#VW bathroom sink

[hometoursandotherstuff]

VW bus sink vanity. 

[h5llpyre]

⸺ too eager to wait (18+)

nicholas d wolfwood x vash the stampede

cw public bathroom sex, like very very public like multiple people were listening in on them, trans sub bottom vash, cis dom top wolfwood, light humiliation, heavy teasing, wolfwood is a little bit mean but he means well, can be read as any vw version

“really didnt know you were into this, angel.”

“i- i’m fu- ucking not—“ vash gasps, fingers curling around the top of the door as his forearms push against it. it's not like he wants everyone in the bathroom to know they are fucking in the last stall, but there was nothing else to grasp onto as wolfwood nudges his leaking tip into his soaked folds.

“really? cause you're reeeeally wet,” wolfwood laughs and hovers on top of vash’s bent over figure as he bottoms out, the slide in suspiciously easier than usual. and vash wants to say something back but wolfwood’s tip is pressing so deep into his guts.

“breathe, breathe, sweetheart,” wolfwood coaxes in a gentler tone, reaching around to hook his middle and ring finger into vash’s parted mouth, the thick fingers that were sinking in and out of his cunt just a few minutes ago, splaying across his tongue.

and vash is honestly on the verge of passing out. plant marks flickering weakly, fingers trembling as wolfwood holds him together, keeping him upright on his length, deep in his pulsing cunt. it honestly hurts a little, but the silky, saccharine quality of wolfwood’s voice and the hot cling of his strong hips against his ass keeps his glowing eyes open.

with a deep, hissing inhale, wolfwood rears back just halfway, vash’s walls trying to suck him in before he falls into a gentle languid pace, hipd rolling with a smooth rhythm. vash’s mind goes gooey, his insides being shifted once again with the shape of wolfwood’s dick, a mould he’s come to memorize after months of traveling (fucking) with him.

vashs pants pool around his ankles, all of his buckles clanking loudly against the tiled floor as his entire body seems to rock with the motion of wolfwood’s pace. he grips the door tighter, his gloved leather fingers slipping on the smooth plastic of the staining stall door. a loud clanking of the door against the metal lock echoing into the ears of the poor men who just needed to take a piss, but instead get to listen in on two outlaws feverishly fucking after wandering hands under their abandoned saloon table became too much.

“wolfwoo.. they- they can he- hear—!” vash blabbers quietly around wolfwood’s fingers, drooling down the front of his red coat

“i know,” wolfwood huffs and nuzzles against the back of vash’s head, sliding his hand down to firmly settle around vash’s throat, causing his lips to stay parted to suck in strained breaths and intentionally giving him no way to hide his sounds from ears from outside the stall. wolfwood feels vash’s cunt clench rhythmically around his cock at his words, candy blue eyes rolling back into his pretty head as he gives into the embarrassment and humiliation of fucking in a public bathroom.

“just take it, don’t think about anything else— yeah… just like that, angel.” wolfwood coos warmly before tucking a hand around his hip and swinging them to the brick wall to the right. and thank god they chose the furthest stall (they originally chose it to be discrete but look how that turned out.)

wolfwood pushed vash against the bricks, before really fucking him. originally, he was scared of pushing him up on the door in fear of possibly shoving if off its metal hinges and creating a bigger scene than they already had, but here on this nice, stable brick wall, wolfwood could fuck him like he really meant it.

with a low snarl, wolfwood immediately resumes bullying that sweet spot in vash’s sopping cunt, except harder and faster. skin slapping sounds echoing off the bathroom walls as he fucks him, ignoring the men listening in on them. vash falls apart, sandwiched in between the hard bricks and a warm chest, he lets out shuddering gasps, wolfwood fucking impossibly deep. the wall helped keep him still, unable to move or shift away from his fast, mean strokes.

“this is what you needed?” wolfwood presses his lips against vash’s swinging golden earring, hips canting up into his tight heat. vash only mewls, gloves scraping against the bricks as he tries to hold on, but its useless.

“couldn’t even wait til we got back to the hotel huh— i could tell you needed it out there,” wolfwood rasps, reminding vash of how he was all over him, his voice piercing straight through the hazy lust enveloping vash’s numb head causing him to nod weakly.

“let me take care of ya, let me take care of it,” and vash doesn’t even realize wolfwood’s hand sneaking down until the insistent circle of thick fingers blooming pleasure over his engorged clit. he seizes up, thighs pressing together, knees knocking as wolfwood quickly presses closer, keeping him from collapsing as his quick fingers drive him closer to the edge.

“t-too muh- too much! mmhh- wolfwood, please..!” vash stammers, breath getting caught in his lungs with each thrust.

“shhh, i know, angel. you’re alright…” wolfwood absentmindedly hushes into ear, his own pleasure rapidly building. he doesn’t stop, leading vash straight into that fuzzy headspace as his fingers rub tighter circles.

“nnnh- nick—!” vash gasps, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure shoots into his gut, plant marks flicker and glow with his orgasm, legs quivering as his cunt clenches down on wolfwood’s dick.

the squeezing of his velvety walls is enough to force wolfwood over the edge. he strains, moaning through his bitten lip as he surges forward and cums straight into his awaiting plant womb, forcing vash up the wall. vash clings helplessly to the wall, feet dangling despite being taller than the dark haired man.

panting hotly, wolfwood gently rubs vash’s clit, helping him through his orgasm. he huffs, hooked nose gently nudging against his slack jaw as he kisses his nape. he slowly helps him back down to the ground, limp legs stabling themselves on the tiled floor. wolfwood fiddles with his pants, gingerly tucking himself away as his panting subsides.

vash has his forehead pressed into his elbow, still against the wall, biting his lip out of embarrassment, still unmoving.

“shit, we gotta go before we get kicked out.” wolfwood says, his mind clearing and now realizing just how loud and obvious they were. vash doesn't respond. wolfwood reaches down in the cramped stall and helps vash weakly toe into his pants, smiling lightly at the sight of seeing his cum dripping out. he straightens his wrinklycoat, letting it fall back into place before he gently pats his hip with a warm hand.

“we should’ve waited til we got back,” vash breathes, his leather hand lifting up to rub across his face but stops instead, covering his embarrassed face.

“we? you were the one who pulled me into here,” wolfwood laughs, rightfully accusing him. it wasn’t like he didn't enjoy giving him what he wanted while also embarrassing him, but it never hurt to tease.

vash frowns, “you were the one who kept on messing with me out there!” he whisper-shouts, his red face overriding any attempts at trying to look annoyed.

wolfwood takes his hand, “shhh,” he stifles another laugh in return of lightly hushing him. wolfwood unlatches the stall door before he could spout more accusing bullshit. walking hand in hand, vash keeps his head down, ignoring the way they received judging looks from people outside the bathroom.

[itsnsfwalways]

Canyon Moon

A/N: WELCOME TO THE CANYON MOON FIC ! The chapters have to be split up and cut a lot shorter bc of sizing limits but I’m hoping you guys will still like it.

