. Pretty sure women can get blood out of just about anything - I’ve gotten red nail polish out of khaki pants by sheer will alone. It’s different for everyone, I guess. But mostly I think it helps us to collectively learn how to plausibly commit the perfect murder while we drink wine from the couch and shove snacks in our faces. And possibly solve a crime in our heads.”

“Huh,” Peter’s brow is still furrowed but he’s nodding his understanding. Peter looks up to find Bucky studying you, and when you look at Peter, he’s just smiling. “Excuse me.” You nod, watching him high-five Shuri before you feel someone by your side. Dr. Strange gestures to your ever-moving seat, which tonight is between Okoye and Wanda.

“Thank you,” you murmur gratefully, not noticing the quick clench of Bucky’s hand as he moves around Strange to his own seat opposite Natasha.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

Rhodey steals you after dinner, Sam teasing him as they disappear to his office.

“Come on, man. Just talk to her.”

“Shut up, bird brain.”

“She’s pretty nice. I was concerned she was just gonna go after us, with the questioning, but she eased into it and just didn’t focus on the darker stuff. She seems to want to get to know us as people.”

“It’s weird, huh?” Clint comments as Hope nods.

“It’s nice to be treated like a person. Not someone who’s infallible or holier than thou…” T’Challa remarks from his spot in the plush crimson chair across from them.

“Very inclusive, as well,” Okoye adds as Shuri and Peter come skidding into the room, Peter holding a tablet.

“What are you two doing?” Steve asks as he arches one blonde eyebrow high at the two.

“Nothing,” Shuri says smoothly, Peter nodding a few times too many when Tony comes into the room.

“Why is there a herd of deer in my hanger?” Both teens shoot off towards the patio door, laughing the whole time. “I don’t know what they did, but Redwing is acting like a herding dog with them, so you might need to go check that out, Sam.”

“Damn kids, I swear...I’m gonna need to squash me a spider…” He mutters loudly, heading briskly for the hanger.

“So, you gonna talk to our little journalist?” Tony smirks down at Bucky, which makes him scowl at the billionaire.

“I’m supposed to do that tomorrow,” He grumbles, making Tony smirk harder.

“You know that’s not what I mean, Tin Man.” Bucky wisely says nothing as he tries to calm his ramping up heart rate. “Even the kids have noticed you looking.”

“He has some competition,” Vision adds, smiling at Wanda who tilts her head slightly but returns his smile. “DUM-E.” Tony snorts, shaking his head as he turns away to gather himself.

“The robot? So the two are evenly matched then.” Natasha chuckles out, taking a healthy sip of her gin and tonic as she meets Bucky’s eyes.

“Nat, that’s not fair. The robot shook her hand and gave her a circuit board. He’s leagues ahead of Buck.” Clint teases, taking Natasha’s drink and taking his own healthy sip before handing it back. Bucky looks at his best friend, who is trying desperately to stop his shoulders from shaking with his laughter.

“40’s you would be ashamed. A robot who can’t talk?”

“Bucky Barnes vs a Roomba!” Shuri comments from behind Tony before making a break for it down the hallway with Sam hot on her tail. T’Challa, Okoye, and Bucky all point Sam down the hallway where she disappeared to when he comes panting into the living room.

“Now me is more inclined to hit your once-asthmatic ass for being the little shit you are,” Bucky growls at Steve, getting up from the couch turning to head to his room, only to freeze when he sees you and Rhodey standing by Peter in the door frame to the patio.

“Do you know there are deer in the hanger? And are you guys running a weird robot/human fight club?”

“Is that all you heard?” Tony asks, turning around and slinging his arm over the back of the couch with a smile flirting on his lips.

“We picked up the pace getting in here when we heard Shuri shout Bucky Barnes vs a Roomba. I mean, I’ve seen a raccoon with a machine gun, so that would have just been something else to add to the Weird Shit I’ve Seen list.” You press your lips together hard to keep from laughing at Rhodey’s nonchalant attitude and suddenly, Bucky isn’t as pissy as before. Well, he is - but at his friends - not at you.

Shit.

It’s been three days. Three fucking days and he’s smitten.

“Goodnight,” He says gruffly before retreating down the hall.

He’s nearly in his room, so he doesn’t hear you ask if you’ve done something wrong.

::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx:::xxxxxxxxxx::

Tagging: @jewelofwinter @sgtjbuccky @jaamesbbarnes @thewhiterabbit42 @nobodys-baby-now @unleashthemidnight @stay-frosty-royal-unicorn @chelsea072498 @clockworkmorningglory @sakurablossom4 @marichromatic @blondecoffeecake @ourloveisforthelovely @whinywingedwinchester @feelmyroarrrr

NOTE: Found the pic online and edited it, props to Google and all rights/privileges/ownership goes to who took the photo and to Marvel who made up all these characters. 

[PART 2]

[leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid]

Last Stop on the Tour

Pairing: Dean x Psychic!Reader

Word Count: 730

Warnings: Angst, season 14 spoilers

Summary: Dean’s got one last stop on his goodbye tour

Author’s Note: The soundscape I use to fall asleep to inspired this. Sorry not sorry for the pain.

Water came down in sheets, soaking the ground in thick rivlets, so loud you could hardly hear yourself think. Not that you wanted to. Because you knew this visit from Dean was more than it seemed from outward appearances.

“Dean, why are you here?” You spoke over the rain, turning on the porch swing you were settled on together.

When Dean had pulled up, his black beauty of a car rumbling the foundation of your tucked away home, you had just made up your spot on the porch. Red and black plaid blanket, a large cup of steaming hot black tea, the latest trashy novel the gas station down the road had, and your faithful husky Sasha by your feet.

He’d made it just before the storm hit, his boots hitting the top step just as thunder cracked over head and rain burst from the gray clouds.

“Pull up a seat, Deano. Shows only just started.” Vaguely you gestured toward the storm and a growl of warming had you glancing down at the blue eyed dog at your feet. “Shh, Sasha. It’s just Dean,” you reminded her, watching as again she slumped down to the wood deck, satisfied she’d protected you enough.

Instead of returning your gaze, Dean stared out at the dark, wet sky. “Can’t a guy come visit an old friend.”

Tilting your head with a huff, you reached for your mug, letting the heat seep into your fingers. “Sure, but that ain’t what this is.”

Your words hung in the air and you sipped from your tea, waiting for Dean to slip what it was waiting behind his casual lies.

“Sammy tell you I might be coming?”

“No, but I didn’t expect him to. He still thinks I’m gone. Out of the supernatural world and safe, like any human might. Course people like me can’t ever really escape it.” The spot behind your ear tickled, your sense that something bad was coming creeping closer as you rubbed your fingers over it.

“I’m sorry I got you into this life,” he muttered, his head dropping to look at the toe of his boot in shame.

Letting out a click of dismissal with your tongue, you sipped your tea that was losing it’s heat rapidly. “You didn’t get me into nothing. I was born in it. Just took you walking through my front door for it to come more into focus.” Setting your mug back down on the table by your swing, you pursed your lips before asking again, “Dean, quit stalling and tell me why you’re here.”

Moisture gathered behind olive eyes as he raised them up to look into yours and you held back your urge to touch the hunter, to comfort him with your love.

“I’ve gotta say goodbye.”

His words were a whisper, choked out between chapped lips. The heels of his hands catching his head as it dropped into his lap. No amount of pressure was going to keep those tears at bay.

“You’ve said goodbye before but this time it’s for sure, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” came his shaky reply.

Looking back up, Dean clenched his jaw and wiped a lone hand over his face. Misty greens turning to focus on you. “I fucked up and I’m scared.”

You tried to pop your neck, feeling the claws of your gift take hold and show you the glow of blue eyes behind your lids. Michael’s.

“Can we fix it? Certainly there is a way.”

“No. Sam’s tried.” His words were so final and your heart ached seeing the one man you could ever see yourself loving give up.

“So you drove all the way out here to say goodbye, expecting me not to try and save you from the angel?”

Dean hung his head. He knew you’d see it eventually. He could never hide anything from you. Not even his feelings but even then, he figured you knew and chose to let him decide.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

Your eyelids fluttered closed, the rain outside your safe bundle still booming around you as you took a deep breath of cold, wet air. Though the breath was cleansing, it did nothing to provide answers to this problem before you.

Opening your eyes, you reached for Dean’s hand that hung limply in his lap. Wrapping your fingers around the digits and squeezing.

“Okay then. Lets say goodbye.”

Thank you so much for reading and if you like what you’ve read, maybe buy me a whiskey or two.

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Forever Tags: @mrswhozeewhatsis @chelsea072498 @kayteonline @dean-winchesters-bacon @thatbandchick39 @maddiepants  @deans-wife-has-needs @gabrielslittleangel @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @mariekoukie6661 @thewinchesterchronicles  @spnwoman @tumbler-tidbits @mogaruke @elwmjfr110611 @team-free-will-you-idjits-67 @spnskinnyballs @dutch-girl @meganwinchester1999 @spn-fan-girl-173 @sofreddie @carowinsthings @katymacsupernatural @followingrose @mirandaaustin93 @brokencasbutt67-writer @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @high-heels-and-demon-deals @deansgirl79 @pretty-fortune @supernatural-fangirl13 @akshi8278 @ilovefanfic86 @lowlyapprentice @starfirerules @dayannaromero16 @musiclovinchic93 @arses21434 @caitlinocalypse @xtina2191  @klanceiscannon14 @just-another-busyfangirl

[freshlyjuicedbeetles]

Sins of the Father

Shego meets with her father. Heavy angst.

Warnings: Child abuse and forced eating disorders, some gore.

The phone at the robotics workstation rang, startling Drakken, causing him to solder through the motherboard.

He groaned loudly. He had been working on that motherboard for days!

“What?” He snapped, answering the phone.

“Stephanie?” The voice on the other line questioned.

Drakken leaned back in his seat, “Listen, pal if you think I sound like a Stephanie we both have issues.”

“Is Stephanie Gordon there?”

Drakken’s eyes narrowed, “How’d you get this number?”

“Is she there?” The voice asked, getting tired of Drakken’s perceived runaround.

“No, she’s not.” Drakken was getting suspicious and it sounded in his voice. GJ had sent her on a short mission for the day.

The man on the other end sighed, “Just- just tell her to call me. My number is still the same. I’m her father.” The call abruptly disconnected.

Drakken sat back up in his chair and thought. Shego and her father Sam had been estranged for longer than Drakken had known her. She had divulged little tidbits of his parenting which were less than stellar at best and abusive at worst.

Through the GJ computers, Drakken could run a full background check on this guy. He didn’t trust him. What did he want all of a sudden? Drakken knew criminals (the irony was not lost on him) and as much as Drakken hoped he wasn’t, Gordon could be up to something. If he so much as sneezed near a traffic camera, GJ would show it.

Samuel James Gordon, divorced from Shego’s and her brother’s mother for several years, a failed MMA fighter, terrible credit score, lives in the not so good part of town, unemployed but has self-published a book on Team Go. No criminal history and no weapons registered to him. This guy was a Loser with a capital L who lived vicariously through his kids, mostly Shego. Drakken was satisfied that Gordon probably wasn’t up to anything. It was up to Shego if she wanted to speak to him.

Midevening rolled around, and the lab began to shut down for the night. Techs and assistants turned off their computers and all unnecessary equipment shut down. Paul was fed and put in her kennel for the night. Overnight security began to show up. Drakken never noticed the lively hum the running lab emitted until it was gone.

Shego walked in with a few other GJ agents who had friends or partners that worked for him, the burning sun shining behind her. In her catsuit and flowing raven hair, laughing with one of her colleagues, she looked absolutely beautiful. And powerful. Stars, what did she see him?

“Hey loser,” She greeted, walking up to his workstation. ‘Loser’ had somehow become a term of endearment from her to him long ago. “What do you want for dinner? Heath gave me more Bueno Nacho gift cards for my birthday and it sounds kinda good right now. That sound good to you? I don’t feel like cooking.”

Drakken was a million miles away. He had no idea how he was going to tell her that her father was asking for her. He would never keep anything from her, but he also wanted to protect her from any emotional trauma Gordon’s presence brought about. Once again, Drakken reminded himself that it was up to her to decide what to do.

“Yeah, sounds good.” Drakken answered.

“Sweet,” Shego replied, going off to change.

As much as Drakken was annoyed with GJ’s restrictions, the little amenities assuaged him, like a laundry and tailor service. Apparently, his lab gear and her suit needed to be laundered a certain way? It took him a very long time to figure out that leather cannot survive the rinse and dry cycle. Shego had only been at his side for a week when she commented that he looked like he was mottling. The leather of his lab coat was dry and cracked. Once he thought about it yeah, it made sense, he dealt with biohazardous and/or corrosive materials on a daily basis, things he really didn’t want to bring home on his clothing. Every morning in his office, he was greeted by a fresh lab coat hanging up and his lab boots expertly shined. Shego’s own suits were cleaned as well.

Shego emerged in a black tank top, her hair pulled back and comfy shorts, her purse slung over her shoulder. Soon, they headed home.

Shego had her long legs kicked up on the dashboard, soaking up the dying sun, her sunglasses on and her shoes off as she scrolled through her phone. Drakken saw the opportunity.

“Get any weird calls lately?” He asked, swallowing hard.

“No,” Shego replied casually, “Our provider is pretty good at filtering out spam and robocalls.”

“Really?” Drakken paused, “I did.”

“Oh yeah?” Shego said, still looking at her phone, “What was it?”

“Uh, it was your dad, looking for you.”

Shego froze. “What?”

“I didn’t give him your number. He said he wants to talk. His number is still the same.”

Shego sighed, “I’m not talking to him.”

“You don’t have to,” Drakken replied.

There was a tense silence.

“What does he even want?”

“I dunno.” Drakken shrugged, “He didn’t say.”

Shego threw her head back against the seat and pouted, “Would I be a bad daughter if I ignored him?”

“I don’t think I’m the greatest moral compass, Stef, but from everything you told me, you don’t own him anything.”

Shego’s head rolled to look out the window. She groaned. “I guess I’ll talk to him. It might be important.”

~*~

Shego drug her feet on contacting her father, but Drakken didn’t push her. She had been tense and quiet and snappy the entire week. Late Thursday afternoon, she made the call and arranged to meet with him that Saturday at a café. Shego didn’t linger on the line for conversation. A café, public but non-committal, you weren’t stuck there through the appetizer and entre round if things went south.

Drakken parked in front of the café. Shego sighed and grabbed her purse from the floorboards.

“Want me to go in with you?” He asked, hoping to offer support.

“No. Keep the car running.” She said, pushing her sunglasses to her head.

Drakken hoped this went well, for her sake.

Shego went in and ordered a black coffee and sat down. Shego took a seat and from where she sat, Drakken could see her and her table fine, minus a glare. She just wanted Drew there without actually being there.

They both sat for a few moments when a scrawny but still somehow paunchy man with salt and pepper hair passed by the car and walked inside. That could not have been Shego’s father. She must have gotten her looks from her mother. Geez, even Drakken himself could beat this guy up. Drakken dropped down, not wanting to be seen, fearing that he could be seen even through the car’s tinted windows.

Drakken’s phone rang and it was Shego. Confused, he answered, “Hello?”

“Stephanie, look you great.” He heard Gordon say. The man made a move to hug her, but Shego didn’t make a move to reciprocate. Drakken felt second-hand embarrassment for the guy, watching the hug slowly die. Shego wanted Drakken to hear their conversation as she placed her phone to the side.

“How long has it been?” Gordon asked, sitting down.

Shego shrugged, saying nothing.