FIC MASTERLIST

WARNINGS FOR CHP. 1: swearing, mild drug use (weed)

CHAPTER ONE: the world’s happy waiting

The ocean has always been a calming place for you. Any body of water, really. The lapping of thewaves, the smell of salt, the course feeling of sand between your toes. It felt like home. So when you moved to Malibu, you found yourself lying on the beach until 4 am most nights, sometimes sleeping, but more often than not listening to music and writing.

Working as a songwriter for mostly just your friends, or as a fill in whenever someone wasn’t there, you were constantly writing. It was a lot easier to get deeper that way for you, not having to worry about sharing your secrets, and being able to mask it in other people’s voices. That being said, you had journals upon journals of your own songs. They were just for you, and occasionally your best friends, but it was something you were really proud of. After writing for the past 6 years, you’d like to think they were pretty good.

You’d gotten to your little spot around an hour ago, parking your pride and joy, an orange and yellow remodeled VW bus, which also functioned as your room most nights when you wanted to be out here, next to the sand.

The vibrant sunset had since dulled into a deep purple color, but it was still fairly light out. A small bonfire was lit in front of your blanket, keeping you a little extra warm even though it was still 70°.

Strumming your guitar, you moved away from the rock you were leaning against, a car’s headlights snapping you out of the haze you always got when you were out here. And also those two joints you had smoked already.

You raise your eyebrows at the fucking bright yellow Ferrari, hoping they were just stopping for a second.

Your prayers were ignored as a guy stepped out, a hoodie pulled over his head.

Shrugging your shoulders, you continue to play mindlessly, making up different melodies before creating a new one on top it.

Mr. Ferrari starts making his way over to you, which sends a flutter through your chest.

“Hey, just so you know, if you’re going to kill me, I’ve always wanted to die listening to Landslide by Fleetwood Mac,” you yell, grabbing your phone from your bag just in case.

The guy stops for a second and lets out a laugh.

“Definitely not trying to kill you,” he chuckles, and, oh, he’s British.

He comes closer and you come face to face with one of the prettiest people you’ve ever seen. Wearing a black hoodie with the words “Treat People With Kindness” embroidered on it, that’s cute, a pair of grey slacks, which you wouldn’t necessarily think of for beach attire, but he makes up for it by completing the look with no shoes.

“Do y’have a lighter I could borrow? Damn thing ran out and the gas station is just far away enough for it to be annoying.”

You laugh at that and nod, tossing him a random one from your bag.

“I feel that. I’m Y/N. Where you from?” You bluntly ask, because hey, he’s cute.

“Manchester, originally. Live near here now. You mind?” He asks, and you nod, scooting over to let him sit.

You’re hit with the smell of vanilla, leather, and just rich as he plops himself down, leaning against a rock a few feet away from you.

He points to your guitar, lips curled around the joint for a second before he inhales and asks,

“How long you been playing? Liked what you were doing earlier.”

You blush at this, barely remembering what you were doing.

“I have no fuckin clue. 14 years? Got my first guitar at 8 and fell in love.” You over exaggerated hugging your guitar, getting another laugh out of him, before you spit out,

“Oh, and thank you! I don’t really remember what I was doing to be honest. Just get in the zone sometimes. Do you play?”

He looks surprised at this, looking at you closely for a second.

“Uh, yeah, little bit. Been trying to learn more recently and kind of get my skills up.”

“Good for you! If you ever wanna play together, I’m literally always here. You sharing?” You smile, looking at his face in the orange light. His cheekbones are illuminated perfectly and you feel your throat go dry.

He nods and hands it to you, watching as you press the filter to your lips.

“What did you say your name was again?” You rack your brain and cannot remember him introducing himself.

“Didn’t. Harry, sorry that was a bit rude,” He mumbles, and you look at him funny.

“Are you like an FBI agent, Harry? Why so secret? And harassing young girls on the beach at night? With a fucking Ferrari? Come on, man, what’s your secret?” You tease, bumping your elbow into his side.

He laughs, shoving you with his shoulder lightly.

“Only harassing that’s going on is you interrogating me. But if I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll leave right now. I should probably go, actually.” He rants, suddenly moving to get up. You turn your body quickly and lay your legs in his lap so he can’t move.

“You’re dumb. Secret, please?” You smile, blinking up at him.

He scoffs, shaking his head with a small smile, and pauses to run a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath in before saying,

“I’m a musician, so that’s where the car and secret beach trips come in. I’m actually just starting to write for my next album, and I’m hitting a rut.”

“Oh shit, that’s what’s up! You’ll have to show me your stuff sometime. Sorry that I don’t know you, I’ve been living on the road for awhile so I listen to a lot of oldies. Plus, with hippie parents you don’t hear a lot of new music,” You explain, gesturing to your van.

He looks at you for a second before shaking his head, smiling to himself.

“What?” You grin, shoving his knee with your foot.

“You’re something else, s’all.”

“So I’ve been told.” A giggle falls from your lips as you lay down on the blanket, legs still in his lap, guitar now discarded to the side.

Looking up at the stars starting to form, you feel his gaze on you. Trying to figure out who this chick was, what stories she had, what witty remark was just past her lips.

“Question.” You say, propping your head up. Your hand finds it’s way on the back of your skull and you feel the blanket shift slightly underneath your elbow.

“Answer,” He responds with the same tone, tapping your knees with his fingertips.

“Would you wanna come with me so I can get a tattoo?”

He stops for a second and stares at you.

“Like, right now? You got an appointment?”

You grin and move off of him, ruffling his hair.

“Even better. I got cool friends.”

He takes his time packing up all your stuff, being as cautious enough to remind you not to cover the fire with sand in case someone stepped on it.

“This is my beach, Ferrari. No one comes here. Except handsome British guys, apparently.”

He looks up from the ground, where he’s stuffing your towel into your bag, and throws you a smirk.

“Thanks, baby. You’re gorgeous as well,”

“Blegh. Let me come introduce you to Sunflower,” you fake shudder at the pet name and he grins, pinching your side so he can laugh at your little jump.

You lead him over to your van, opening up the side door to show off your renovated home.

The entire thing was orange with white trim, big yellow sunflowers painted on the sides. The ceiling inside was painted a dark blue, the walls painted yellow.

A meditation rug was lying on the floor, a light brown wood flooring that matched the cabinets attached to the ceiling.

Your bed was all the way in the back, a simple white comforter on it. A mirror hung next to it, attached to the bathroom door. There was a small kitchen counter complete with a sink and a stovetop next to it. A small table folded out behind the drivers seat where a lounge area was located, orange cushions and fairy lights decorating the little couch.

All in all, it was a tiny fucking house in a car and you treated it like your baby.

“This is fucking sick,” he says, looking at the different artwork, posters, and decorations hanging all over the walls and cabinets.

“Thanks! Did it myself. Spent all summer working on it a few years back, I’m damn proud of it.”

There’s a pause for a second, trying to figure out how to best work this out.

“I’m cool to just leave my car here if you’re down to drive me. We’re going to one of my guy friends’ studio about thirty minutes from here,” you suggest, having a feeling Harry wouldn’t be down to leave his car here, no matter how secluded it was.

“Uh, okay. Should I be worried? Who knows what scoundrels you hang out with?” He teases, watching you go into the van to grab some things.

You glance back at him, laughing, before your breath catches in your throat. He’s since removed his hoodie and is left in a white tank top with small black print on the rib cage. Making a mental note to figure out what it says later, your eyes can’t help but drift to his arms. Illuminated in the car light, his biceps bulge as he rests his hands on the roof, leaning forward slightly into the car.

His tongue traces along his teeth, landing itself in his cheek as he watches you check him out.

“See something you like?” He asks, raising his eyebrows like he’s genuinely curious.

Your eyes flick back to his smirking face and you blink for a second, before responding with,

“Yeah, was trying to figure out what asshole uses a word like ‘scoundrel’ in 2018, what the fuck, Harry?”

He barks out a laugh and brings his fist up to his mouth to cover it, the other one coming down to hold his stomach.

“When you are done appreciating my humor, I need to change real quick. Spin around, please,” You come up from your squat and pull off your sweatshirt, not waiting for him to do that.

“Jesus, Y/N,” He exhales, spinning around and looking up at the sky.

“What? I gave you a warning,” you giggle, sliding your sweatpants down to slip into a pair of black volleyball shorts.

“By about half a second!” Harry exclaims. “You’re killing me.”

“Sorry, superstar, nobody is exempt from special treatment here.” You roll your eyes at yourself, what the fuck are you even saying.

“Mkay, you’re good.”

Harry spins around, eyes taking in your new outfit.

On top of your shorts was a giant Stevie Nicks shirt, one from her White Winged Dove tour.

“Shit, you might be a bigger Stevie fan than I am, and that’s saying a lot.”

“Fuck, you have no idea. My dad went to the fucking final show of this tour and met my mom in the crowd during Dreams. My mom made him play it when I was born because she swore Stevie brought me to them.”

You catch him staring at you and turn your head away, cheeks burning because you’re rambling and need to shut the fuck up.

He clears his throat and takes a breath before starting.

“Promise not to kill me when I tell you this?”

Holding your hand to your burning cheeks, you murmur,

“No.”

“Y/N!” Harry exclaims, finally coming in the van to tickle you.

“Okay, okay, I promise not to kill you,” You mock, waving your hands around.

“I was lucky enough to sing one of my songs with her along with Landslide and Leather and Lace.”

You drop your bag onto the ground as your jaw drops.

“Shut up. I don’t believe you.” You cross your arms over chest. “I don’t know if I’d be angrier if you’re lying or if it actually happened. Holy shit am I jealous.”

“Oh, I was crying onstage, losing my shit. She is, everything. Dreams was the first song I learned the words to, yknow? She truly is a magical being.”

“God. I’m definitely looking you up later because who the fuck sings one of THEIR songs with Stevie Nicks.” You sigh, leaning over to grab your bag and Doc Martens.

“Oh god.” Harry laughs, running a hand through his hair again, looking at you really intensely for a second.

“Not to sound like a dick, but do you really not know who I am?”

“I mean if you need your ego boosted I can lie?” You offer, before dropping the witty responses.

“But no, sorry. Like I said, I just.... don’t really listen to new music, and if I do it’s always my friends or some indie shit with an overused beat.” Harry laughs at that and you smile, yes, he’s not weirded out.

“Don’t apologize, please. I just, can’t be too sure, yknow? People like to use you, especially here. And you’re just a little too perfect to be true,” he sighs, pulling you closer to him by your waist.

Placing you hands on his chest, you look at him for a second before leaning forward and whisper in his ear,

“My tattoo awaits me, baby. Let’s go.”

He groans and leans his head on your shoulder, before letting you go and grabbing your bag for you.

Such a gentleman, you think to yourself, locking up Sunflower.

“Does your car have a cool name?” You ask, after buckling you, fingertips appreciating the rich black leather seat.

“Nope, but I’m good at nicknames. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say normal terms of endearment aren’t your thing?” He asks, making eye contact with you for a quick second as he puts his arm behind your seat before stretching slightly to look behind him as he pulls puts the car in reverse.

Looking up for a quick second, you remind yourself to breathe.

“You would be correct. Gotta use your brain if you wanna get me all jittery,” you tease, fanning yourself over exaggeratedly.

He gives you a side eye and smirks at you, popping a piece of gum in his mouth and raising his eyebrows, as if to say, game on.

“So where am I going?” He asks, starting to drive away from your special spot.

“Let us ask the oracle!” You hold out your phone like a trophy, before laughing to yourself and bringing up Google Maps.

Propping your phone up in the cupholder, you sit cross legged in just your socks in his seat, fidgeting with your hands for a second.

“I’m kind of intrigued on who you are now. What’s your story?” You ask, turning your head to look at him.

Harry glances over at you, eyes drifting to your bare legs for a second.

“Well, the short version, I guess, is I grew up in a little town in England with my mum and my sister, applied to X-Factor when I was 16, got put into a band called One Direction with four other lads, released couple albums with them until end of 2015. Then did a movie called Dunkirk, wrote and released my first solo album, and toured it. Just got back from tour about a month ago, actually.”

You look at him blankly for a second, and he shifts in his seat, removing one of his hands from the wheel to place it on the armrest.

“Holy SHIT am I unaccomplished,” you exclaim, hitting him in the chest.

“Hey!” he yells, but you cut him off.

“How many fucking albums is a couple? And how old are you, my god. That is impressive.”

“I’m 24, that probably should’ve been said before we’re alone in a car together. And 5 albums, in 5 years. Nearly killed us.”

“I’m 22. Damn, dude, that’s insane. It sounds like they horribly overworked you and I am hoping you were generously compensated and had a bit of musical freedom. I know how the music industry can be with boy bands.”

He nods for a second, licking his lips slightly, trying to figure out how to phrase his response.

“I’m not going to lie, there are some definite perks and I am so incredibly lucky to just be able to do what I love as my job.” His fingers find their way to his bottom lip, pinching it slightly. “It was fun, I mean, you throw a bunch of teenagers together and give them celebrity status? We were insane, and I enjoyed it. But.... it felt like I wasn’t a person anymore. I was just ‘Harry Styles from the boyband One Direction’.”

“I don’t necessarily understand but I think the fact that you came out this respectful and real says something. You seem to have your shit properly together, and, even if you don’t, you got back from tour two months ago! You deserve some relaxation. The world’s happy to wait for you to find yourself a little.”

Pausing for a second, you place your hand on his arm, squeezing it lightly before swearing,

“I hope you know I’m being genuine about not knowing you and latching on for fame. I’ll let your parents know my intentions with their son are all very pure.”

He laughs at that, glancing at you again,

“I appreciate you saying that. This life is wonderful, like I said, but it’s very stressful and puts pressure on every relationship. There’s always going to be stories or photos and rumors spread like wildfire.”

You shift in your seat, understanding that this was a very serious issue for him.