Her father looked around, nervously drumming on his thighs. “I heard you got married. Eloped. I’m not surprised. Not crazy about you not telling me…”

Shego cut him off, “What do you want?”

He looked flabbergasted. “You’re my daughter…”

“No, I was your pet project. You didn’t pay any attention to me until I nearly died in that treehouse and came out with powers. Then, you made me into what you wanted, what you couldn’t be. The boys,” Shego shook her head, “they were extra, bonuses, just along for the ride. Hell, you even told me I was radioactive, some Radium Girl, to keep me under your thumb.”

Shego’s black painted nails drummed on the side of her coffee mug, “God, how much did I miss because of you? All kinds of parties, birthdays, dances. Mom had to convince you to let me do anything, even to go to Prom. You said everything was a distraction.” She said, carefully, drawing out this man’s torture. This meeting was not going as well as he hoped and it showed on his face.

“I just wanted what was best for you. You had, have so much potential. I thought that that was what you wanted…”

“Did you ask?” Shego exclaimed, her eyes wide, “How many calories was I allowed to have? A couple a hundred? A healthy teenage girl needs 2,200 calories a day and I sure as hell wasn’t getting that. Remember that earthquake in Tokyo you pulled us out of school for, so we could do search and rescue?”

Shego paused and when she spoke again, her voice was strained with emotion, “I’ll never forget the smell of leaking gasoline, a little girl’s cries for help from under the rubble of her school, her hand sticking through the debris, clawing for help. I told her it would be alright, I don’t know if she understood me, I just learned a few Japanese phrases on the flight over, I took her hand and it wasn’t connected to her anymore. I held her bloody, dismembered hand, Dad.” She said through gritted teeth, tears streaming down her face, shaking her own hand. “I was sixteen. I still remember.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“There’s nothing you can say,” Shego replied. Her fingers started to twitch and constrict, subconsciously, she wanted to lash out, to light the café up with green plasma. “There are just some things you can’t undo.”

They sat for a moment in silence before Shego grabbed her purse, “Don’t contact me. Ever again.”

She hurried out of the café and back into the SUV with her husband.

Drakken knew better to say anything to Shego as she got in. She needed her space and he would be there for her when she was ready. He looked at Gordon through the windshield and the café’s window and he was looking back. Gordon couldn’t see Drakken through the tinted windows but knew it was him behind the wheel. Drakken held the man’s eyes before putting the SUV in reverse and pulling away. Shego pulled her sunglasses back down over her eyes, tears on her cheeks reflecting in the afternoon sun, and remained silent the entire way home. Drakken did what he could to keep her comfortable, making sure the temperate in the vehicle was good, that it wasn’t blowing on her too much, that the radio volume wasn’t too loud. He wouldn’t press her to talk.

When they returned home, Shego went upstairs. Drakken gave her some time to herself before he went up to check on her.

She could never accept his apology if he offered one. There was a finality she felt. The last time she saw him was when her Mom asked for a divorce when Shego was nineteen and he left with only an old suitcase. She hoped he’d just turn to dust and leave her be. Now, it was like he finally was dead. She sobbed and beat the bed with clenched fists, mourning for her father and what she never had. Drakken merely held Shego as she painfully mourned her father.

[theirondragonrants]

8 Thoughts on GOT 8X03 THE BATTLE OF HELMS DEEP THRONES STYLE

I have no God darned clue what the episode name is so I'm gonna call it Helm's Deep, no I will not accept criticism. That being said here we go.

1. The most Heroic thing

Can we give it up for the true heroes of this shit. Lyanna Mormont going out like a champ. She told men they were idiots and proved it in the end by taking out a fucking GIANT. Arya knew Sansa had no chance out there and if they were going to fight to the last man, Sansa would be what the survivors would need so she sent her to the crypts. (it also gave me flashbacks to Jon saying if he didn't Keep Sansa safe Eddard Stark would climb out of his grave to kill him). Melisandre fucking giving fire left and right like a boss, and GIVING THOSE WAR ENDING TIPS. Brienne holding the line with Jamie, Pod and everyone else fighting under her. Beric and the Hound hauling ass to save Arya. Greyworm protecting the retreat with the unsullied and then wrecking face inside the gates. So many great moments and people.

2. Everything that happened led you where you belong

It was definitely a line for Theon, and by the drowned God did he deliver, but it was also for everyone else. Everything they've been through, everyone they've lost, all they've endured led them to this battle, and every one of them was crucial for every moment whether we saw it or not.

And now to the man it was spoken to. Theon Greyjoy who betrayed the Stark family, drove Bran and Rickon from their home, saved Sansa and brought Daenerys to Westeros died protecting his little brother and I love that. Good men are forged in fire and like Bran said, Theon is a good man.

3. You were the best of them

For obvious reasons we couldn't let a lot of out the no combatants. Tyrion, Sansa, Varys, Missandei, they're all better at games that don't involve swords and fighting. That being said, I loved the little tidbits we did get. I really think that, if Daenerys didn't exist, Tyrion would probably give a thought to Sansa ruling the seven kingdoms. She's got the right name, she's stronger than Robert but gentler than Stannis, and she's been ruling despite everyone's doubts and doing a kickass job out of it.

Tyrion really was the best of her husband's and while I don't ship it, I think they would be a pair to be reckoned with. Sansa and Tyrion also knowing that they'd be useless in a fight but when the fight comes to you you've gotta get it together.

4. And now their watch is ended

I'm surprised we didn't get as many deaths? Granted I know there's piles of corpses that are a few stories tall, but main cast deaths were few and far in between. That being said let's have a few moments of silence for the good people we lost.

Edd, homie died doing what he had been doing for a long time, taking care of Sam who keeps freezing at the worst moments.

Jorah, he did just take Jamie's wish to die in the arms of the woman he loves. Fucking Jorah hauled ass out of Winterfell to save Daenerys, who had already done her fair share of fighting, and went out like a champ.

Beric, god dammit so I have a LOT to say about his death, but he went out doing the literal Lord's work and I appreciate him so.

Lyanna, she decided that the women wouldn't be left behind and she did her duty. She manned the gate, and held the line, and went out buying them precious time and instead of dealing with all those dead AND a giant, they just had to fight all the dead.

Melisandre, her fire went out but she fucking saved them. Like Beric I've got a lot of stuff to say about her, so catch that in number 8.

5. DRAGONS

No fancy title for this one because DRAGONS.

Daenerys and Drogon buying everyone time and doing the best they fucking could to make everything easier. But only Daenerys and Drogon. Jon on the other hand is a useless schmuck and I feel vindicated in how much I don't like him.

Even Viserion fucking wrecking face with his blue fire, and dog-fighting with Drogon in mid-air and still continuing to wreck face even after the Night King fell off? Amazing.

6. Jon Snow, not the prince that was promised

BITCH AM I HAPPY ABOUT THIS.

Jon Snow has repeatedly made stupid ass decisions, and been irredeemably useless on more than one occasion. Letting him be the prince that was promised would've been some utter bullshit, and honestly I'm so happy it wasn't him at the end.

He sat on his ass, on the walls of Winterfell, with full visibility of the trenches while the archers were desperately trying to light them and did nothing. He screamed at a dragon while Arya wrecked the Night King's face.

I am however very curious about why he got brought back? If he wasn't the prince that was promised then what's his mission?

7. Jaime and Brienne, a power couple

This is more my own fan service than nothing else, but God damn everytime the camera went back to then I felt my heart drop. Brienne saving Jaime and Jaime saving her right back? Amazing, iconic, I love them. And even in the thick of it they were still watching each other's 6s, protecting Pod, doing what they do and looking fabulous while doing it. Honestly I'm so happy to see they'll live another day.

8. Arya Stark, she-wolf of Winterfell, protector of the realm and slayer of ice zombies

HONESTLY I DIDNT SEE THIS COMING!?

What do we say to the God of death??? NOT TODAY BITCHES. Much like everyone else, everything they've lived has led to this moment. Every moment of training, all the names on the list, even that little training montage with Brienne when she did that dagger drop, everything led up to this iconic fucking moment. Beric being brought back to save her. Melisandre coming back from Volantis to save their assess. The Hound snapping out of his panic for her. Everything came down to that moment.

I'm really going to have to go back and see every clue that said Arya was supposed to do this, but God damn!

AND IN THIS MOMENT THE NIGHT KING KNEW, HE FUCKED UP

Final thoughts:

I know to a lot of casual viewers who came in for the fantasy, the show has led up to this fight and it's a question of now what? But really, the show is going to do a full circle. This all started with the Dragons, the Stags, the Wolves and the Lions going at eachother, and that's exactly how it's going to end. Be it as it may, this show is about the Game of Thrones, and it's time to play.

Episode Score: 9/10

[mattzerella-sticks]

The Bluest Blue (a Dean/Cas hexed!Dean, TLK fic, 3.3k)

(Link to Ao3)

After Michael was defeated, Dean took a temporary hiatus. He wanted to get back in the game, and a case involving a mischief-making witch seemed like the easiest way to dip his toes back into the hunting pool. Unfortunately, he was hit with a spell that'll have him facing something even worse than ancient entities or evil archangels.

His own feelings.

And he has no one to blame but his own body - his own eyes.

           Castiel parked next to Dean’s Baby, turning the car off just as the song on the radio entered its final chorus. Jack crowed from beside him, glaring at the radio. “It was almost over.”

           “That was the third time we’ve heard that song today.”

           “I like it.”

           “It’ll be on again,” Castiel said, exiting the truck, “Come on, Sam and Dean need us.” He didn’t waste any time, striding across the motel parking lot over towards the room Sam texted him. In the frantic phone call, the younger Winchester left that tidbit of information out. Sam was more preoccupied with helping Dean into the car after an unfortunate run-in with a witch.

           They were on a routine hunt; some small town trouble that Dean figured would be a simple job. He convinced everyone it was easy enough that they wouldn’t have to worry. Some slight mischief, where two hunters could step in and sort it out. Ever since they booted Michael from Dean’s head, he was coerced into a temporary retirement until he recovered. The witch-hunt was supposed to prove he could go back into the field on a regular basis. Getting blasted by an unknown spell did not help in any way.

           Castiel rapped on the door, Jack jogging up behind him. By the time he made it there, Sam opened the door. Looking between them, he sighed out a breath of relief. “You made it.”

           “Of course,” he said, stepping past Sam and into the room, “Dean is he -?”

           Dean was upright and moving. When he entered the room, Dean scrambled and ducked his head away from him. Squinting, Castiel trod more cautiously towards his friend. “Dean?”

           “Hey, Cas!” Dean laughed, still not looking at him. Castiel watched him grope the bed he was sitting on for a discarded pair of sunglasses, slipping them on. Once they were settled, he turned over to him. “You, uh – you got here pretty quickly?”

           He shrugged. “You were in trouble.”

           The flush on Dean’s cheeks burned even deeper. Castiel spun towards Sam, who was still behind him watching them curiously. “He seems to be fine?”

           “I mean, the worst of it was the fainting –“

           “I passed out.”

           “Fainting,” Sam stressed, walking over towards the small table by the television set where a few books lay scattered and open. “Honestly, I might have… overreacted when I called you-”

           Dean snorted, leaning back casually on the bed, sunglasses still on. “Nurse Ratchet barely let me do anything when I came to. His worried hen routine had me convinced he wouldn’t even let me go to the bathroom on my own.”

           Sam rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t that bad.”

           “It took almost a half hour of yelling before you’d let me out to the bar!”

           “I was only looking out for you!”

           “You were driving me crazy!” Dean growled, “Besides if you had kept me locked up we might never have discovered what that witch did to me.”

           Castiel, too exasperated to let the brothers carry on arguing, interrupted then. “What did she do?”

           He drew their attention back to him. Where Sam’s fight drained out of him the second he refocused on Castiel, Dean’s tension rose like his taut shoulders and pinched brows.

           “It’s a kind of glamour spell,” Sam explained, bringing the book over to him. “The spells in her books were all pretty basic, I don’t think she knew what she was casting either.”

           Dean grumbled, picking at his cuticles. “Lucky I didn’t end up with a tail or bad gas then…”

           “You still haven’t told me what happened,” Castiel asked him, softly. Dean didn’t respond, too busy with his hands. He tried again, adding, “Does this have anything to do with your sunglasses?”

           Dean cursed, pulling at the skin too hard. He shoved his thumb into his mouth, sucking back the blood.

           While he was distracted, Sam answered for him. “When we went to the bar, everything was fine. But then Dean caught sight of our bartender…” He related the story to him and Jack. About how the first thing their server, a woman named Brandi, remarked on was Dean’s unnatural eye color. “She thought he was wearing contacts,” Sam said, fighting back a smile, “Because no one is supposed to have pink eyes.”

           “Pink?” Castiel repeated, glancing at Dean. His friend didn’t comment, instead making himself to look as small as possible; a hard task to accomplish given his grand stature.

           “Yeah,” Sam carried on, “I dragged him into the bathroom to even make sure – you know, away from all the low lighting and light smoke. His eyes were like Liz Taylor’s –“

           “Liz Taylor had purple eyes,” Dean finally spoke, “If you’re gonna make a comparison at least make it right.”

           “Well, sorry but no actual person ever had pink eyes! Would you have preferred it if I said Barbie?”

           Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “…Still didn’t have pink eyes.”

           “Anyway,” Sam sighed, “We drove back to the witch’s hideout to see if there was anything she left behind. Lucky for us we scared her good, and all the memorabilia she collected was right there like when we left.”

           “Not even all of it was witchy! She had a Willow action figure from Buffy…”

           “We gathered up all the books and brought them back, and then called Rowena –“

           “Rowena, yes,” Castiel said, latching onto that thread. “Did she provide any insight or – or is she coming?”

           “She told us what kind of spell Dean got hit with,” Sam told them, scratching at his neck, “But there was nothing else she could do. Actually, she said that it might help if you showed up.”

           Dean muttered to himself, drawing further inwards.

           Castiel ignored him, instead pondering over Sam’s words. “Me?” he asked, “I’m not… what did she think I could do?”

           Sam shrugged. “She didn’t expand on it, although I’m pretty sure she was laughing.”

           “That does sound like Rowena…” Jack said, nodding.

           “I… I don’t know how I can be of much help,” Castiel admitted, “Was there anything in the books –“

           “Nothing.”

           Castiel turned to Dean, then. As if noticing the angel’s focus, Dean looked up and met his stare. His breath hitched, but he couldn’t tell much else from the sunglasses his friend kept on. “Dean,” Castiel said, voice low, “Why did your eyes turn pink?”

           He remained silent. Dean broke their connection and directed his shielded eyes elsewhere. Luckily Sam, nearby, was more forthcoming with the information.  

           “It was an attraction spell,” Sam said, “So whenever he sees a girl he likes his eyes go all pink. Which, nice to know you’re still crushing on Daphne, Dean.”

           Dean offered a pitiful laugh and a weak ‘shut up’.

           Castiel frowned, unsure as to why Dean would hide his eyes away from him over something like that. His attraction to women was apparent even without the change in color, and while it may have bothered him in the past, Castiel has had time to learn and live with it.

           He knelt down in front of Dean, laying a hand over his knee to grab his attention. Dean stiffened, but did not pull away. “Dean,” Castiel spoke softly, like to an injured fawn, “Dean, I promise I’m not going to laugh… I’m here to help.”

           He shifted, obviously uncomfortable with the idea. “Cas,” he whined, “It’s not – you don’t have to –“

           “Please, Dean,” Castiel urged him, “Don’t you trust me?”

           “Of course,” he told him, without any doubt nor time wasted, “But this is –“

           “This won’t change my opinion of you, Dean, I promise.” Still seeming unsure, Castiel dipped forward. On his toes, he squeezed Dean’s knee tight as if to will every ounce of comfort into his friend’s body. “Please, remove your sunglasses.”

           Dropping his gaze for the briefest of seconds to look between Sam and Jack, Dean returned with a melancholy air about him. As if he were on his way to the guillotine, accepting a horrible fate even though Castiel assured him there was none waiting for him. Steeling himself, Dean slowly pulled the sunglasses off. Then, he blinked his eyes open.

           Castiel dropped backwards, breath stolen from him. He expected rings of pink, but instead was gazing into a glowing pool of bright blue. Dean’s eyes burned brighter the longer they were exposed.

           “Blue?” Sam asked, peering closer. He stepped up behind Castiel and bent down. “What the hell? Why are your eyes blue?” Jack joined them as well, using Castiel’s other side to investigate as well.

           All the sudden attention on Dean made him cherry cheeked. He snarled, forcing them all away as he shoved his sunglasses back on. The light dimmed. “Blue – pink – who the hell cares? Cas can you do your two-fingered grace thing and fix me?”

           “I wasn’t,” Castiel stuttered over himself, “I don’t… I don’t think my grace can fix this.”

           “Then how were you going to help?”

           “I… admit I did not know –“

           “What?”

           “But I thought maybe if I saw for myself what was happening, then the answer would strike me,” Castiel explained, “I did not foresee this happening.”

           “So my eyes are a freakin’ mood ring,” Dean cried, “Great…”

           “Then Dean is upset?” Jack asked, “From what I know about mood rings, blue is the color of sadness.”

           Sam shook his head. “No, Rowena explicitly said it was an attraction spell. I read her the spell verbatim – well, I broke it up so I didn’t accidentally cast it myself…”

           “Attraction…” Jack tapped at his chin, thinking. Snapping his fingers, he drew all the attention to him. “I think I get it!”

           Dean, quickly transitioning from red to white, gaped at him as his freckles stood out against his pale skin. “No, Jack –“

           “If Dean was attracted to a woman, then his eyes turned pink,” Jack explained, “So therefore, when Dean must have seen a man he was attracted to – his eyes would have turned blue!”

           Castiel existed long before the universe was born, and even the silence before the Big Bang did not seem to be this long and uncomfortable. Dean dropped his head into his hands, unable to keep it up. Castiel sat, stunned. He dared not look at his friend, sure that even a glance of Dean would make him spontaneously combust.

           It was Sam who broke the calm that swept over them. At first Castiel couldn’t understand what he was hearing, but as the sound grew in sound and energy, he realized it was laughter.    

           “Oh man,” Sam chuckled, “I thought – I thought it was something more serious. But this explains it! Why you wanted me to call Cas and tell him to turn back even after Rowena – and Rowena! Oh – oh! And how you couldn’t even look me in the eye after I turned on a Dr. Sexy rerun.”

           “I’m glad you find it funny, Sam,” Dean growled, standing up, “So happy I could amuse you. Now if y’all don’t mind, I’m going to go drown myself in the toilet.” He stomped over to the bathroom, slamming it shut behind him.

           Castiel turned to the younger Winchester. “Sam –“

           “Oh, relax,” he said, “He’s not even going near that thing. The day we got here he took one look and has been using the rest room at the McDonald’s two blocks down.”

           That didn’t make Castiel feel any better. He stared at the door, wishing that Dean would come back into the room with them. But that was as unlikely as Castiel moving to join him, his rear glued to the floor.

           Sam kicked him, drawing his attention away from the door. “Well? Aren’t you gonna go to him?”

           “I… I don’t –“

           He rolled his eyes. “Please, I think it was very obvious who made his eyes go blue.” Sam returned to the table, sitting. “So obvious I’m kinda mad I didn’t put the two together. But I was distracted…”

           “Where are you going with this?”

           “Dean finds you attractive… I know you think the same,” Sam listed off. Castiel spluttered, blushing. He waved him off. “Please, after the first few years you can’t write that staring thing you do off as ignorance.”

           “Still,” Castiel muttered, “I doubt Dean wants to see me. He made it very clear with how unwilling he was to show his eyes to me.”

           Sam sighed. “Dean… he was embarrassed. He gets defensive, but he’s still a total pushover. I’m sure he didn’t even lock the door.”

           Castiel looked at the door one final time before making a decision. He tore himself off the ground and carefully marched over to the bathroom door. Hand raised as if to knock, Castiel thought better and reached for the knob instead. Like Sam said, it was unlocked. He chanced a glance backward at Sam and Jack, both shooting him encouraging thumbs up, before entering the bathroom.

           Dean leaned against the sink, watching him in the reflection. The toilet remained shut. Castiel closed the door behind him, taking the space behind Dean nearer the shower.

           His head drooped, and he took a deep breath before addressing Castiel. “There’s nothing I can say that can make this anything but what it is, right?”

           “You can try?” Castiel started, attempting humor, “It might not work, but…”

           “Look, if this is awkward…”

           “It’s not!” he said, loudly, startling them both. “I mean,” he continued, “it’s… it’s not awkward.” Unsure if he wanted to strike at the heart of the issue, Castiel heads down another path first. “I do admit I was surprised… as an angel I never really considered things like gender.”

           Dean scoffed. “You telling me you don’t think of yourself a guy?”

           “I’m an angel… although, if I had to choose, then… yes. I would identify as a man.”

           “Good, because blue eyes are bad enough,” Dean said, looking back up at his reflection. “I don’t wanna know what color they’d shine if you decided to not subscribe to the binary.”

           “You think blue eyes are bad?” Castiel asked, closing the short distance between them, hitting up against Dean’s back. His hand stretched forward, tapping at the mirror where Dean’s eyes were shown. “What’s so wrong with blue eyes?”

           Dean licked his lips, darting his gaze over to Castiel’s face before returning to his own. “They’re – uh… they’re not so bad,” he admitted, “But not on me. I can’t pull them off like, uh… well –“ He nodded to him, unable to tell Castiel what they already knew.

           “Yes,” Castiel agreed, “My vessel is attractive.” He sighed, stepping back, “I understand why your eyes would change color because of my body –“

           “Shit Cas,” Dean cried, throwing a hand over his eyes. Even with the poor coverage, blue light shined between the cracks landing every which way in the room. “You can’t be all self-deprecating and whatnot, do you not know how much more adorable that makes you?”

           Castiel skewed his head to the side. “It does?”

           “Yes, Cas… Christ.” Dean rounded towards him, still covering his eyes. “Yeah, your body is hot. Your body, not a vessel. But… it’s not all that’s making my eyes light up.” He leaned back against the sink, sighing. “Rowena texted me after Sam’s call, filling me in on what she didn’t tell Sam. Warning me that the – the more attractive I found someone the brighter my eyes would glow.”

           “Oh,” Castiel squeaked out, glad that Dean blinded himself so as not to see the fierce blush that dusted around his jaw. “Then, the sunglasses…”

           “Was so I didn’t look like the damned Bat-Signal in our cramped and crummy motel room!” Dean used his other free hand to run through his hair, “Don’t you know what you do to me, Cas?”

           “I… apparently didn’t,” Castiel confessed, “I also didn’t hope that you’d feel the same.”

           Dean’s breath hitches. “The… the same?”

           “Dean,” Castiel said, smiling, “It seems we were both in the dark about our feelings towards each other…” He moved into his space once more. “I felt like the moon, at times, always circling your orbit but never able to touch. The time we spent together without any interruption like a full moon on a clear night. And being driven apart days at a time left me feeling like a sliver barely lighting up the sky.”

           “You… you really mean that, Cas?”

           “I do…” He lifted a hand to touch the one covering Dean’s face, “Come now, Dean. Let me see.”

           “But I… it’s got to be so bright now,” Dean whispered, “I’ll blind you.”

           “The benefits of being an angel,” Castiel smirked, flicking the lights off, “Is that my senses can handle more than any humans could.” With the cover of darkness, Dean allowed Castiel to drag his hand away. Dean’s eyes were the only source of light in the room, the blue shining brighter than even an angel’s grace.

           Castiel was entranced by the rich shades of blue, as if Dean’s attraction was a waterfall cascading over him. There were so many different colors bouncing out from Dean’s eyes, he could barely keep up with them. Instead, he let the warmth of Dean’s affection wash over him as he slowly entwined their fingers together.

           Then, as if pulled in by the tide of Dean’s ocean-like eyes, Castiel drew closer towards him. His lips sought out Dean’s, neither able to look away as their mouths met. It was a brief touch, a slight dusting. Once both stayed put, they pressed their lips together again and kissed fully. Castiel snaked his other hand around Dean’s waist to clutch at his back. Dean threaded both of his hands through Castiel’s hair, tugging at it. The light was cut off as Dean closed his eyes. It was of no matter to Castiel, who shut his own seconds later.

           After a good while, Dean pulled back gasping for breath. They blinked their eyes open, still stuck in the dark. Dean groped around in the darkness, searching for the light switch. Once he turned it on, Castiel smiled.

           Dean’s eyes were green again.

           “What?” he asked, “Is there something on my face?”

           Too joyful to speak, Castiel whirled Dean around to face the mirror again. He then crowded around him once more, encircling his waist with his arms and laying his chin against his shoulder.

           Dean stared at his reflection, fingers hovering below his eyes. “They… they’re back.”

           Castiel smothered a laugh into Dean’s shoulder. “I guess Rowena was right,” he said, “I was the key to fixing all this.”

           “Which means more people knew besides us,” Dean muttered, smiling as wide as Castiel, “We’re a couple of dumbasses aren’t we?”

           “At least we’re a couple,” Castiel told him. “We are a couple, yes?”

           “Buddy, I don’t think anyone else could make my eyes glow like that.”

           Castiel hummed, knocking his head against Dean’s. “I’m glad they stopped. Although I will admit your eyes under this spell were the second most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

           Snorting, Dean craned his neck back so as to look at him directly. “Really?” he asked, “Only the second most beautiful? What could have topped that lightshow?”

           “Your eyes as they are now.” Then, Castiel proceeded to drop two quick kisses onto Dean’s drooping eyelids, delighting in the brilliant shade of pink that crawled across his face. “I must say that I always did prefer green over blue…”

           “…You’re so lucky I’m not spelled anymore Cas,” Dean chuckled, “This close, I’m sure I could have blinded you.”

           Castiel rolled his eyes, pulling away. He reached for Dean’s hand yet again, snaking his fingers over his. “Come, we might as well show the others you’re fixed.”

           Dean put up a faux fight, letting Castiel drag him into the next room. Sam and Jack were waiting, each with knowing smiles on their faces. While he could sense Dean’s discomfort, he stayed by Castiel’s side all through the night. Even through the gauntlet of Sam’s teasing.

           All he needed was to catch sight of Castiel’s blue eyes, and he knew everything was okay.

[astarryon]

Hard Feelings Part 2

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Warnings: None

A/N: inspiration hit me heavy for this update, and I think I’ve finally decided on the direction I wanna take this series. I hope you like this one! A bit angsty toward the end, but I promise the fluff will be rolling in soon Until then, enjoy!

Part 1

-

Aside from the very specific case of Bucky Barnes, you seemed to be excelling at making friends in the tower. Steve had taken the initiative to call a group meeting among all of the people residing in the tower for the time being in order to introduce you, which pretty much meant that you were now acquainted with all of the Avengers. And to think you’d been star struck when you had met Steve just a little earlier that morning.

“So which one of us are you here to babysit?” Clint, who was reclining against Natasha’s side, lightheartedly questioned you. “It’s not me, is it? I’d hate to be on Fury’s shortlist of ‘misbehaved individuals’.”

“Sorry to say, but I think everyone in this tower is on that list,” Tony Stark quipped, walking over from the counter he’d been standing at for several moments and depositing a glass of water into your hands. You smiled at him in thanks, sipped from it for a moment, and then set it down on the coffee table in front of where you and Steve were sat.

Sam Wilson, who was perched on the arm of the sofa beside you, scoffed. “Speak for yourself, tin man. My behavioral reputation is spotless.”

In an effort to put a stop to the bickering, Steve raised his voice above all of the chatter. You smirked a bit, unable to keep from chuckling at the fact he seemed like a father chastising his misbehaved children. “Y/n isn’t here to babysit anyone, guys, come on. She’s been assigned to Bucky’s, uh, therapy detail.” Conveniently, Bucky happened to be the only person missing from the room; you got the sense that hadn’t been an accident on his part.

At the sound of Steve’s words, a hush had fallen over the large group before you. Wanda, her wide eyes glancing at you in sympathy, sheepishly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; the main emotion you were currently getting from her seemed to be one of sympathetic surprise. Bruce Banner’s predominant emotion was one of outright panic, and the rest of the group’s feelings seemed to complement the tone.

Well, everyone’s emotions aside from Tony’s.

“Rest in fucking pieces, you poor soul,” he muttered from under his breath, unable to help the guffaw which escaped him directly after. “Fury seriously didn’t get the memo after the last one?” That earned a couple of snickers from the group around you, and you found your interest piqued in a morbid fashion.

As an agent of SHIELD, you had obviously heard some details about what happened to those who were assigned to Winter Soldier duty; it was why you’d been so hesitant to agree to this so called promotion in the first place. Nobody would say so out in the open, but everyone regarded being given this particular assignment as a form of quiet punishment from Nick Fury. There had been many days when you and your colleagues had sat and laughed together at your lunch time, discussing the small tidbits of gossip and knowledge you had all managed to glean from your superior officers. Lena Vasquez, your closest friend, had been the one who always managed to gain the most information, and somehow always won the bets you and the rest of your group would place on how long the next psychologist who was sent to stay at the tower would last. As hard as you tried, though, you couldn’t seem to place who the last assignment had been, or what had become of them.

“Oh my god,” Natasha laughed. That was a little weird to see; each time you’d pictured Natasha Romanov, you thought of her has someone to be feared. Of course, she was definitely intimidating, even if she was currently casually cuddling Clint. It was just, on the list of things you had expected to witness in your life, seeing Black Widow in blue jeans and a messy ponytail hadn’t been something you’d deigned to pencil on. “Morgan was here for like what, three days?”

“Yeah, and then Farrah Fawcett Hairspray threw the biggest tantrum this side of the country,” Tony muttered. The irritation which must have been tied to the memory bubbled up to the surface, extending out from Tony’s words and seeping into your skin. “Took me three weeks to get that glass replaced. Insurance doesn’t exactly cover somebody getting thrown from a 93rd story picture window; that shit came out of my pocket.”

“Your name is plastered on buildings all over the city, Stark,” Sam quipped. “I’m sure you can afford a damn window.” You might’ve laughed at all of the chuckling and grumbling going on by everyone around you if you weren’t suddenly so concerned for your own survival, and at the casual mention of an attempted murder.

“He… he threw someone out of a window?” What had you done? What had you done to make the universe become this dead set against you? Scratch that, actually; who the hell had outed you to Fury and when was going to be your next available chance to sock them in the jaw?

“It was fine,” Clint offered, the fact that he was attempting to do damage control coming across as mildly insulting, considering the fact that he was still laughing. “The guy only fell one story, okay? The balcony broke his fall; Buck knew it would.”

“Great,” you muttered, blinking and raising your eyebrows. “Glad to know I’m safe, at least.”