“Listen, I’ll let you know up front that that doesn’t bother me. I’ve dated musicians and know the life, I get it. I think you’re cool and that we could have a fun time experiencing real life together. But before we do that, you need to have fun and let everything the fuck GO. I’ll promise you right now, if you let me stick around, you’ll experience what life is. No fame or pining for success bullshit, no offense, but there’s no need for it. If you’re happy doing what you’re doing, no one can tell you you’re not successful.” Harry stops the car at a red light and fully turns to look at you.

He exhales harshly before grinning. “You are a breath of fresh fucking air, Y/N. I think you’re going to change my life, if I’m being honest here.”

“Here’s hoping,” you grin.

A/N: THE OFFICIAL FIRST CHAPTER IS UP !!! I’m hoping you guys will come to love this fic as much as I do. I’ll try to find a writing schedule that works with you guys and my work schedule, so sorry if chapters take a little bit to come up. This is going to be a looooong fic, so buckle up, turn that old lover’s hippie music on, and enjoy !!

- lana <3

[mattzerella-sticks]

A Healing Touch/New Experiences

15x17 coda, Post-Finale, Dean/Cas, Adam, Serafina, Sam, Jack, 2/2 chapters, 4.7k

Chapter 1: A Healing Touch (ao3 link)

Maybe if Cas hadn't abandoned him, he wouldn't have agreed to Adam's offer. But with free will finally theirs, Cas made his choice, and Dean his. Now he has to live with the consequences - even if they are awkward. He won't die from it, certainly.

It's only a massage.

But what Dean doesn't know, is that it's more than a massage. It's healing.

           Dean’s grip tensed on the towel, pulling its fabric closer against his waist. Terrycloth rubbing his crotch like sandpaper, making him even more aware of his current state of undress than he already was.

           Damn Adam, for talking him into this. The placid cadence of the First Man wreaked havoc with Dean’s judgement. Lulled him into a false sense of security. Now that his armor’s been cast off, Dean realizes how terrible an idea this really is. Briefly, Dean considers turning tail and jumping back into his outfit. Pretend this never happened. Play dumb. But then Adam emerges, parting the beaded curtains and motioning him towards a table set up in the middle of the room. Dean trudges along, window of opportunity slammed on his fingers.

           “Relax Dean,” Adam croons, lighting one of the many candles that surrounds the room. Interspersed with crystals, totems, and an incense stick that suspiciously smells like a VW van at a concert. “This is going to be a transcendent experience.”

           “If you say so…” He sits, kicking his feet. Hunched over, spine protesting from the angle. Ignores twinging pain with practiced ease.

           Doesn’t matter how well he masks it in the other man’s presence; Adam arches a brow at Dean and orders him to lay down. “You’ll feel better that way.”

           He stills, clutching at the towel with both hands. Frozen with an unnamed emotion Dean swears isn’t fear. Staring with wide eyes at Adam while the other man waits. Finally, he breaks the silence, “Can’t you just… do my shoulders?”

           “I will,” Adam promises, drifting closer, “Along with your sides… your back… anywhere I believe you might need.” He brushes featherlight fingers across his chin, a scant distance from actually touching it. Lips stretched in a lazy smile. “If it’ll make you more comfortable, though, I’ll look away while you get settled.”

           Dean clears his throat, gaze darting away. “You will?”

           “While I don’t agree with your shame,” he says, pulling back, “I understand it. How it works. So, when you’re ready to start, let me know.” Adam spins on his heel, grabbing for tinctures and potions on a nearby counter. Mixes them. Feigns busyness while Dean readies himself.

           He slides off the table, glancing from Adam to the exit. Wonders if he can sprint fast enough, snatch his clothes, and jump into his Baby. Put Santa Fe in his rearview, even if it meant leaving Cas. Finding a new path home would serve him right, abandoning Dean immediately for Serafina. Former and current angel leaving for lunch, catching up after millennia apart. Dean stuck with Adam. Biding time, making awkward small talk; listening as he rambled on about differing memories patchworked together while he played hopscotch through his timeline. So bored and confused he didn’t realize what Adam offered until he locked the bathroom door behind Dean, instructions rattling around in his head. Towel in his arms instead of around his waist.

           “Dean,” Adam chimes in, laughing, “I’m almost done.”

           Thinking, not acting, wasted too much time. No other options left Dean unfastened his towel. Held it while he climbed onto the table, carefully lying down. Adjusting his junk so his weight wouldn’t crush it. Then, face pressed into the appropriate hole, Dean fixed the towel. End hanging off the edges, censored his freckled ass from view. “Okay,” he says, croaking the next few words out. “I’m all set.”

           “Perfect.”

           Dean nearly asks when Adam will start. As soon as the question forms in his throat, he swallows it. Adam’s wet, warm touch sliding over his back. Spreads a slick substance that makes his skin goosepimple when the air meets it. Elicits a sudden, breathy response from Dean. “Sorry,” Adam apologizes, continuing his ministrations, “probably should’ve warned you?”

           “Would’ve been nice…”

           “Well, we can’t go back, now can we?” He kneads Dean’s shoulders, loosening a tight muscle with his thumb. “Let me do all the work…” Adam speaks aloud, calling on a nearby smart device. Tells it to play a certain playlist, whining strums pouring from his speakers. Dean rolls his eyes. The added hippie music only pours salt in the wound. “You’ve got a lot of knots, Dean.”

           “I’m not surprised,” Dean says, “the stuff I do? My body’s been through the wringer.”

           “You should take better care of your body, Dean. We only get the one.”

           “Yeah, we do…” Dean sighs, shifting. Too aware of Adam’s touch. Counting the differences between his expectations and the reality. They’re softer than what he expected a man’s hands should feel like. And gentler. These motions were more tender than Dean was used to, especially from a stranger. Part of him wants this over with, while a stronger, quieter part begs for more. He shifts, squirming. “Hey, what’s this you’re rubbing me with?”

           “Oh, the oil?” Adam laughs, pinching his sides, “I had it specially delivered from some small town I last visited years ago, in Morocco. When it was all the rage, kids fleeing for the East in search of enlightenment. This herbalist was teaching in the streets…”

           Dean tunes Adam out like he did the music, drowning his voice in the waves of his mind. Lets it sink deep below while Dean splashes around shallower waters. Like how this trip was planned.

           After Chuck, after the Empty – after their last cosmic showdown, the Winchesters faced a new challenge. An ordinary day. It’s been years since Dean could wake without worrying he forgot something. Walk and not look over his shoulder, at where he imagined someone with vengeance in their eyes and death in his future. Greet his family and not doubt that he will see them later.

           It’s everything Dean wanted. Except he couldn’t handle it.

           Sitting at the breakfast table, his family discussing pointless, trivial affairs, Dean broke. Maybe because of Sam’s bright smile while talking about a road trip he planned with Eileen, or Jack’s list of shows he wanted to watch. Maybe it was when he caught Cas’s gaze, his foot nudging at Dean’s, with a well of emotions Dean hadn’t deserved. Similar to that horrid night, although less sadness darkening his expression. Less blood staining his hands. Dean flashed between those two images and stood, hitting his knee on the table. Left with a meager and suspicious excuse.