“I mean,” Wanda chimed, staring off thoughtfully. “No matter what, it could never be as bad as the time that Bucky blew up—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve interjected, his embarrassment rising, punctuated with a spike of stress. The flavor of it left a sour taste in your mouth. “You guys are gonna scare her off, and that’s the exact last thing I need.” Offering you a tentative glance, Steve placed a hand on your shoulder to provide you with some sense of comfort. “I know it sounds bad, but you’re the first agent with a superpower to be assigned. And I promise I’m not gonna let Bucky throw you out of a window, if that helps at all.”

Confusion suddenly took over as the predominant emotion in the room, in addition to wonder and curiosity. You would need to tune out of your gift soon, if the emotions of the others kept swaying back and forth so drastically. That was something you had learned to do at a young age, and it was a skill necessary to maintaining your sanity. Your emotions were something you could easily get into check, but the heightened sympathy your power forced you to hold for others and their feelings possessed the ability to send you over a mental cliff, which was something you weren’t interested in in the slightest.

“Whoa, wait,” Bruce began, “you’re a super?” When you nodded, he looked around at the others in the room, pleasant surprise etched onto his features. “I mean, Bucky hasn’t had anyone with powers try to treat him since Wanda.”

“Because powers that can manipulate mental aspects are hard to come by,” Steve agreed. “Yeah, trust me, I know. That’s why I’m hoping Bucky won’t be so quick to turn y/n away, like he did with all the others.”

You shook your head, a humorless laugh escaping you. When Steve glanced at where you sat beside him, you said, “You remember what he said this morning, right? Said he didn’t care who I was or what my powers were, then called me a mood ring, and pretty much told me to go fuck myself after that. Guy definitely already wants me gone, Steve.”

“That’s kind of just how Bucky is with new people?” Sam tossed out.

“Correction,” Tony quipped, taking a swig from the glass of scotch he’d acquired while pouring your water. “That’s how he is with everybody.”

“No, I’m pretty sure he just… doesn’t like you,” Wanda chuckled.  Maybe it was because Wanda was the closest to you in age, but you liked her. She seemed like someone you’d be able to hang out with, maybe watch stupid movies and stay up entirely too late with.

Tony waved his hand, flippantly dismissing the words. “Semantics, Maximoff. What I wanna know is what this kick ass power is. What do you have, y/n? Mind reading? Super guilt tripping? Or, wait, you said Barnes called you a mood ring? Holy shit, do you change color?”

You laughed, shaking your head in pure amusement. You got the feeling you would at least be able to enjoy your time in Avengers Tower, no matter how long or short a period that was fated to be. “No, I don’t, but I…” You were suddenly very conscious of the many eyes focused on you, and you involuntarily blushed. God, why were you embarrassed? You’d never spoken about your power out loud or so casually before, sure, but this was ridiculous. “I can read emotions, and I can also influence them. It works better if I’m able to touch the person who I’m working with, but it’s not actually necessary. Like, uh…” You allowed yourself to tune into the emotional climate of the room a bit more thoroughly, latching on to the first set that caught your attention.

Tony.

“What’s the project you’re working on right now, Tony?” you asked him, tilting your head to the side. “You’ve got a lot of excitement going on in your head, and it feels like it’s linked to creativity. You feel annoyed about it too, though, so I’m assuming it failed a test of some kind? But, then, it’s like… oh, okay I see. Your prototype failed, so you built a new one. That one failed too, but you’re pretty sure you have a workaround. Is that why you were all annoyed and uppity when you walked in here? Steve called the meeting and it interrupted you fixing the prototype of whatever you’re working on?”

Tony’s jaw dropped, genuinely caught off guard and impressed. “Did you just read my mind? You’re sure you aren’t actually a mind reader? Rogers, am I being punk’d?”

You’d spent the rest of the afternoon entertaining everyone, reading their emotions separately and announcing to the group what was on each individual’s mind. They all seemed to be getting a kick out of it, and for that you were grateful. Part of the reason you’d never been willing to share your power with anyone was because you’d been deathly afraid of judgement, of being called a freak of nature. That was less likely while working in a place like SHIELD, of course, but you found it difficult to let go of your worries.

If anything, you were just happy to know that you had friends in Avengers Tower, even if the one person who was your entire reason for being there seemed to want absolutely nothing to do with you.

Whatever. You would deal with it later.

—

It was about your third night in the tower that you’d begun taking part in some pretty risky business, and you were sure that your well being now depended on your ability to keep said risky business a secret.

Because if Bucky found out what you were getting up to, if he even suspected you in the slightest, you were pretty sure he would do a lot worse than throw you out of the 93rd story window.

It had started that morning, when you’d walked over to Bucky’s door and rapped a decisive knock againt the wood. You knew he was awake, because you had heard him come and go from his room several times while taking your morning shower, and you knew he was in his room now because you could sense his familiar emotions, only becoming more and more potent as he neared the door to open it. Annoyance, irritation, and the tiniest drop of fear which had been present the very first time you had met him. That was, perhaps, the part about Bucky which perplexed you the most. The man could probably bench twice your bodyweight without a second thought; what reason did her have to be frightened of you?

The door was wrenched open before you could ponder about it much further, revealing Bucky’s scowling face. He was clad in sweats and a plain black tee, but the simplicity of the clothing did nothing to disservice his physical attributes, but that wasn’t really surprising. Everyone in the tower seemed to be unfairly blessed in the looks department, though Bucky was especially. Everything about him was sharp angles and muscle, topped off with a voice that would probably make you weak in the knees if it weren’t constantly being used to insult your character.

“What are you staring at?” Bucky demanded, voice breaking you from your reverie. The metal of his left arm gleamed in the light of the hallway, whirring quietly as he shifted to lean his weight against it, and you blinked several times. You couldn’t even defend yourself against him because you had, in fact, been staring.

“Um, s-sorry,” you stuttered. Oh, damn it all. You’d been so confident when you’d strode over to his door, so sure of what you wanted to say. Why were your words failing you now? “Good morning, by the way.”

“Not anymore,” he muttered under his breath.

You let it go, not really having the wherewithal to be witty at the moment. “Listen, I was wondering if maybe we could try, like, an emotion reading today? It won’t take long, and I’m gonna have to start sending Fury updates any day now, so I just figured—”

“No,” Bucky told you plainly.

Not one to give up easily, you tried again. “Look, I know it’s sort of an uncomfortable situation for you, and believe me, I get it, but I really need to—”

He cut you off, and you wondered if Bucky ever let anyone finish a sentence before going completely postal on them, or if this behavior was specifically for you. “You don’t understand shit,” he barked at you, looking for all the world like there was no one he hated more. “You think just because you can tell if someone’s happy or sad that you somehow understand what I’ve been through? Uh uh. No dice, sweetheart. I already told you we weren’t playing this fucking game. Stay in this tower for as long as you like, but you’re wasting your time if you’re hoping to get anything out of me.”

Overwhelmed and unsure of what to do, you dropped your eyes to the floor and tried to ignore the embarrassment in your chest. That was something Bucky was good at, it seemed. Making you feel embarrassed. “I’m just… trying to help you,” you offered lamely. “I’m only here to help you.”

“And I didn’t ask for it,” Bucky shot back. “I don’t want it. So why don’t you do the both of us a favor and stop trying to make yourself useful, okay? Because it’s not working.”

The hostility rolling off of Bucky was so thick and potent that you could’ve choked on it. He meant what he was saying about not wanting help; he was being sincere. This assignment really was just the most impossible one, wasn’t it?

You shook your head, unsure of what to say. You glanced up at Bucky, decided that was a mistake, then began to turn your back to him, content to walk back to your room. “Guess I’ll just go fuck myself then,” you muttered sarcastically, still in shock at the sheer hostility rolling off the man behind you.

“Yeah, why don’t you?” he egged you on. “Least that way one of us gets to be a little less than miserable.” The slamming of his bedroom door let you know that he’d removed himself from the situation.

For Christ’s sake. How were you meant to help someone who clearly didn’t want your help and couldn’t manage to be civil to you for more than five seconds?

“Give it time,” Wanda had advised you later on in the day as the two of you ate lunch together. “Bucky will come around to you eventually. He wasn’t thrilled about me rooting around in his head at first either, for the few weeks that we tried to go that route.”

“Yeah, but you’re his friend,” you’d told her, shrugging a shoulder. “Even if he wasn’t happy about it, he didn’t hate your guts.”

“He doesn’t hate you, y/n,” she repeated. It was sweet of her to say, but she couldn’t feel what you did. She might have a guess at Bucky’s emotions, but you had a concrete handle on them, and they weren’t pleasant.

You’d gone about the rest of your day normally. Or, as normally as you could, having to adjust to living in the tower with a number of new roommates. They were all lovely people, save for one very stubborn super soldier with a disregard for your feelings, but you were beginning to feel disenchanted. Was the field agent position really worth all of this? Fury had basically said you would be staying in this tower as long as it took to correct Bucky’s emotional issues, and it was a testament to how awful you were doing that you weren’t even sure what exactly those issues were. Bucky had declared more than once that you really shouldn’t bother to hold your breath, because he wasn’t going to entertain you.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, it seemed.

You had retired to your room early that night, not very inclined to people please for the time being. Distantly you felt everyone’s individual emotions from the few floors separating you, but eventually you tuned them all out, ignoring reality in favor of reading a few chapters in the book you’d picked up last week. Only, a few chapters had quickly become many, minutes had turned to hours, and suddenly you had read the ending sentence of the last page and all you could see when you looked out the window of your bedroom was the inky blackness of the night sky.

“Hey Jarvis?” you called out, yawning and stretching your arms toward the ceiling. “What time is it?” Had to be late; you could feel the sleep dust forming in your eyes.

“Half past one, ma’am,” Jarvis answered immediately.

“Thanks,” you murmured. Okay, so a little later for you than usual, but it wasn’t like you had any plans tomorrow morning. You stood, stripping off the clothing you’d been wearing and switching them out for pajamas. You’d been just about ready to ask Jarvis to switch the lights off as you crawled into bed when something gave you pause.

Reading your book had been a good way to tune out everyone else in the tower and their emotions, but now that you were no longer distracted you were feeling… agony. Terror. Desperation. And just as you were about to write it off as you simply being tired, as your mind and ability playing tricks on you, you heard it. Plain as day, you heard it.

Someone was screaming.

Without thinking practically or having the sense to grab a weapon in the event that you would need to defend yourself, you raced to your bedroom door and threw it open, the strength of the complete and utter pain growing tenfold as you did so. Listening intently, you concentrated, trying to pinpoint the location of the screams and bristling as your body and mind recognized the direction in which both the noise and the pain extended from.

Bucky’s room. It was all coming from Bucky’s room.

You ran to his door, unsure of what exactly you should expect but completely unwilling to let Bucky fend off whatever was causing him this amount of harm by himself. The quality of emotions, the taste and tang staining your tongue, the essence of what Bucky was projecting? It felt like he was being murdered. It felt like he was dying. Bucky might not have been the nicest to you and you might have had only the most basic form of self defense training, but you’d be damned if you condemned him to suffer through whatever was trying to kill him alone. You could at least assess the situation and have Jarvis call for backup. Ruching to throw the door open without having time to work up the courage to do it, you burst into Bucky’s room with shaking hands and a heart full of anxiety, unsure of what to expect. Only… what you could see made no sense whatsoever.

Bucky was still screaming, still in enough agony to prompt your emotion sensors to believe that he was on the verge of death, but he wasn’t being attacked or physically harmed at all. He was laying in his bed shirtless, entangled in the comforter and thrashing wildly, the dim illumination from the window casting just enough light into the room to allow you to see the pure fright and pain contorting his face. Bucky wasn’t being attacked. Bucky wasn’t dying.

Bucky was dreaming.

Unsure of what to do and unable to help yourself, you walked forward until you stood just a step from the edge of his bed, the volume of his screams growing louder and the intensity of his pain becoming almost unbearable. He was moving, struggling, fighting whatever it was that terrified him so. This wasn’t… no, this wasn’t okay. In all your time as an emotional telepath, you hadn’t ever felt anything this specific or concentrated. It was like each of your nerves was being individually electrocuted at the highest wattage possible, your mouth running dry and your hands beginning to shake. Nobody should have had the capacity to feel this much grief and hurt. It was debilitating; it was life ending.

You weren’t able to stop yourself as you reached forward, pressing a palm to Bucky’s chest as gently as you could. His muscles had tensed at the contact, but you’d subconsciously been prepared for it. You weren’t sure what it was you were doing, but you were sure that he couldn’t be left to feel that way anymore. Not if he wanted to survive. The anger had to be pushed out, the hurt and the shock and the discomforting presence of cold, all of it needed to go. Bucky needed happiness, not pain. He needed compassion, not torture. He needed warmth, not iciness. He needed love, not terror.

And so, you gave him what he needed and took what he didn’t.

It took a few moments, but it had worked nonetheless. His thrashing had been first to cease, and his screaming followed quickly after. That heartbreakingly expressive face had smoothed into content, and the blue tone which had been corrupting all of Bucky’s unconscious emotions had faded out, a bright pinkish red now coloring them. He was still and calm now, and you weren’t sure where he was in his dream now, but you hoped with all your might that it was somewhere sunshine filled and comforting.

Cautiously removing your hand from Bucky and waiting a moment to make sure he wouldn’t need you to influence him again, you marveled at what you had just done. You didn’t believe in making people feel what you wanted them to against their will, not unless it was an emergency of some kind. You figured it had to be some form of immoral. But, what Bucky had just been feeling, the very miniscule amount of what you’d picked up from it? That seemed like a pretty intense emergency.

Fuck, did he always feel those things while he was sleeping?

Once it became clear that Bucky’s dreams would hold nothing but serenity for the rest of the night, you slowly turned, exited his room, and returned to yours, unable to shake the magnitude of what you had just been made to feel. You crawled into bed, asked Jarvis to turn the lights off for you, and laid there, hugging yourself as you continued to play over what you had just felt and done.

“Jarvis?” you whispered after a few moments of laying in the dark.

“Yes, Miss?”

You were beginning to hiccup, and you wondered if Jarvis understood what crying was and what it meant. “Will you… will you let me know if Bucky starts having a  nightmare again, please?”

“Yes, Miss,” came his simple reply.

“Will you let me know every night, if he has a nightmare?” you clarified, eyes burning with the tears brimming in them. “You, um, you can’t let him know.”

A pause.

Then, “Yes, Miss.”

“Thanks,” you choked out.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you were sure you’d done it sobbing.

—

Part 3

Tag List: @ayyomizzy @frost-11 @abswritesmarvel @wantingtobekorra @lordemjay @elleatrixlestrange @ly--canthrope @little-bit-of-your-heart

[phantomarchive]

A couple years ago, I wrote a starter for a friend who RPed as Nate, and now I’m posting it here. It also functions as just a piece of (hella long) writing, but ultimately takes place during UC4 under the assumption that Elena doesn’t go back for Nate, but is still concerned about him, so Sully gets in touch with Chloe to see if she’ll go find him and make sure his dumbass is safe. We’d had a whole plot planned, but alas.

Anyway, writing under the cut!

Victor is damn lucky he catches Chloe when he does.

His call comes late in the afternoon, after she’s been passed out for hours after a too-long flight home. The job in Kagoshima was quick, nothing to get too excited over, in and out within four days and hardly even a scrape to her knuckles. Easy. She loves the job, though, regardless of how short it is, of how little danger there is, of minimal risk and moderate reward, but still it feels good to be back in a warm bed, in a temperature controlled apartment, with locks on the door and eight floors of residents below her to act as a buffer between her flat and anyone potentially trying to reach her. The thrill of the adventure can still, at times, be outweighed by the comforts of home. Of familiarity. Of the quiet hum of the air conditioner soothing her ears after days of near perpetual gunfire when things go bad (and so often do they go bad; it’s almost not enjoyable if they don’t, to a degree).

She can’t sleep on flights, though, never could, and when she finally landed back in Key West after three layovers and too many in-flight movies, her eyes too heavy to even read her notes anymore, she managed to wrangle a taxi ride home, barely making it out of her jeans and onto her bed before sleep won and she slipped into a series of meaningless dreams for a solid eleven hours. It isn’t unusual for her to crash so hard after a job, but it’s the flight that really took it out of her this time. For the amount of trans-oceanic flights she takes, she thinks she should be used to all of this by now, might know how to relax and shut down on a flight - and yet here she is, pushing her mid-thirties, more than half her life spent in the business, and still unable to to do more on a plane than close her eyes and slow her breathing and try to imagine the thrum of the engine is her air conditioner at home, but to no avail. Frustrating, but it’s why she plans a few extra hours on either side of her trips for the red-eyes and long flights.

She hadn’t planned anything after this job. Maybe a couple weeks off to let her aches recover, to start working on selling some relics from recent jobs, maybe start poking around for her next one. So when she’s woken up by her cell phone vibrating near violently beside her pillow, Victor’s name illuminated through the spiderweb of cracks in the screen, she knows it’s one of two things: an invite to drinks, or something with Nate. Both of which end up being time consuming, and he’s lucky he caught her now.

Her mouth is thick with sleep, and she has to clear her throat a few times before she can clear the hoarseness from her voice, but even then she still sounds tired.

“Victor?” She tries to sound alert, or at least more so than she actually is, pushes herself onto her elbows to clear her head, blinking sleep from her eyes. But it isn’t anything she does that has her mind snapping to attention and her heart pounding so hard it might break through her ribcage. It’s what he tells her. It’s Nate, because of course it is. It’s been a long time since this brand of call has come through to her, but she can’t say she hasn’t been expecting something like it eventually.

She can still remember the last time she’d visited the Drake household, the look on his face when she mentioned where she was headed next - Uruguay, at the time, to look into the credibility of La Luz Mala. The way his eyes widened slightly, brightened, and she could damn near see the wheels turning in his head as he already tried to figure it all out, where he’d start, what clues would fit, historical facts and tidbits they had once spent countless days and nights poring over together - and how those wheels slid to a sharp stop when he forced himself to change the subject. He can’t follow that train of thought. He has a wife and a house and a relatively normal job. He’s left the life of fortune hunting behind in favor of the normalcy he didn’t get growing up. It broke her heart to see the light dim when he moved on to other topics and pushed a smile into place. He’s happy, but he’s also not, and the lure of adventure is a tempting mistress they’ve both spent their lives giving in to the siren song of.

He resisted, but she knows how goddamn easy it is to go back.

“You mean…even more stupid than usual?” A pause as she listens, and she forces herself into a sitting position, dragging her hand over her eyes, down her face, back through her hair. She tries to play it off like a minor annoyance, but the truth is, she knows the recklessness that can come with spending time away, and she’s terrified for him. Keeping herself under control is easy, even in the vulnerability of the aftermath of sleep, but she feels the rising panic make her chest ache. Her only audible sign of it is the sigh she gives, heavier than she’d intended and carrying more worry than she could put words to.

“Of course, Victor,” she says, pulling a pen and whatever scrap of paper she has towards her to take down the notes. Coordinates, last known location, where he’s headed, the destination itself - Avery’s treasure? She damn near scoffs into the phone. Son of a bitch went looking for it without her. Another sigh. “Yeah, I’ll go drag both Drake asses home.” The phone balances between her cheek and shoulder, tongue pressing against the flats of her teeth as she scribbles notes to herself. She falls silent for long seconds, rereading everything, ensuring she has it all before speaking again.

“I’ll leave as soon as I can catch a flight out.” Another short pause. “Love you, too, Victor.” She pauses, then lets the phone drop to the bed, hearing the audible beep of the call disconnecting.

And then she lets herself feel everything she tried not to on the call.

Fingers tremble only slightly as she books the flight, paying extra to land in a small, out of the way airport that’s closer to the island Nate’s headed to, and good god, what has he gotten himself into? She knows Sam’s at fault here, no one else it could be, but that’s a strange recent history of prison visits and delivering rare books on pirating to him behind the corrupt backs of bribed guards (and learning about him was something else entirely, a series of six-degrees-of-separation connections that led her to him, and fucking hell, Nate, a brother?). She’d thought Sam was just bored, but apparently he’d been serious about the lost treasure. She should’ve been more suspicious of the calls he made to her in the middle of the night, his attempt at casual still sounding panicked, but she’s had a little too much on her own plate to worry much about his.

And now it involves Nate. (And Avery’s lost treasure, christ. She’ll find time to be more annoyed about that later.)

It takes less than hour for her to pack a spare change of clothes and basic toiletries into a travel bag and get to the airport. Waiting for the flight only adds to the stress itching her skin, and it’s sheer willpower that keeps her from pacing in the terminal until it’s time to board. She sits instead in a chair at the end of a row of chairs, fingers pulling at a loose thread in the hem of her shirt while she holds a compilation of what notes she has about Avery in her other hand. Brushing up on her knowledge of the man barely holds her attention, her eyes steadfastly focused on the pages though her mind is far from rapt, focused instead on Nate and what the hell he’s doing. It’s been a good while since she’s seen him, and she’ll be damned if the next time she sees him is dead, not unless it’s both of them dead together. (A stupid promise made five beers deep in the middle of the night when humidity wasn’t the only thing keeping them warm. A stupid promise, but a promise anyway, right?)

At this point, it’s become routine to suppress her feelings, move on and not acknowledge them anymore. Years of pretend and fake smiles until it was too much to bear and avoidance became her best ally, and even that gave way to caving in and seeing the entire crew again. They’re her friends, dammit, and she can’t lay claim to many of those. So she pushes it aside. A semblance of ‘moving on’ she’s never quite reached. And it’s things like this that bring it all back to the surface. Chloe doesn’t get these calls when it’s a simple fix, or when Nate is in just a spot of trouble. She gets these calls when it’s gotten bad, and even if getting bad is fun, there’s a line that even she doesn’t want crossed, and she can’t help but feel that this is one of those lines Nate’s leapt across with both feet.

Her hand abandons the loose thread and instead her thumbnail fits between her teeth, brows pulled in, eyes not even comprehending the words on the page, and fucking hell, is the plane leaving yet?

It takes too long, too long, before the flight starts boarding, and she should’ve taken Victor up on his offer to fly her there, but she’s here now and waiting in line is frustrating, and she has to remind herself not to clench her teeth and to take deep breaths to stay calm. She has a several-hour-long flight ahead of her, and she’s really only thankful that she slept as much as she did beforehand. Not that she’d take any rest after she lands, not with everything that’s waiting at the other end of this all, but at least she won’t be dealing with tired eyes and the irritation that sets in when she’s awake for too long. Small mercies.

She finds some sort of solace in steady breathing and the knowledge that she’s on her way, she’ll be there to help him soon. He’ll be with her, where she can know he’s safe. It’s a small comfort, but it allows her mind to settle as she finally gets to her seat and waits for the plane to take off.

———-

If nothing else, on landing, she’s learned more about Henry Avery and his connections than she knew going into all of this. Her resources were limited on the plane, but she’d packed her phone with anything she could download on the taxi ride to the airport, and even the unreliable sources had some entertainment value, even if they were incredibly inaccurate. Part of her would eventually find it suitable to be annoyed that he’d figured so much out already, that the connections were made without her, but that can wait. A storm is brewing and the little plane she switches to is barely fighting against the growing winds. He gets her as close as possible, but the landing isn’t as soft as she’d like, and somehow she thinks it’s drier in the ocean she landed in than in the rain insisting these islands join Atlantis.

“Dammit, Nate,” she sputters as she pulls herself ashore, barely, the water pulling at her boots and jackets as if reluctant to let go of her. The travel bag secured around her is waterproof, but she’s sure everything inside will be drenched when she checks. Of all places, of all times, the storm hits now.

“You better be alive.” He has to be. He’s survived a hell of a lot of shit until now, there’s no chance a mountain and a storm could take him from her. (From them, she corrects herself.) It’s a promise she repeats to herself as she starts the trek through wet grass and mud until she has to start climbing. The rocks are slick, and he’s definitely alive. Her hand slips a few times and she has to take it slowly, carefully, and he has to be alive.

The path isn’t easy to see, but she knows his style well enough to feel confident in the path she’s taking. They make sense, even when the ledges are small. Nathan Drake may not always take the easiest routes, but he takes the ones that make sense, and she can see the handholds he would take as if he were pointing them out to her himself. It’s a slow process and the storm refuses to let up. In fact, she’s positive it’s gotten worse, though how to tell through sheets of rain so thick she can barely see her outstretched hand, she isn’t sure. It doesn’t show signs of letting up, though, and it drives her to move just a touch faster. Careful. But faster.

How long has he been here? Has he been wandering through the storm at the same time as she has? How much of a head start has he had? Is Sam impatiently trying to make him go faster, or are they taking it slow together? Concern buries itself in her mind, and she presses on. Mud and rain and battered knuckles and bruised knees, and it’d be like old times if Nate was here with her and they eventually took refuge from the storm in one of these small caves, bandaging up wounds as best they could while resting weary limbs.

He’d better be alive, dammit.

She loses sense of time as she moves determinedly forward, one hand in front of the other, boots securely in place before shifting weight. Her arms and stomach ache, legs are exhausted, and it’s been a while since she’s gone long enough to wear her down like this. Nothing could have prepared her for this, and for long moments, she clings to her handholds, fingers numb and bruised, legs shaking, and she clenches her teeth to keep herself strong. She’s so tired, though. Surely Nate would’ve called things to a halt soon, right? Had she missed him? The wall ahead looks broken, and she’s eyeing for a path across - and she sees him. Below. Unconscious and on his back, and that’s a hell of a ways to fall. The panic she’d manage to suppress earlier rises in her chest again, heart hammering and hands trembling, and she lowers herself as carefully as she can to where he is.

“I swear to god, Nate, if you’re dead…” She leaves the threat open-ended, fights back the stinging in her eyes, and has to drop the last six feet down to get to him, the bend in her knees making the fall easier, but there’s no waste of time in rushing to his side. One hand above his mouth, the other pressing two fingers against his neck and pausing, waiting, feeling for any sign of life-

And there, a slow heartbeat, strong beneath her fingertips. He’s alive, he’s alright, and she lets out a laugh, leaning her forehead against his chest as relief sweeps through her. “Bloody hell, you asshole,” she breathes, taking only a few moments to gather herself. He’s alive, but he’s also freezing and in direct path of the rain. He isn’t a light man, years of muscle compounded on that frame of his, but she hooks her arms beneath his, lifts, and drags him into a dry section of the cave, beneath an overhang. No way to make a fire, but that’s why she wore the bigger jacket over her own. It’s wet, but he’ll warm it up. She drapes it over him and sits close, pulling her arms into her own jacket and tucking the sleeves into the pockets to keep cold air from getting in, and she settles in for however long it takes for him to wake up.

“Remember that time in Colombia?” she asks softly, her voice barely carrying over the rain. Not that he can hear her anyway, but that isn’t the point. Maybe the point is to keep herself calm while he rests, to keep the concern from working its way deeper in case he doesn’t wake up. “It didn’t rain this much, but it sure could give this place a run for its money.” A pause and a sigh, and she tucks her mouth and nose into the neck of the jacket.

They’d taken refuge in a cave there, too. Ground level, entry hidden by plants, rain so thick they probably wouldn’t have needed the plants to keep them out of sight of the small group of mercs hunting them. It’d been dark tucked in the back corner of the little cave, the sky almost as dark outside. They’d sat side by side, legs and arms touching, heads leaned against each other. The sound of her breathing a steady rhythm to the quiet story he told her. The warm press of his lips to her temple, to the the curve of her cheekbone, to the smile that so easily crossed her face when she was with him. It’d been different then, the feel of his hand in the curve of her waist familiar and comfortable, and did it still feel the same now?

Stupid, Chloe, she thinks with a deep sigh. She tucks her face a little deeper into her jacket, but keeps her eyes on him. “Don’t die on me,” she demands of him, determines she’ll be pissed if he does.

———-

The rain eventually stops its attempt at flooding the entire island, and she puts her arms back through her sleeves and stands, stretching the stiffness from her legs and walking around a bit. The sky is starting to clear up, still not visible, but also not deep grey, either, and she squints slightly as she looks up at the sky through the hole Nate fell into. Where the hell is Sam? In her worry for Nate, she forgot that Sam was supposed to be with him. Had he left him behind? Chloe barely knows the man, isn’t sure what kind of person he is. Would he abandon his brother in the middle of a storm in search of Avery’s gold? Chloe could have her moments of abrasiveness, but to be that cruel? If that’s the case, Sam had better hope Chloe doesn’t catch up with him, or there’ll be a different sort of hell to pay.

She’s starting to muse over how serious she is on that threat, when she hears movement behind her. Turning, she watches as Nate slowly pushes himself up, grunting through the aches from the fall, waiting for his eyes to land on her. Gives him a friendly smirk when they finally do. “Morning, love,” she says as she moves the six steps it takes to get to him, and now that she knows he’s alive, that he wasn’t injured so badly he wouldn’t make it out of this cave, she can’t help but to let her mild bit of annoyance at what he was even doing here in the first place seep in.

“You know, if you wanted to get yourself killed while looking for Henry Avery’s lost treasure, you could have at least called me beforehand.”

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

destiel and clothes sharing!!

Somehow this turned into a ‘meet the parents’ fic with just a little bit of clothes sharing I don’t know what happened, but hey second fic finished in one day! (also on ao3!)

Cas never would have thought that the mere prospect of meeting his boyfriend's parents would be so terrifying.

Logically, he knew part of the reason why he was so paralyzed with anxiety was because he had never dated anyone long enough to meet their family. The only exception was his first girlfriend, Daphne, and that was just because he had already known her family on account of them being neighbors.

They had dated throughout their senior year of high school, though their relationship was more platonic than anything else. The few times that they had kissed, they only shared chaste pecks on the lips and nothing more which had elicited endless teasing from his older brothers, Gabriel especially.

They had broken up shortly after graduation, both of them going to college out of state. There had been no reason to attempt a long distance relationship, not when the most they felt for each other was the fondness between friends.

After college, he had started dating Meg. She was the complete antithesis to Daphne, opposite in nearly every way.

While Daphne was quite literally the innocent girl next door, Meg was the tough girl from the wrong side of town. She wore leather jackets and dark red lipstick no matter the occasion and her favorite activities included drinking, smoking, and getting into fights.

Meg hadn't had any family to speak of, save for her friend Crowley whom Cas had met once and despised on sight, and even if she had, he doubted that he would have ever been introduced. Their relationship had been a short affair, one based on sex and desperation and loneliness, hardly anything worth basing a genuine relationship on.

He had moved back to Illinois a few months after their relationship had ended. There, he had met April.

Their relationship, a mere two months, had followed the same course as his relationship with Meg. It was purely about sex and surely enough Cas had gotten emotionally attached again like the hopeless romantic fool that he was.

Their relationship had taken a different turn than his and Meg's right before it had ended. Because he and April's relationship ended with him getting stabbed in the back.

After arriving at April's apartment for their regularly scheduled date slash hook up night, he had walked in on April having sex with another man. It turned out to be her sister's husband. Cas had been rather glad he'd never met her family after learning that little tidbit.