           Somehow, an endless cycle of near-death experiences made things simpler. Being trapped in a never-ending story meant exactly that. They would live forever. Exist in the unknown, remain unchanged.

           Now that freedom is truly his, what will he do? How will he end? Will he become someone he doesn’t like? Will people he thought would stay forever slip out of his grasp? Does he go first and leave so many people behind?

           He couldn’t sleep those next few nights. Cas caught on after his third bout with insomnia, bags heavy under his eyes. Looked across the canyon from his side of the bed, arms curled tight around himself. Chained there. “What’s wrong, Dean?” His fingers twitched in aborted need. Another easy piece that proved more difficult to fit into place. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

           Dean stared at Cas. Saw the streaks of grey that tickled his hairline, and little crusts around his eyes from sleep. Reminders of how fast things can change, and what little they have left in the tank. If Cas were an angel, he thought, they’d have more time. Can stay alive through his grace, healing even the littlest signs of age. Like Serafina did with Adam.

           It slipped out like a leak, and then poured free. Inch given; mile taken. Frantically repeating how he met the First Man who loved an angel, and they lived normal lives in Santa Fe, and they seemed weird but in love, and –

           “Okay,” Cas said, “we’ll go visit them.”

           “Dean,” Adam whispers. Dean creaks an eye open from below the surface. “Where were you just now?”

           His heart lurches. “Can’t really go anywhere, now can I?”

           “Only in the physical sense,” he tells Dean, “your body can be here, but you can also be a million miles away.” Adam kneads harder on his back, forcing a grunt through Dean’s clenched teeth as he poked a sore muscle. “What’s more important that you’ve allowed your mind to wander far from the present?” He stops massaging, bending. Meets Dean’s squinted gaze. “Would you rather not be here?”

           “What did I ever do to give that impression?”

           Adam doesn’t flinch from Dean’s bite, smirking at him. Followed by an airy laugh that sounds nicer than it should. “Y’know, my hands can only do so much,” he continues, standing. Clawing at Dean with blunt nails, repetitively raking patterns like he were a rock garden. “Massages are a give and take. I can only leech away what you’re willing to part with. And there’s a mountain of stress buried here you’re still holding onto.”

           “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean growls. Closing his eyes hard enough white, hot stars burst from behind his lids. “Maybe you’re a shitty masseuse?”

           “Nah, I’ve been doing this since Alexander the Great was in toga diapers. Can’t be that.”

           “Just because you’re old doesn’t mean you’re any good.”

           “That’s true.” Adam pinches Dean’s lower back, at the dip right where his ass curves from beneath the towel. Electricity jolts along his nerves, up his spine, and makes Dean bite his lip. “Then let’s say my intuition is sounding the alarm you’re blocked.”

           Dean snorts, “Then give me some Pepto and we’ll call it a day.” Another pinch. This time his knee jerks, foot jumping into the air. “Can you quit it?”

           “When you start taking this seriously.”

           “Sorry,” he says, each syllable drenched in sarcasm. “I didn’t think your types took anything seriously.”

           Adam places his hand on Dean’s neck. Touch shocks him enough he lifts his head, finding the other’s stern expression. “If not for me,” he says, “then Castiel.”

           He still feels Adam on his neck, and the second hand hangs at his side, shiny. Yet there must be a third. Because how else can Dean explain the pain in his side as anything other than a stab wound. Knife stuck there, cruelly twisted, cutting his insides further. Dean subtly nods, going slack. Adam guides his head back to its resting spot. Resumes petting him with much more severity. Each stroke like a match scraping against a striking surface, sparking but never lighting.

           “Do you feel my hands, Dean?”

           “Am I supposed to feel anything else?” Dean grouses, “Because if this is you coming onto me…”

           Adam squeezes Dean’s ass over the towel, Dean yelping. “Why I’ll admit you’re a beauty, my heart is spoken for. As is yours.”

           Dean waits as the coiled heat in his stomach unravels, breathing raggedly all the while. “Yeah,” he says, “I can feel your hands.”

           “Good,” Adam says, “and how do my hands on your body feel?”

           “Um… good? I guess? Like any other massage.”

           “You’ve gotten other massages before?”

           “When I could, I guess.”

           “And your masseuses,” Adam asks, coating more of the oil along his shoulders, “were any of them men.”

           No. “Why does that matter?”

           “I’m just asking,” Adam says, “guessing, actually, if your hesitation during this process has something to do with my gender expression.” He rubs at his biceps, fondling them. “So I’ll ask again – have you ever been massaged by a man.”

           He’s fought with countless men. Punches and kicks and elbows at throats acceptable foreplay. Love bites that stung far too long, bled too much. Shook hands with many hunters while crossing America during his early years where he was figuring himself out. Their intimidating grip thrilling Dean more than they should while near his father. John’s idea of what makes a man still living in his mind, a shadow that won’t disappear no matter how many curtains he draws or lights he turns on. Persistent.

           Sometimes Cas’s hand lingered, back when their relationship was new. Finding its footing despite Chuck’s story. He blamed it on his angel’s inexperience with humanity. But the more he stayed on Earth, the longer they lasted. More significant. A game of chicken, each daring the other to drop first.

           That’s the most intimate he’s ever been with another man.

           It’s been too long since he and Cas touched like that. Circling, never committing. Losing before the game starts.

           “I…” Adam’s touch feels different, headier. Matchhead catching, flame bursting atop it. He sighs, “I’ve never been massaged by a man.”

           Adam hums, “You’ve never had the opportunity?”

           “I’m pretty sure I’ve had lots of opportunities,” Dean tells him, “I just… never took them.” He shrugs as best he can. Sighing when Adam brushes one of his love handles, scratching it. Warm delight making Dean’s toes curl. “It wasn’t something a guy like me was supposed to do.”

           “Supposed to,” Adam parrots, “someone else was making these decisions for you?”

           Bristling, Dean shifts as if to raise his head again. Adam shoves at Dean, keeping him there. Adds an ounce of pressure that should stoke his anger. However, Dean responds with no retaliation. Stills, and when Adam removes his hand, continues talking. “I made these decisions,” Dean tells Adam, “I… there were a lot of expectations, being me. People I couldn’t disappoint. If they knew I went to get… massages, by men… things might not have been the same.”

           “Even if it hurt denying this part of yourself?” he asks, “Suffocating it because other people had opinions on how you should live your life?”

           Dean scowls despite how dedicated Adam works at kneading the skin above his tailbone. “You wouldn’t understand, okay. Being the first person gives you leeway, make your own rules. I was born into a certain role – there was an image I had to fit. If I wanted to survive and I… and it got easy, over time. I wasn’t hurting anyone –“

           “You were hurting yourself.”

           “I’m used to it.”

           Adam reacts violently, nicking Dean’s hip hard enough he expects blood. But his thumb soothes the spot, caresses it far more lovingly than Dean thinks is appropriate. He doesn’t voice his concerns. Busy thinking about the sudden callouses he feels on Adam’s thumb.

           “That’s a dangerous point of view to have, Dean,” Adam warns, drawing him from the off-ramp. “How can you speak so carelessly about yourself like that?”

           “I… I – uh…” Dean had a response. A common one he trotted out whenever a question like this appeared. Now, he finds the stable empty. He has nothing. “I…”

           “You’ve been given a wonderful gift, Dean. The gift called life. Gone are the oppressive forces steering your judgement. Controlling how you grow.” Adam’s voice rises, passion seeping into his skin. Mixing with the oils, providing a euphoric numbness. “Now is when you should slash through those bindings and grow into the person you were always meant to be!”

           “What if I…”

           “Hmm?” Adam stops massaging him. The music ended at some point, leaving only silence. “What if you what?”

           Dean slowly rises from the face hole, Adam not fighting him this time. Leans on his elbows, staring at the floor. At the small droplet that splattered there. “What if I don’t like that person?” he mutters, “What if I look in the mirror one morning and I don’t… don’t recognize that it’s my reflection. What if I become someone so wholly different now that I… now that I can grow, and change, that I lose parts of myself. Lose my family, because they don’t like who I’ve become?”

           Adam’s hand rests on his shoulder, fingers curling over a spot that doesn’t belong to him. When other people touched it, his skin crawled. Itched like fire ants crawled and bit. It’s the opposite feeling, with Adam’s hand. As if Dean’s soul breached through the shadows and filled him with so much light, he could overpower the sun. But only one other person has ever made him feel like that…

           “If your family truly loves you, Dean,” Adam says, stepping into view. Guides Dean’s gaze from his feet towards his face using both hands. Smiling, “Then they love your most core, basic parts of yourself. And those, I know, will stick with you as you journey into a new era of self-exploration. Just as they will. You shouldn’t be afraid of change. It is the most powerful force in existence. Change cannot be stopped, cannot be controlled… how we choose to respond to it, however, is where humanity finds its freedom.” He lets go, drifting backwards into Serafina’s waiting arms.

           There’s still a hand on his shoulder.

           Dean turns. Instead of a thin, linen shirt, there’s a starched white button-down. Blue tie where he expected a scarf and chunky necklace. Dark hair with touches of gray, and blue eyes rimmed red with tears. “Cas…”

           “Dean…” he says, squeezing his shoulder, “I love you. I… I won’t ever leave you.”

           “How can you promise that, Cas?” he asks, “How do you know that? We’ve… what if Chuck was the only thing keeping us together? What do we do now that he’s gone?”

           “We live Dean… day by day.” Cas kneels, pressing a thumb against his chin. “You’re right, I can’t be certain about the future. None of us can, not anymore. But, before Chuck, all I saw was bleakness. Now that he’s gone… after every hardship we’ve been through, the clouds have parted. It finally looks bright. And we could have a thousand more days or one more day, but in this moment Dean I want to experience everything with you.” He kisses him, breathing that promise into his body. Words mingling with his heart and soul. “My first, and most important act of rebellion was loving you. In these few years we’ve known each other I’ve lived more than I ever have. I’ve grown, not because of Chuck or despite of Chuck… but on my own terms. And you’re still here, with me.”

           “Cas I…” Dean knocks their foreheads together, “You’re someone I never expected entering my life… and if you left, I don’t know if I can go back to living without you. Every time you were taken from me I… part of me died. A part that never came back, even though you did. When the Empty took you, I thought that was it. If I lost you one more time… I fought so hard for this – to live by my terms that I… I don’t want to lose it. Lose you.”

           “Then don’t act like you already have,” Cas tells him. “Let me in. Let Sam and Jack… we’re all figuring this out together. Shoulder your burdens with us and we will do the same to you. That way we can enjoy our time together. And when one of us goes, the other will always have the memories of what we’ve won to remind us how the fight – how life was worth it.”

           Dean nods, dropping another kiss against Cas’s lips. Rises with Cas, uncaring that the towel fell. He already felt more exposed from this simple massage. Modesty seemed a… a moot point. Cas slips between Dean’s legs, wrapping him in a hug. Dean returns it.

           Then he looks at their voyeurs, watching from the sidelines. “Was this what you had planned all along?”

           “Before you came here,” Adam says, “I had a vision.”

           “…Right.”

           “And in that vision,” Serafina adds, swaying with Adam. Fingers threaded through his curls, petting him, while his oil-covered hands stained her patchwork skirt. “He saw you two sticking around for a few more days.”

           Dean arches a brow, huffing, “We do?”

           “Oh yes,” she says, “you’ve only just begun to heal, the both of you. It’s a process – like growth – that never really ends.” Serafina’s gaze darts from him to Cas, and back again. “Plus, if you stay, we can introduce you to some new things. Offer some wisdom from our many lifetimes on Earth that may prove… beneficial.”

           Dean and Cas share a silent conversation. He grins from that, knowing he can tilt his head or flutter his lashes and be understood completely. “Okay,” Dean answers, “it’s not like there’s anything else we need to be doing.”

           “Perfect!” She claps, “Oh I’ll – I’ll go put some tea on, and Adam can show you to our meditation room. We can spend the rest of the evening just sharing, maybe even fall asleep under the stars. In all of America, Adam and I’ve found they don’t shine quite like they do here.”

           Dean leans his head on Cas’s shoulder, listening as Serafina rambles about possible plans. Adam interjecting with his own ideas every now and then. Watching them, a strange feeling flutters inside his chest.

           He isn’t sure what to expect from hanging out at their commune or drinking their Kool-Aid. But, for the first time since they’ve closed the book on Chuck’s story… he’s excited.

(chapter 2)

[thecollinhartman-blog]

Collin’s Coronavirus Thoughts

Corona Diaries

 I know what you are thinking. It is Day 4 of the Quarantine and Social Distancing and Collin has gone so crazy without all the busy-ness of life that he is writing a blog post. And you would be absolutely correct. Like every other millennial twenty-something, I have a lot of really great ideas that haven’t quite come to fruition. By now I thought I would be operating a volleyball facility, or traveling the US in a VW van driving for Uber, or pursuing a PhD program in England while playing volleyball, or coaching a small college team in Southern California.

All this to say I’m a big-time dreamer and a mostly incredibly poor “executer”. I often mistake my busy-ness for full-ness. I have seven unread books on my night stand, I haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks, I never got around to painting the trim in the bathroom my dad and I remodeled, my phone hasn’t been at full charge since November, and there has been an overflow of recycling sitting outside my house from the garbage disposal and mattress I got for Christmas… and now it’s March. Welcome to it, friends.

 Let’s start here: I stopped by my parents’ house this week to print something – which I often do because I have a lot of printing needs but haven’t ever purchased a printer. It’s nice because I can print some papers I need AND I can always count on cool ranch Doritos and a Mango Orange Crystal Lite…. that I’ll likely take one sip of, leave on the counter, and finish when I’m there 4 days later.