About six months later, he had moved to Kansas with Gabriel who was opening a bar in Lawrence with their other brother Balthazar. He dated a few people there, mostly men since he had learned his lesson after his other failed relationships, but it had never developed into anything more serious.

Then, while working at the bar, he had met Dean.

He had never believed in love at first sight until Dean had sauntered into the bar with his self-assured smile and unbelievably green eyes. Cas had nearly melted right then and there, the only thing that had stopped him being a customer ordering another shot of tequila.

Dean, as he had introduced himself with a flirtatious wink that had Cas blushing down to his toes, had sat at the bar and ordered a beer. His fingers had brushed Cas' as he set the beer down in front of him on the bar, the brief touch making Cas' heart pound against his ribcage.

Dean had lingered in the bar for awhile, constantly flirting with Cas as he tossed back a couple more beers and some bar peanuts. Unused to being the sole focus of such rapt, undivided attention Cas had been as red as a tomato as he served Dean his drinks.

He had been rather disappointed when Dean left without asking for his number or leaving Cas his own, but he wasn't disappointed for long. The next day, Dean returned to the bar.

In the following weeks during his occasional visits to the bar, his flirting had shifted into questions about Cas' day and his hobbies and his favorite movies. Cas had been charmed, no one ever bothering to ask him what his favorite season was or what he liked most about Lawrence before.

So, naturally, when Dean almost shyly asked for his number, his freckle dusted cheeks tinged an endearing shade of pink, Cas had leaned over the bar and pecked him on the lips before writing down his number on the back of Dean's receipt.

That had been six months ago and they were still together, Cas practically living in Dean's apartment given how much time he spent there. It was the happiest Cas had ever been, getting to see the man he loved nearly every day.

Then, when Dean had shown up at the cramped apartment Cas shared with his brothers a week ago, he had invited Cas to dinner with his parents the following weekend.

Cas hadn't known how to react, having never met any of his significant others' parents before. Yet despite his misgivings, he had admittedly said yes.

Then, on Friday evening as he was getting ready for dinner, he began to wonder if he had made a huge mistake.

He had already met Dean's brother Sam but that was vastly different than meeting his parents. They would be much more critical than his younger brother who was just happy that Dean had quote 'found someone who wasn't just a pretty face'. And he had never met the parents before, what if he screwed it all up?

What if he was too dressed up? What if he dressed too casual? What if he accidentally insulted one of Dean's parents? What if he made a fool of himself?

What if Dean's parents didn't like him? Would Dean break up with him? Would he do it right there on the spot or would he wait until he dropped Cas back off at his apartment?

With all those questions running through his head like a stampede of spooked gazelle, he buried his face in his hands and groaned. He had to splash some cold water on his face in the bathroom before he continued getting dressed.

He had settled on business casual, a white button up with the sleeves rolled up and black slacks with his best pair of dress shoes, forgoing his usual tie and sweater vest he wore when he worked his second job at the local public library. Gabriel and Balthazar had both approved of his outfit, for once neither of them making any jokes about his appearance when they noticed how genuinely worried he was.

His brothers may be gigantic assholes but they were still his brothers.

He had spent half an hour fussing with his hair, trying to comb it and brush it into some semblance of a hairstyle that didn't make it look like he had just rolled out of bed. Balthazar had informed him that the windblown look was a good one but nonetheless, he had continued trying to tame the unruly black locks until he had to give up in order to arrive on time.

On the advice of several online articles he had read about meeting the parents of one's significant other, he had purchased the finest bottle of pinot noir that the local liquor store had to offer. He had stuck a festive red bow on the neck of the bottle, hoping that it wasn't too cheesy.

The drive to the Winchester home was a short twelve minute drive from his apartment in his old Continental that Dean constantly teased him about. He put the window down to get some fresh air, tapping out a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel as he listened to the mixtape Dean had given him for their six month anniversary.

Dean's car was parked out front of the house, a sure sign that he was at the right address. A black '69 Chevy Chevelle was parked in the driveway, Cas only knowing the make and model because Dean had told him about the car his father had bought after passing the Impala onto him.

Sam's SUV was parked across the street. Cas pulled up behind it and climbed out of his Lincoln, almost forgetting the bottle of wine he had brought with him.

When he knocked on the door, doing a quick breathing exercise to calm his frazzled nerves, a chorus of barking sounded, meaning Sam and Jess had brought their Australian Shepherd, Riot, along. Probably to play with dog Dean's parents had gotten a few years back. If memory served it was a German Shepherd named the Colonel.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hark, the herald angels sing," Cas heard Dean's voice mutter mockingly, heavy footsteps accompanying him as he made his way to the front door. The barking continued, Cas hearing two distinct barks. "C'mon, guys, calm down. It's just Cas."

The front door swung open a moment later to reveal Dean in all his glory, looking unfairly handsome in a green flannel and faded jeans. A large smile lifted the corners of his lips, Cas overcome with the desire to just stand on the porch and kiss Dean all night.

He had shaved which immediately made Cas wish that he had thought to do so, hoping he didn't look like a scruffy hobo. As casually as he was dressed, Cas caught a whiff of the fancy cologne that Dean only wore for special occasions.

The light from the interior of the house bathed him gilded radiance, making it look like he had a halo of gold around his head. And yet Cas was the one that Dean called angel.

Cas pouted, jutting out his lower lip. He blinked up at Dean through his lashes as he quipped, "Only Cas? Well, I guess I'll have to go home and drink this wine all by myself."

Dean dipped his chin as he huffed a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Straightening up, he used his leg to hold Riot and the Colonel back, leaning back against the front door as he encouraged, "Come on in, babe."

He leaned in close to lay a kiss on Cas' cheek as he entered the house, taking a moment to glance around the spacious living room as Dean closed the front door. Dean took the wine from Cas' hand and curled an arm around his shoulders, the dogs dancing around their legs, tails wagging furiously.

"Yo!" Dean called, leading Cas into the house. They passed the living room with its plush looking couches and large TV mounted on the mantle of the brick fireplace. "Cas is here!"

The sound of people talking grew louder as they walked further into the house, Cas infinitely relieved that Dean had initiated the contact between them. He was still just a teensy tiny bit terrified and by that, he meant that he was seriously considering making a run for the front door.

But the content, proud smile on Dean's face kept Cas at his side. The last thing he wanted to do was let Dean down. And with that thought in mind, he took a deep breath and steeled his nerves.

When they arrived in the wide kitchen doorway, he was met with the sight of Dean's whole family bustling around the kitchen. Like a hive of busy bees, they buzzed around, working in tandem to finish up dinner.

Sam and Jess were setting the table with pristine white plates and stainless steel silverware. As Sam laid out napkins, Jess fussed with the centerpiece, a bouquet of bright red roses and carnations.

A scruffy looking man with dark hair and specks of gray in his beard who Cas immediately recognized as John Winchester, carried a plate of grilled steaks over to the kitchen table, setting it down beside a large bowl of mac and cheese. He was a rather intimidating man though still attractive in an older, ruggedly handsome way, Dean and Sam inheriting his masculine good looks.

Dean's mother, Mary, a woman with long blonde hair, was stirring something in a bowl by the stove, a smile on her face as she hummed under her breath. She untied the white apron she wore and hung it on a hook by the refrigerator before carrying the bowl over to the table where she set it beside a bowl of roasted broccoli.

Dean cleared his throat loudly until everyone looked up at him and Cas who immediately tensed under the critical eyes of his boyfriend's parents. Seemingly unfazed by the attention, Dean announced, "Mom, dad, this is Cas."

"Hello," Cas managed to squeak, his voice soft and unsure as he raised his hand in a small wave that no one returned. He winced at his own awkwardness, kicking himself for being so deplorably inept in any sort of social interaction. He blamed his family.

John Winchester stepped forward first, offering his large hand for Cas to shake. Cas took it and shook his hand, greeting, "Mr. Winchester."

He let out a small sigh of relief when John nodded to himself in approval. Turns out all that time practicing his handshake with Gabriel had been worth it.

Dean rolled his eyes at the obvious test, squeezing Cas' shoulder. Cas let out another quiet sigh, relieved that he had passed.

"Oh, Cas, it's so nice to meet you!" Mary claimed with a brilliant smile, leaning in to give him a quick hug. It was a bit awkward considering Dean's arm around his shoulders and the fact that he was so surprised he didn't return the embrace.

Pulling back, she flashed another bright smile, Cas noting the similarities it shared with Dean's smile. Brushing a lock of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear, she rushed to inform him, "Don't bother with calling me Mrs. Winchester. Mary's fine."

Cas smiled gratefully. "Thank you. It's wonderful to meet you."

"Aww, likewise, sweetie," Mary stated with a dazzling grin, her blue eyes practically sparkling. She turned to the side a bit to gesture at the spread of food on the table, suggesting, "Well, c'mon then. Let's eat."

Dean dropped his arm from Cas' shoulders to take his hand, intertwining their fingers as he led him to their seats at the table. Mary sat at the head of the table across from John, Jessica sitting beside Mary and Sam beside her. Dean took the other seat beside his father, pulling out the seat across from Jess for Cas.

As they took their seats, Mary explained, "John made steak, Sam made garlic roasted broccoli, Jess made mashed potatoes, Dean made mac and cheese, and for dessert, I'm making cherry pie."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Cas immediately apologized, wanting to bury his face in his hands and scream. Glancing around at the different dishes before meeting Mary's eyes again, he elaborated, "I should've brought something."

"You did," Dean reminded him, brandishing the bottle of wine. Cas couldn't believe he had forgotten about it.

Mary started to stand, pushing her chair back. "Oh, I'll grab some wine glasses."

"I got it, mom," Dean offered, already on his feet. He leaned down to kiss Cas on the top of his head, mumbling, "Play nice, babe."

Contrary to all of Cas' expectations, dinner was fantastic.

The food was some of the best he had ever tasted, the steak cooked perfectly and full of flavor and Jess' mashed potatoes were perfectly thick and fluffy. He would never get tired of Dean's decadent mac and cheese and Sam had made him a reformed broccoli lover, Cas close to begging for the recipe.

The conversation was light and casual with none of the awkwardness or probing questions that he had been expecting. He had answered a few inquiries about work and his hobbies, making John laugh at the fact that Dean had found someone even nerdier than Sam while Jess teased that Cas had the whole 'hot librarian' thing going on.

The most awkward part of the meal was when Mary had asked about what his family was like and he'd had to explain some of the unique oddness of his childhood. The awkwardness had dissipated when Cas began regaling them with stories about the pranks Gabriel and Balthazar had roped him into pulling back in high school.

After dinner, John and Sam washed and dried the dishes as Dean and Jess wiped down the table and packed away the leftovers. Afterwards, everyone save for Mary, and Cas who volunteered to help her with getting the pie ready for the oven, retired to the living room to watch TV.

As the others watched some wrestling match, Cas helped Mary thread pie crust into a perfect lattice pattern. While they worked diligently, Cas told her about when he had discovered his own love of baking which lead to a discussion about the cookbook he had published.

After they popped the pie into the oven and set the timer for forty five minutes, Mary noticed that Cas was shivering a bit. With a smile, she explained, "The house has a draft. It's why we've all gotten used to wearing so many layers."

Cas had smiled softly as he rolled his sleeves down, rebuttoning his cuffs. He was about to suggest they join the others when Mary suggested, "How about you go upstairs to Dean's room and grab a sweater. He should still have some lying around."

"Oh, thank you," Cas replied, starting to turn towards the stairway. He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder and inquiring, "Which room is it?"

"First door on your right," she informed him, patting him on the back before she disappeared into the living room. The sound of cheering echoed through the house, the Colonel barking along as John shouted encouragements at the TV.

Cas smiled to himself as he climbed up the stairs, finding the door to Dean's room open the slightest bit. He pushed it open and flicked on the light, his smile immediately widening as he took everything in.

The bed was covered with a dark blue comforter, a pile of clothes strewn on top of the duvet. There were Star Wars posters plastered all over the walls along with pictures of Led Zeppelin albums.

There was a shelf above the bed that was home to a small collection of paperbacks and several trophies for both athletic and intellectual achievements. A football jersey was tossed carelessly on top of the desk in the corner.

Knowing Dean there was a box of skin mags hidden under his bed or the back of his closet. He might even still have some condoms and lotion in his nightstand, the thought making him laugh.

He crossed to the bed and picked through the pile of clothes tossed there, all of which were clean, still smelling of laundry detergent. He found a navy blue sweater that was soft to the touch and reminded him of Dean for some reason.

Shivering again, he pulled it on, instantly feeling warmer. He wrapped his arms around himself and took a seat on the edge of the bed, basking in the fact that he was surrounded by Dean.

"Y'know, if you were cold you coulda just told me," Dean's voice sounded from the doorway. Cas jumped, whipping his head around to see Dean leaning against the door jamb, his arms crossed over his chest and a smug grin on his lip.

He walked over to sit beside Cas, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend who immediately relaxed against his chest, tucking his face into Dean's neck. He could feel the vibrations as Dean asked, "So... You havin' a good time?"

"Yeah," Cas admitted, inching closer with a content sigh. Letting his eyes fall closed, he murmured, "I love your family. They're amazing."

"You're amazing," Dean returned, tilting his head just so in order to claim Cas' lips in a warm kiss. He cupped Cas' jaw in his palm as he deepened the kiss, basking in the little mewl Cas let out as he eagerly returned the kiss.

Moving his hand to the back of Cas' neck, he crowded closer until he was rolling Cas over onto his back, his legs instinctively wrapping around Dean's waist. Pulling back to pant heavily against the side of Cas' neck, he murmured, "How long is the pie in for?"

"Forty five minutes," Cas answered, wondering why Dean was asking about pie at a time like that. Then Dean rocked their hips together and every thought in his mind was simultaneously obliterated.

Dean smirked. "Mmm... Perfect."

Later, Cas had to correct himself. The most awkward part of the night was sitting across from John and Mary, eating cherry pie with vanilla ice cream, after getting thoroughly fucked by their son barely fifteen feet away.

But, hey, it was totally worth it.

Send me Destiel prompts!

[theonewhobroughtyou]

@favoredfcrtune

Victor is damn lucky he catches Chloe when he does.

His call comes late in the afternoon, after she’s been passed out for hours after a too-long flight home. The job in Kagoshima was quick, nothing to get too excited over, in and out within four days and hardly even a scrape to her knuckles. Easy. She loves the job, though, regardless of how short it is, of how little danger there is, of minimal risk and moderate reward, but still it feels good to be back in a warm bed, in a temperature controlled apartment, with locks on the door and eight floors of residents below her to act as a buffer between her flat and anyone potentially trying to reach her. The thrill of the adventure can still, at times, be outweighed by the comforts of home. Of familiarity. Of the quiet hum of the air conditioner soothing her ears after days of near perpetual gunfire when things go bad (and so often do they go bad; it’s almost not enjoyable if they don’t, to a degree).

She can’t sleep on flights, though, never could, and when she finally landed back in Key West after three layovers and too many in-flight movies, her eyes too heavy to even read her notes anymore, she managed to wrangle a taxi ride home, barely making it out of her jeans and onto her bed before sleep won and she slipped into a series of meaningless dreams for a solid eleven hours. It isn't unusual for her to crash so hard after a job, but it's the flight that really took it out of her this time. For the amount of trans-oceanic flights she takes, she thinks she should be used to all of this by now, might know how to relax and shut down on a flight - and yet here she is, pushing her mid-thirties, more than half her life spent in the business, and still unable to to do more on a plane than close her eyes and slow her breathing and try to imagine the thrum of the engine is her air conditioner at home, but to no avail. Frustrating, but it's why she plans a few extra hours on either side of her trips for the red-eyes and long flights.