 Anyway, here I am printing in my dad’s office and running late for a meeting  (all because I napped for too long). I rush out the door of the house, accidentally leaving one document on the printer, pens and paper everywhere, and a cupboard desk drawer open. A few minutes later, my dad sends me a picture of his office, which was without a doubt entirely put together five minutes prior to me being there. The tone of his text is sarcastic but loving but semi-annoyed which I can handle. I spend six seconds feeling bad about my reckless and disorganized self until Hillsong’s Highlands comes on the radio and I turn it up. I don’t spend time reflecting on things that would make me sad, I’m a 7.

 In the midst of my frantic printing and meeting prep, my dad told me he was going to call me “F-5”as my new nickname. By the look on my face, he could tell I was confused as to why. He begins to tell me that tornados are classified in F-0 through F-5 categories, with an F-5 tornado being the wildest in nature. My quick google search defines an F-5 tornado as the most “violent damage, homes lifted off foundation and carried considerable distances, autos thrown as far as 100 meters.” I think what my dad was trying to say is that my general way of life is to rampage my way through different spaces, groups, situations… often times in an assertive, proactive, somewhat wild, chaotic way and then just… leave (I think this how I drive too). Stop go stop go stop go. I go from this thing right on to the next without pause. I show up, jump out of my car, race to wherever I’m supposed to go, be (mostly) present there until BOOM, it’s a Monday evening and I’m in the Eagle gym, shutting off all the lights, gathering volleyballs, turning on the alarm, leaving for Young Life – all in an attempt to get there three minutes before it starts so I can prep items for the game I’m leading ALLLLL before being interrupted in the parking lot by a mom of a U11 kid who is reminding me (probably for the 3rd time) about the t-shirt they ordered and are waiting on. Following? Me neither.

 In short – my life actually is like an F-5 tornado. I run run run from one thing to the next, filling my world to the brim with as much as I possibly can all until I arrive back at my house at 10:30 pm, gas light on, eat whatever I can find in the fridge before my head hits the pillow 4 minutes later, only to set my alarm and do it again.

 I’ve been living my life like this for a really long time until…. well until Sunday when we got the news that school is cancelled, which means volleyball activities are all cancelled too, and Young Life gatherings paused and suddenly my wild Monday is WIDE OPEN.

 This blog post / journal / diary is my attempt to articulate from my squirrel brain some things I’ve learned about myself in the last 48 hours since this craziness called coronavirus officially stopped my (and probably your) collective world right in their F-5 tornado tracks.

 First, let me tell you about my day today paint a picture of how my world feels just a bit (LITERALLY ENTIRELY) different…..

 1)    I didn’t set an alarm and I woke up at 8:30 am.

2)    Shortly after, I went on a quick walk to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a Misto: I am on my journey to black coffee and I just graduated from a latte to this half coffee half milk concoction (with caramel) and I feel accomplished.

3)    I stopped by my neighbor friend’s house to say hello.

4)    I got home, cleaned a couple things around the house, washed a couple plates in my sink, and went on a bike ride to downtown Boise where I enjoyed a takeout lunch from Whole Foods. I would like to tell you that I rode my bike home, but a friend happened to see me and my girlfriend (she is working remotely from Utah and visiting right now) saw us and somehow realized the journey completely uphill from downtown to my house on the bench might not be all that fun so we piled our bikes in her car and she took us home.

5)    I took a 20 minute snoozer.

6)    I got up and did some yard work outside, gathering pine needles from underneath my big backyard tree and finally broke down those big boxes that have been sitting outside my house for months and was able to fit them all inside my recycling can.

7)    It started to drizzle so I came inside, crawled under a big blanket and read the first couple chapters of Prodigal God by Timothy Keller.

8)    Kinslie and I then stopped by the store to pick up some things for dinner and I grilled some steaks and shared a giant salad and some grilled asparagus.

9)    After a few girl scout cookies (they stopped by yesterday), we watched the last half of Ellen’s Game of Games and picked a movie on Netflix.

10) Now I’m lying in my (perfectly made) bed (because I had the time to make it) writing all my thoughts down in a word document wondering if I’ll actually post this or if there is really anything of worth that I’m typing. I think there is but not sure yet.

 Well, friends of the interwebs, you might be wondering why you just read a detailed list of my day from start to finish. Here’s what I want you to know.

 1)    Upon arriving at the coffee shop, I had a cheerful silly conversation with the barista about what drink I should order as we laughed about me wanting to eventually enjoy drip coffee. We engaged in authentic dialogue for a few minutes and on the way out I thanked her for the drink recommendation.

2)    Before leaving for our bike ride, my tires were flat so we walked them to the gas station and filled up with six quarters before we went on our merry way. I empathized with the Chevron employee as we talked about coronavirus and how it might impact our lives. I wished him well and went on my way.

3)    While bikeriding downtown I noticed there are five…. FIVE… different types of massage or spa places between my house and Curtis, which is the next main stop light.

4)    At Whole Foods, I asked the clerk their favorite pasta salad as she walked over and told me all about the 2 for $6 deal. I noticed the different textures of the floor and the neatly stacked chairs and how the vegetables were perfectly arranged in their place.

5)    While doing yardwork, I stopped and looked at Kinslie as she was raking leaves into a pile. I went over and looked, I mean REALLY LOOKED into her eyes and noticed how the Irish green edges melt into a light sky-ish blue before meeting her pupil. I noticed the way she parted her wavy blonde hair and the way it fell just barely over the sweatshirt she was borrowing of mine.  I noticed how thankful I was I had someone to share this day with and even more thankful for her idea to do this yardwork that surely wouldn’t have been started for maybe forever.

6)    While reading, I noticed the way the soft sunshine pressed through my semi-open blinds onto my page and made the black ink pop off the page. I contemplated Keller’s words of Pharisees and tax collectors and a story of two sons on their journey of deeper understanding of God’s steadfast love and grace in the midst of their own struggles.

7)    While making dinner I couldn’t help but take just a little extra time to delicately cut each cucumber and carrot slice with care as I heard sounds of clattering branches from my cracked window as dusk began to settle in.

8)    And while writing this blog post, I can’t help but notice all the things I noticed in my own world for perhaps the first time.

 While I can’t be sure what life will look like in a few short days, weeks, or even months, and while I’m not positive what my income will be, and what daily routines or rituals will be impacted, or how our schools and communities will be changed – I can be sure of this: I hope in the midst of my crazy F-5 tornado life that surely will be back in busy routine before I know it – I hope for a couple things.

 I hope I can continue notice the little things. To notice the wildly interconnected, perfectly-timed, awe strikingly beautiful, crazy detailed, little details of this world like the way I noticed the lines on the fresh steaks as I pulled them off my garage sale grill.  

 I hope to breathe deep and see, I mean REALLY see the world around me, to engage in relationship in more authentic and honest ways, to stop for a moment wherever I am to truly connect with the people around me.

  I hope to take my time through a home cooked meal, and to not be so filled with anxiousness and fear of the future and unknown that I my eyes are blinded to see the way God is working in and through my (and our) world, possibly even through something like the freaking COVID-19.