She hadn't planned anything after this job. Maybe a couple weeks off to let her aches recover, to start working on selling some relics from recent jobs, maybe start poking around for her next one. So when she's woken up by her cell phone vibrating near violently beside her pillow, Victor's name illuminated through the spiderweb of cracks in the screen, she knows it's one of two things: an invite to drinks, or something with Nate. Both of which end up being time consuming, and he's lucky he caught her now.

Her mouth is thick with sleep, and she has to clear her throat a few times before she can clear the hoarseness from her voice, but even then she still sounds tired.

“Victor?” She tries to sound alert, or at least more so than she actually is, pushes herself onto her elbows to clear her head, blinking sleep from her eyes. But it isn't anything she does that has her mind snapping to attention and her heart pounding so hard it might break through her ribcage. It's what he tells her. It's Nate, because of course it is. It’s been a long time since this brand of call has come through to her, but she can’t say she hasn’t been expecting something like it eventually.

She can still remember the last time she'd visited the Drake household, the look on his face when she mentioned where she was headed next - Uruguay, at the time, to look into the credibility of La Luz Mala. The way his eyes widened slightly, brightened, and she could damn near see the wheels turning in his head as he already tried to figure it all out, where he'd start, what clues would fit, historical facts and tidbits they had once spent countless days and nights poring over together - and how those wheels slid to a sharp stop when he forced himself to change the subject. He can't follow that train of thought. He has a wife and a house and a relatively normal job. He's left the life of fortune hunting behind in favor of the normalcy he didn't get growing up. It broke her heart to see the light dim when he moved on to other topics and pushed a smile into place. He's happy, but he's also not, and the lure of adventure is a tempting mistress they've both spent their lives giving in to the siren song of.

He resisted, but she knows how goddamn easy it is to go back.

“You mean...even more stupid than usual?” A pause as she listens, and she forces herself into a sitting position, dragging her hand over her eyes, down her face, back through her hair. She tries to play it off like a minor annoyance, but the truth is, she knows the recklessness that can come with spending time away, and she’s terrified for him. Keeping herself under control is easy, even in the vulnerability of the aftermath of sleep, but she feels the rising panic make her chest ache. Her only audible sign of it is the sigh she gives, heavier than she’d intended and carrying more worry than she could put words to.

“Of course, Victor,” she says, pulling a pen and whatever scrap of paper she has towards her to take down the notes. Coordinates, last known location, where he’s headed, the destination itself - Avery’s treasure? She damn near scoffs into the phone. Son of a bitch went looking for it without her. Another sigh. “Yeah, I’ll go drag both Drake asses home.” The phone balances between her cheek and shoulder, tongue pressing against the flats of her teeth as she scribbles notes to herself. She falls silent for long seconds, rereading everything, ensuring she has it all before speaking again.

“I’ll leave as soon as I can catch a flight out.” Another short pause. “Love you, too, Victor.” She pauses, then lets the phone drop to the bed, hearing the audible beep of the call disconnecting.

And then she lets herself feel everything she tried not to on the call.

Fingers tremble only slightly as she books the flight, paying extra to land in a small, out of the way airport that’s closer to the island Nate’s headed to, and good god, what has he gotten himself into? She knows Sam’s at fault here, no one else it could be, but that’s a strange recent history of prison visits and delivering rare books on pirating to him behind the corrupt backs of bribed guards (and learning about him was something else entirely, a series of six-degrees-of-separation connections that led her to him, and fucking hell, Nate, a brother?). She’d thought Sam was just bored, but apparently he’d been serious about the lost treasure. She should’ve been more suspicious of the calls he made to her in the middle of the night, his attempt at casual still sounding panicked, but she’s had a little too much on her own plate to worry much about his.

And now it involves Nate. (And Avery’s lost treasure, christ. She’ll find time to be more annoyed about that later.)

It takes less than hour for her to pack a spare change of clothes and basic toiletries into a travel bag and get to the airport. Waiting for the flight only adds to the stress itching her skin, and it’s sheer willpower that keeps her from pacing in the terminal until it’s time to board. She sits instead in a chair at the end of a row of chairs, fingers pulling at a loose thread in the hem of her shirt while she holds a compilation of what notes she has about Avery in her other hand. Brushing up on her knowledge of the man barely holds her attention, her eyes steadfastly focused on the pages though her mind is far from rapt, focused instead on Nate and what the hell he’s doing. It’s been a good while since she’s seen him, and she’ll be damned if the next time she sees him is dead, not unless it’s both of them dead together. (A stupid promise made five beers deep in the middle of the night when humidity wasn’t the only thing keeping them warm. A stupid promise, but a promise anyway, right?)

At this point, it’s become routine to suppress her feelings, move on and not acknowledge them anymore. Years of pretend and fake smiles until it was too much to bear and avoidance became her best ally, and even that gave way to caving in and seeing the entire crew again. They’re her friends, dammit, and she can’t lay claim to many of those. So she pushes it aside. A semblance of ‘moving on’ she’s never quite reached. And it’s things like this that bring it all back to the surface. Chloe doesn’t get these calls when it’s a simple fix, or when Nate is in just a spot of trouble. She gets these calls when it’s gotten bad, and even if getting bad is fun, there’s a line that even she doesn’t want crossed, and she can’t help but feel that this is one of those lines Nate’s leapt across with both feet.

Her hand abandons the loose thread and instead her thumbnail fits between her teeth, brows pulled in, eyes not even comprehending the words on the page, and fucking hell, is the plane leaving yet?

It takes too long, too long, before the flight starts boarding, and she should’ve taken Victor up on his offer to fly her there, but she’s here now and waiting in line is frustrating, and she has to remind herself not to clench her teeth and to take deep breaths to stay calm. She has a several-hour-long flight ahead of her, and she’s really only thankful that she slept as much as she did beforehand. Not that she’d take any rest after she lands, not with everything that’s waiting at the other end of this all, but at least she won’t be dealing with tired eyes and the irritation that sets in when she’s awake for too long. Small mercies.

She finds some sort of solace in steady breathing and the knowledge that she’s on her way, she’ll be there to help him soon. He’ll be with her, where she can know he’s safe. It’s a small comfort, but it allows her mind to settle as she finally gets to her seat and waits for the plane to take off. 

If nothing else, on landing, she’s learned more about Henry Avery and his connections than she knew going into all of this. Her resources were limited on the plane, but she’d packed her phone with anything she could download on the taxi ride to the airport, and even the unreliable sources had some entertainment value, even if they were incredibly inaccurate. Part of her would eventually find it suitable to be annoyed that he’d figured so much out already, that the connections were made without her, but that can wait. A storm is brewing and the little plane she switched to is barely fighting against the growing winds. He gets her as close as possible, but the landing isn’t as soft as she’d like, and somehow she thinks it’s drier in the ocean she landed in than in the rain insisting these islands join Atlantis.

“Dammit, Nate,” she sputters as she pulls herself ashore, barely, the water pulling at her boots and jackets as if reluctant to let go of her. The travel bag secured around her is waterproof, but she’s sure everything inside will be drenched when she checks. Of all places, of all times, the storm hits now.

“You better be alive.” He has to be. He’s survived a hell of a lot of shit until now, there’s no chance a mountain and a storm could take him from her. (From them, she corrects herself.) It’s a promise she repeats to herself as she starts the trek through wet grass and mud until she has to start climbing. The rocks are slick, and he’s definitely alive. Her hand slips a few times and she has to take it slowly, carefully, and he has to be alive.

The path isn’t easy to see, but she knows his style well enough to feel confident in the path she’s taking. They make sense, even when the ledges are small. Nathan Drake may not always take the easiest routes, but he takes the ones that make sense, and she can see the handholds he would take as if he were pointing them out to her himself. It’s a slow process and the storm refuses to let up. In fact, she’s positive it’s gotten worse, though how to tell through sheets of rain so thick she can barely see her outstretched hand, she isn’t sure. It doesn’t show signs of letting up, though, and it drives her to move just a touch faster. Careful. But faster.

How long has he been here? Has he been wandering through the storm at the same time as she has? How much of a head start has he had? Is Sam impatiently trying to make him go faster, or are they taking it slow together? Concern buries itself in her mind, and she presses on. Mud and rain and battered knuckles and bruised knees, and it’d be like old times if Nate was here with her and they eventually took refuge from the storm in one of these small caves, bandaging up wounds as best they could while resting weary limbs.

He’d better be alive, dammit.

She loses sense of time as she moves determinedly forward, one hand in front of the other, boots securely in place before shifting weight. Her arms and stomach ache, legs are exhausted, and it’s been a while since she’s gone long enough to wear her down like this. Nothing could have prepared her for this, and for long moments, she clings to her handholds, fingers numb and bruised, legs shaking, and she clenches her teeth to keep herself strong. She’s so tired, though. Surely Nate would’ve called things to a halt soon, right? Had she missed him? The wall ahead looks broken, and she’s eyeing for a path across - and she sees him. Below. Unconscious and on his back, and that’s a hell of a ways to fall. The panic she’d manage to suppress earlier rises in her chest again, heart hammering and hands trembling, and she lowers herself as carefully as she can to where he is.

“I swear to god, Nate, if you’re dead…” She leaves the threat open-ended, fights back the stinging in her eyes, and has to drop the last six feet down to get to him, the bend in her knees making the fall easier, but there’s no waste of time in rushing to his side. One hand above his mouth, the other pressing two fingers against his neck and pausing, waiting, feeling for any sign of life-

And there, a slow heartbeat, strong beneath her fingertips. He’s alive, he’s alright, and she lets out a laugh, leaning her forehead against his chest as relief sweeps through her. “Bloody hell, you asshole,” she breathes, taking only a few moments to gather herself. He’s alive, but he’s also freezing and in direct path of the rain. He isn’t a light man, years of muscle compounded on that frame of his, but she hooks her arms beneath his, lifts, and drags him into a dry section of the cave, beneath an overhang. No way to make a fire, but that’s why she wore the bigger jacket over her own. It’s wet, but he’ll warm it up. She drapes it over him and sits close, pulling her arms into her own jacket and tucking the sleeves into the pockets to keep cold air from getting in, and she settles in for however long it takes for him to wake up.

“Remember that time in Colombia?” she asks softly, her voice barely carrying over the rain. Not that he can hear her anyway, but that isn’t the point. Maybe the point is to keep herself calm while he rests, to keep the concern from working its way deeper in case he doesn’t wake up. “It didn’t rain this much, but it sure could give this place a run for its money.” A pause and a sigh, and she tucks her mouth and nose into the neck of the jacket.

They’d taken refuge in a cave there, too. Ground level, entry hidden by plants, rain so thick they probably wouldn’t have needed the plants to keep them out of sight of the small group of mercs hunting them. It’d been dark tucked in the back corner of the little cave, the sky almost as dark outside. They’d sat side by side, legs and arms touching, heads leaned against each other. The sound of her breathing a steady rhythm to the quiet story he told her. The warm press of his lips to her temple, to the the curve of her cheekbone, to the smile that so easily crossed her face when she was with him. It’d been different then, the feel of his hand in the curve of her waist familiar and comfortable, and did it still feel the same now?

Stupid, Chloe, she thinks with a deep sigh. She tucks her face a little deeper into her jacket, but keeps her eyes on him. “Don’t die on me,” she demands of him, determines she’ll be pissed if he does. 

The rain eventually stops its attempt at flooding the entire island, and she puts her arms back through her sleeves and stands, stretching the stiffness from her legs and walking around a bit. The sky is starting to clear up, still not visible, but also not deep grey, either, and she squints slightly as she looks up at the sky through the hole Nate fell into. Where the hell is Sam? In her worry for Nate, she forgot that Sam was supposed to be with hi.? Had he left him behind? Chloe barely knows the man, isn’t sure what kind of person he is. Would be abandon his brother in the middle of a storm in search of Avery’s gold? Chloe could have her moments of abrasiveness, but to be that cruel? If that’s the case, Sam had better hope Chloe doesn’t catch up with him, or there’ll be a different sort of hell to pay.

She’s starting to muse over how serious she is on that threat, when she hears movement behind her. Turning, she watches as Nate slowly pushes himself up, grunting through the aches from the fall, waiting for his eyes to land on her. Gives him a friendly smirk when they finally do. “Morning, love,” she says as she moves the six steps it takes to get to him, and now that she knows he’s alive, that he wasn’t injured so badly he wouldn’t make it out of this cave, she can’t help but to let her mild bit of annoyance at what he was even doing here in the first place seep in.

“You know, if you wanted to get yourself killed while looking for Henry Avery’s lost treasure, you could have at least called me beforehand.”

[beaniesandbutterflies]

five times kissed :>

send me five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses kissed.

1. Mario Kart competitions were serious business, and Ash wasn’t prepared to lose. It’s her and Beth vs. Chris and Josh, and the boys are winning. So far, the tactics she and Beth had been using to distract them haven’t been working- heckling them, teasing them, sabotaging them with shells at every possible opportunity. 

It’s a well-known fact that Ashley is crazy competitive when it comes to gaming. So, really, her strategy to distract Chris long enough for Beth to take first place isn’t that crazy. Plus, Beth had double dared her and promised her five bucks if she did it. 

She couldn’t not. 

“Hey, Chris?” 

“Mmm?” He doesn’t even look at her, but she didn’t really expect him to- rainbow Road requires full attention. 

She shoots Beth A Look, and Beth raises her eyebrows expectantly. She takes a deep, steadying breath, setting her controller down. She really shouldn’t have agreed to this. But, hell, desperate times... 

Ashley plants a kiss on Chris’s cheek first, and that’s enough to catch his attention and for him to turn to face her and she doesn’t give herself time to think before she’s leaning in, giving him time to freak out and pull away but then suddenly she’s kissing him properly. She can hear Josh’s half-confused/half-indignant “What?” and Beth laughing. 

The expression on Chris’s face after she breaks away is... baffled, almost. Like he doesn’t know what to make of what just happened. She doesn’t really know, either. 

“You owe me five bucks, Beth,” she says casually, just as Beth crosses the finish line in first place. 

“Dirty tactics,” Josh mutters petulantly, and all Ashley can do is shrug. 

2. Ash shuts her textbook with a bang, and stares across the table at Chris, who’s making a point of not making eye contact. This is going to end now, she’s decided. She needs her best friend back to normal. 

“You have been so weird the past couple days, what’s up?” 

Chris shrugs, but still won’t look at her. 

She sighs, and moves to the seat next to him, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Chris,” she says softly, “you know you can tell me anything, right?” 

“It’s just... that guy.” 

“What? Which one?”

“The one who asked you out,” Chris clarifies, looking into her eyes for a moment before looking away. “He’s such a-” 

“Jerk?” Ashley supplies, and Chris nods. “Yeah, that’s why I said no. I can’t believe I left that part out. And I can’t believe that’s why you’ve been so mopey!” Oh, she could really have some fun with this tidbit- but Chris still looks... well, not like Chris. So she holds off on the teasing for now. 

She nudges him gently in the side. “Relax, you’re always going to be my favourite.” 

And then he surprises her- really, really surprises her- by kissing her cheek. “Thanks.” 

She blushes, and clears her throat. “No problem. We should get back to studying, hey?” 

3. It’s a small blessing that they’re all on the same floor of the hospital- makes visiting easier. It had been a long, long night (and morning) for all of them, but even after being examined by the doctor and being assured that her injuries are minor and she’d be sent home the next morning, Ashley feels uneasy. She has no idea how her friends are doing. 

So she decides to make the rounds, briefly stopping in to ask how everyone is doing- Sam is more concerned with how Ashley is doing, Jess is in rough shape but Ash is assured that she’ll be fine in a couple weeks, Matt is sore but alright, Mike is asleep when Ash tires to check in, and she’s too scared to check on Emily. 

Chris is last, the room directly across the hall from hers. She knocks on the door and waits for him to call out before she opens it. 

“Hey,” she says, pretending not to notice that he flinches slightly at the sight of her. To be fair, she looks like hell. The black eye, tangled hair, cuts and scrapes can’t make her look pretty. “Can’t sleep?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Yeah, me neither.” She sits next to him on the bed, and hesitates for a second before she takes his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Are you okay?” 

He nods, but the ache in his voice gives him away. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m- I’m fine.”

“They’ll find him,” she says, rubbing her thumb over his. “He’ll be fine.” 

He nods again, and looks away. 

“I don’t know if I ever said thank you. For... for the gun thing,” she says, the pain in her voice mirroring his. The image of Chris holding what he thought was a loaded gun to his head would probably haunt her just as much as the Wendigos and “Josh’s” body sawed in half. “It scared the shit out of me, and I never want you trying to save my life ever again. But thank you.” 

And then he smiles, and she feels like she’s accomplished something big. 

“No problem.” 

And for the second time in 24 hours, Ash is a little overcome by how much she cares about Chris and how utterly lost she would be without him. And for the second time in 24 hours, she kisses him because she doesn’t know how else to express it. 

She goes to leave, to let him rest, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “Stay.” 

So she does. 

This is going to suck for all of them, for a very very long time. But they’ve got each other. And that’s enough. 

4. Her flight home had been delayed several hours, and she’d informed the so-called “welcoming committee” of it in their group chat consisting of herself, Chris, Matt, Sam and Jess. She promises them that even if she doesn’t see them at the airport, she’d see them the next day, and not to worry about being there to meet her at 4 a.m. 

The flight from New York is long and she’s cranky and sleep-deprived by the time she arrives at the airport. She’s half-dead as she stands near the baggage carousel, waiting for the suitcase that Margo had helped her put patches all over right before she left for grad school. 

And then she walks into the terminal proper, expecting to maybe see her parents, but more likely anticipating nobody being there and that she would have to take a cab home. 

Instead, there’s Chris. She drops her suitcase and runs, nearly knocking him over with the force of her hug. He kisses her, and she stretches up on tiptoe to accommodate for his height. He tastes like coffee and like home and she probably has morning breath from her nap on the plane but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Hi,” she says with a bright smile. “I missed you. i can’t believe you’re here!” 

He laughs and shrugs. “Yeah, well, I’m not the only one,” he replies, gesturing to his left, where, Ash is embarrassed to realize, Jess is standing. 

“Jess!” Ash exclaims, bounding over to give the other girl a tight hug. “Hi! I’m sorry I didn’t see you before. Thanks for coming.” 

“It’s fine,” Jess says, waving it off. “Someone had to give your dorky boyfriend a ride.” 

Jess takes Ashley’s suitcase, leaving Ashley free to link arms with her and Chris as they walk out. 

5. “I don’t know, two kids and several years in, you sure you’re not rushing into anything?” 

Ash rolls her eyes at Sam as the latter adjusts Ashley’s veil. “Even if I was, it’s a little late now, isn’t it?” 

“True,” Sam concedes with a laugh. “I think you’re just about ready. Jess, thoughts?” 

Jess looks up from doing Margo’s makeup and grins. Ashley’s hair is in loose waves, her makeup kept simple, her dress knee-length and with lace details- something she had picked out with plenty of input from her bridesmaids. 

“You look perfect, Ashley.” Jess looks back to Margo, dusting powder across her cheeks before declaring her finished, and calling Ruth over. 

Ash smiles, and picks up Matilda- three years old and already the spitting image of her mom. “Let’s go see Dad and Donovan and take some pictures. Okay?” 

“’Kay!” 

So off she goes, to meet Chris outside the church for some of those super cheesy “first look” wedding pictures, something she had proposed the idea of but that Chris had enthusiastically gone along with. She knows that the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride in her dress before the wedding, but considering they aren’t married and already have two kids... to hell with traditions. 

Both her son and her husband-to-be have their hands over their eyes as she and Matilda approach, and Ashley laughs, glancing at their photographer, who shrugs. 

“You look so handsome,” she remarks, reaching out to adjust his tie slightly. He slowly takes his hand away from his eyes and the way his face absolutely lights up when he sees her is enough to make her tear up. 

“Wow.”

“You’re going to make me ruin my makeup,” she says, carefully wiping her eyes. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. “Doesn’t she?” he asks his son, and Donovan nods. 

“You look really pretty, Mommy.” 

And then, though she can predict the kids’ reactions, she pulls Chris in by the lapels of his suit for a kiss. Matilda and Donovan are “ewwww”ing in the background, but somehow that makes her appreciate the moment even more. 

“I love you,” he says, forehead resting against hers for a moment. 

“I love you too.” 

“We should really go.” 

“Yeah. I’ll see you in half an hour?” 

“Unless I get cold feet,” Chris replies, and Ash just rolls her eyes. 

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

🕵️‍♂️👨‍🚀👬

To be honest, I had a little bit of trouble coming up with a plot but I think it turned out pretty good! (also on ao3!)

"So what's our cover?" Dean asked before stuffing his face with a heaping forkful of fluffy, golden pancakes slathered in butter and drowned in syrup. Vermont maple syrup really was the best.

"Well FBI's out," Sam replied as he raised his mug to his lips, taking a sip of coffee to wash down a bite of his veggie omelet. Leave it to Sam to order some vegetarian crap in a place that offered mountains of pancakes and decadent French toast platters.

Dean nodded as he chewed, conceding Sam's point with a tip of his head. They had already seen a few actual feds poking around town and the last thing they needed was to get arrested for impersonating federal agents.

Especially since there were still arrest warrants out on them in several states and Dean was still officially dead as far as the U.S. government was concerned. He'd have to ask Cas about that when he got back to the Bunker, see if there was anything he could do with his mojo.

After a few more bites of his boring, probably tasteless breakfast, Sam swallowed and announced, "I'm thinking we should just pretend to be a couple. That'll actually get us into the resort."

He took another sip of coffee after speaking, completely nonplussed. Dean, on the other hand, nearly choked on his pancakes.

Dropping his fork with a loud, metallic clatter, he thumped his fist against his chest. Coughing and hacking, desperately trying to breathe, he gawked at Sam, his eyes practically bulging out of his head.

Still coughing, he reached for his own cup of coffee, downing some to help him wash down the pancakes and disbelief. Clearing his throat, he managed to wheeze out, "Uh... You know we're brothers, right? And I don't care what Chuck's groupies think, that actually matters."

"What?" Sam asked, his face scrunching up in blatant confusion. Dean didn't think that Sam had any right to look so incredulous when he was the one that had just suggested they play boyfriends.

Not that his suggestion was completely out of place.

They were in Grafton, a small town that was more of a village than anything else, nestled in the mountains of southern Vermont. It was full of beautiful scenery, bed and breakfasts, and something that was killing people at a local couple's resort.

The first victim had been found a few weeks ago. A woman from Boston who had been honeymooning with her new husband.

Her body had been discovered in the back garden of the resort amongst the ornamental cherry blossom trees. There had been signs of a struggle, broken fingernails and a pair of shoes with the high heels snapped off, but no conclusive manner of death.

The medical examiner had ruled the death as undetermined, making a note about a potential heart attack. But an otherwise healthy woman in her late twenties having a sudden heart attack with no prior history of any cardiac issues was pretty suspicious.

The second and third victims had been found shortly thereafter. A week after that, the other three victims had been found.

The cause of death was still unknown. There were no strangulation marks or gunshot wounds. No scratches or stabs or bashed in skulls. Just several people dead, leaving their significant others behind to grieve.

Dean probably would have written it up to some everyday serial killer —which just went to show how screwed up his life was that a serial killer was something banal —had it not been for the strange power outages in the area. Apparently, there had been a blackout every time someone had been killed.

After learning that little tidbit of information, Dean had officially been convinced that they were dealing with something much more supernatural than a regular old serial killer. On the long, nearly twenty four hour drive from Kansas to Vermont, they had debated various theories.

Sam guessed that it was another Qareen, like the one they had dealt with while the Darkness was still running amok. He based his theory on the possibility of the creature luring its victims out into the garden by appearing as their loved ones.

Dean disagreed, pointing out that the last Qareen they had encountered had brutally slaughtered its victims, ripping their hearts out, not killing them without leaving a mark. His money was on a starving, overzealous shtriga feeding off people's life forces until they were dead.

Cas had remained quiet throughout the brothers' bickering, occasionally piping up to point out why it couldn't be a siren or a demon. He had spent most of the unbearably long drive gazing out the window at the passing scenery, humming under his breath along to Led Zeppelin.

He hadn't shared any theories of his own but Dean was sure that he had a few bouncing around his skull.

So, after two days of constant traveling and one night spent in some crappy motel in Indiana, they finally found themselves in a homey diner just outside of Grafton where the pancakes were fluffy, the syrup was thick, and Sam posed potentially traumatizing suggestions for their cover.

Dean was still taken aback, trying to process what his younger brother had just said. He really hoped that he had somehow misheard Sam, even though he was pretty sure that he hadn't.

He seriously needed a vacation. On a beach. With his toes buried in the sand, a cold bottle of El Sol in his hand as he basked in the sunshine and the sound of waves crashing.

He didn't even care if there were screaming kids and seagulls squawking their heads off begging for food. He just needed a vacation from his crazy life and gross, incestuous covers.

Sam must have been watching too much Game of Thrones. All that Cersei and Jaime bullshit must have rubbed off on him.

Ugh. Dean should have known better than to subscribe to HBO.

Just as Dean shivered, disgusted by Sam's suggestion, realization gradually dawned on Sam's face. Frantically shaking his head, he hurried to amend, "Dude, no. No. That's not what I meant."

"Then what the hell did you mean?" Dean asked, sagging back against the plush leather cushions of the booth. He was infinitely relieved, letting out a heavy sigh.

He may have helped save the world several times over but there were just some things he couldn't deal with. Pretending to be in a romantic relationship with his brother was one of them.

Shaking off those thoughts, he focused back on Sam who looked just about as horrified as Dean felt. Still shaking his head, whipping his long hair around, he clarified, "By we I meant me and Cas. We can go undercover as a couple. I figure you ca—"

"Whoa, whoa," Dean interrupted, straightening back up as he raised his hand to cut Sam off. Glancing between Sam and Cas, who was ignoring his coffee in favor of working his way through a crossword puzzle in the local newspaper, he demanded, "You and Cas? Undercover? As a couple?"

"Uh, yeah, Dean," Sam answered, exasperation bleeding into his voice. He set his own fork down with a beleaguered sigh, looking at Dean with one of his patented bitchfaces as he sniped, "It's not exactly rocket science."

"No, I get it, I just..." Dean trailed off, shifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with another sigh of his own. Dropping his hand, he flicked his eyes over to Cas who was still absorbed in his puzzle. "Is Cas cool with this?"

"I have no objections if that's what you're asking," Cas responded primly, not bothering to look up at Dean. He was too busy filling in another answer, mumbling under his breath, "Five letter word for a relationship... Union."

More like fraud, Dean thought, narrowing his eyes at the angel who was much too complacent for his taste. Fixing his skeptical gaze on Cas, he questioned, "No objections? None?"

"Of course not," Cas replied easily, crossing out another clue in the across column. He was already more than halfway done, too engrossed to even bother touching his cup of coffee or the plate of blueberry French toast.

Not that he really needed to eat. Because of the whole angel thing.

"So you're just cool with pretending to be Sam's boyfriend?" Dean pressed, keeping his voice low to avoid anyone overhearing what was one of the weirdest conversations in entire life. And he'd had conversations with Death and God Himself, to name just a few.

"I don't see any reason why I shouldn't be," Cas answered, sparing a glance at Dean. Lowering his gaze again, he filled in another crossword answer.

Dean couldn't understand why Cas wasn't freaking out about the whole thing, why Sam wasn't. They should be working their asses off to come up with another cover, another plan that didn't include them playing house at a couples' resort.

"You're just gonna, what, act like some happy couple on vacation?" Dean squeaked, glancing between Cas and Sam who was in the middle of rolling his.

"Yes, Dean," Sam sighed, exasperation clinging to every syllable. With another heavy sigh, he continued, "We'll check in as a couple, act all lovey dovey for a few days, and gank whatever's killing these people."

"The crocotta," Cas murmured, drawing Sam's attention. The younger Winchester broke out in a wide grin, nodding his head in understanding.

"Whatever it is, you're just gonna share a room? A bed?" Dean blurted, waving his hand around aimlessly. It was Cas' turn to roll his eyes.

"Yes," Cas confirmed with a firm nod. Dean's jaw nearly dropped at the angel's unabashed nonchalance but then Cas continued, pointing out, "I don't require sleep so there will be no conflict."

"It's not really a big deal," Sam insisted as he curled his arm around Cas' shoulders and tugged him closer. The gesture was so casual, so normal, that it briefly made Dean wonder if they had done it before.

Especially when Cas instantly relaxed into it, shifting close enough to actually lay his head on Sam's shoulder. It was enough to make Dean want to throw up.

As bad as the potential of playing newlyweds with his brother, watching Sam and Cas play happy couple was even worse. Mostly because Dean had been in love with the angel for years.

"I agree with Sam," Cas tacked on, reaching for his cup of coffee, only to find that it was empty. Frowning down at the mug, he continued, "It's the easiest way to gain access to the resort. And if my suspicions are correct, the crocotta will target one of us within the first few days."

Dean opened his mouth to say something but found himself speechless. What was there to say?

Cas made several good points. He and Sam going undercover together was the best way for them to solve the case, as much as it killed him to admit it.

Before he could tell them as much, having every intention of keeping his messy feelings out of it, their waitress flounced by. Sam waved his hand to get her attention, flashing her a bright grin.

"Could my boyfriend get some more coffee, please?" He asked innocently, gesturing at Cas' empty mug. He was the picture of an attentive, dutiful boyfriend with his arm around Cas and a guileless smile on his face.

"Oh, of course!" She replied cheerfully, beaming back at him. Throughout their entire meal, she had been making eyes at Sam but her demeanor was suddenly different as she gushed, "You two make such a cute couple, by the way. How long have you been together?"

"We've known each other for almost eight years," Cas explained, setting down his mug so the waitress could pour him some more coffee. Glancing back at Sam with an amused grin, he added, "But we've only been romantically involved for a short time."

The waitress just smiled even brighter before moving on to another table, offering an elderly couple some coffee. Sam and Cas shared a conspiratorial laugh that sent Dean over the edge.

"Yeah, no," he announced, shaking his head. Sam and Cas turned their heads to frown at him in confusion. He pointed at them, glancing between them as he growled, "This? Not happening. I'll be Cas' fake boyfriend, you can stake out the rest of town or whatever."

He punctuated his statement by reaching over to take Cas' hand in his own. He intertwined their fingers as he raised a brow at Sam, silently challenging him to argue.

But Sam just dropped his arm from around Cas' shoulders, raising his palms in surrender. He turned back to his omelet, smirking to himself.

Who knew all it would take for Dean to finally act on his feelings for Cas was to suggest a fake dating cover? He should've suggested it years ago.

Then again, as he watched the way Dean's cheeks flushed deep red while he ran his thumb over Cas' knuckles, Sam figured his timing was perfect.

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