 While I’m sure there will be more lessons to be learned in the next little while, I challenge you to take a couple moments to really press in and reflect upon the way this Zombie apocalyptic ish tirade is impacting your world. I truly hope in the midst of empty toilet paper shelves and hand sanitizer hoarders there is something beautiful in your world that you’ve noticed, too.

[read4goodblog]

Living Small And Saving Big: The Actual Cost Of Alternative Housing

Between the rising cost of housing and a growing desire to possess more freedom, economical homes are getting the longer term. More and more people are finding cost-effective ways to show everything from a van to a bus, to an airplane into a micro-luxurious dwelling.

What are the important costs of those conversions? What about upkeep and other expenses? We'll break it down and you'll decide if traveling the country with all the comforts of the house is right for you.

1. Retrofitting An Old Van Into A Dream Home

The most popular sort of tiny home living is Vanlife. People everywhere the planet are buying Sprinter vans and converting them into homes on wheels. Vans are small, are often purchased for relatively cheap, and may travel anywhere with ease. you'll buy and build your van for as little as $3,000. you'll also roll in the hay for $100,000+ dollars. While this might sound pricey for a van, it's still less expensive than buying a house.

2. What proportion For The Van?

If you would like a van that has a number of the luxuries of a home but remains erring on the cheaper side, you'll build a really nice van for about $15,000. The van itself is often as low as $2,000 or the maximum amount as $100,000, but on the average, most of the people spend around $4,000-$5,000 on the van. the long-lasting VW vans and therefore the fresh Sprinter vans can cost anywhere from $25,000 to $60,000. you are doing not need a fresh van though; these hardened road warriors are built to last.

3. Everything…PLUS The sink

Purchasing the van is simply the start. You then begin the method of creating the van home. a number of the first costs include adding insulation and amenities like a restroom, hardwood flooring, a sink, cabinets, and a bed frame. you'll build the fundamentals for around $1,000, but it isn't getting to be very "instaworthy." Everyone's idea of van life is different. you would possibly be surprised to ascertain just how elaborate some vanlifers have made their mobile abodes.

4. The sky is the Limit

On the flip side, there are bougie vans with toilets, showers, individual cabinets, lighting fixtures, paneled ceilings, generators, solar panels and more. It's possible to create a van that has all the amenities of a daily home, but it requires an honest amount of construction work (and costs) and a radical getting to make the simplest use of the space. It all depends on the aim of the van - is it a forever home or something to travel around certain a couple of years?

5. Recurring Costs

Also, other factors inherent play besides actually building the van itself. There are groceries, gas, automobile insurance, phone bills, camping fees, parking and speeding tickets, and your own insurance fees. Then, there's also registration per annum and any fees that come alongside car-related issues. Altogether, you are looking at around $1,200 in monthly costs, give or take incidentals. You'll consider whether these costs you'll afford while on the road.

6. Compared To A House...

Still, the prices of shopping for, building the van and therefore the monthly payments are still less expensive than owning a home. While the worth of a home will appreciate over time, a van allows you to vary your home's "view" at a moment's notice. many of us have found ways to get income by documenting their day-to-day experience of their van-as-an-abode lifestyle. So, it is often a two in one because it creates many simplicity and ease in life while allowing you to explore the planet.

7. Frugality is vital

Many websites saying you cannot do van life for fewer than $20,000, but that's just not true. It just depends on what you're willing to offer up. many people have built the most cost-effective van possible and made it work. If you're on a time and money crunch, then get the fundamentals and hit the road. you'll always modify things down the road once you have a far better sense of what you actually need.

8. Time = Money

With the van life craze happening now, there are tons of individuals willing to create and sell you a van - but that comes with a fee of about $50-100 thousand dollars. the prices related to the convenience of a pre-built van outway the advantages. you'll build a van yourself for much less, and once you do, the pride of doing it yourself comes alongside it. you'll find many DIY resources online to assist you to start. But what if van life feels just a touch too compact?

9. #VanLife Too Small? do this ...

If you would like to pursue a more nomadic or economical lifestyle, you'll turn anything into a home with touch creativity and vision. And if van life sounds cool, but it looks like it'd get too cramped for you, there also are many other options, like a faculty bus life. you would possibly be surprised by the incredible homes people have made out of a faculty bus. Plus, it is the next neatest thing after van life and it'd bring back memories of your favorite excursion.

10. Goin' Green

Living on a faculty bus is one of the foremost economical and environmentally-friendly housing choices you'll make. So, go if you're brooding about making the switch. bus life is analogous to van life, except that faculty buses are bigger, which exposes the chances but also expands the prices. you ought to be ready to fit more amenities if you so choose, and you'll not need to be quite nearly as good at Tetris to work out the way to do so. So what's next?

11. what proportion does one Need?

Turning a faculty bus into a small home seems like the simplest of all the small homeworlds. It's large enough to be spacious and desires a home, and it also allows you to be nomadic. They even have tons more windows, which suggests many lights and plentiful lookout points for your life on the road. Naturally, they're going to take longer to create and can cost a touch extra money. altogether honesty, the added cost seems pretty worthwhile. But do they stand the test of time?

12. The search for the simplest

The greatest thing about bus conversions is that faculty buses can keep trucking all the thanks to 1,000,000 miles. So all the cash you set into your conversion isn't likely to be lost on a roadside breakdown. the worth to shop for a bus is that the same as a van, maybe even lower. they begin out at about $3,000 and may go up to $10,000 at auctions, but you'll get a wonderfully good bus for $2,500 if you are doing your due diligence. So, where does one score a deal on a faculty bus?

13. Maintaining Your Home

Most people get their buses at bus dealerships, at online auctions, or on the classifieds. you'll try your luck at Craigslist, but those listings are often pretty rare. shop around and take some time. the foremost important thing is to review the vehicle's maintenance records. But you do not need to worry an excessive amount of about what percentage miles it's. Once you've got found a bus with good bones, the important fun begins.

14. Building Costs

You can do a bus conversion for $30,000. This estimate includes the typical price to get the bus, also as all the prices of the tools and materials. it's not that far more than a van. it's possible to try to to it for even but $30,000 if you employ repurposed materials and do the nitty-gritty work yourself. It just depends on what proportion work you're willing to try to and the way much time you're willing to plan to bring this project to life.

15. Space = Time + Money

The main difference between a van and a faculty bus conversion is that the time that it'll take. a faculty bus may be a lot bigger, so it's getting to be tons more work and tons longer. the design and organizing of the conversion are often longer consuming. you'll want to make a blueprint of the inside and think through which amenities are the very best priority, what proportion space they're going to take up, and the way they fit alongside other elements.

16. Big Living during a Tiny Space

Another expense that comes into play is that there's more room for more stuff. you'll have a true bed, a true couch, and a true dining room table. you'll even have room inside the bus for a washer and dryer. Furnishing a bus can almost be as costly as decorating an actual apartment. Of course, you'll also build an equivalent kind of furniture that you simply would have during a van. The key's to stay in mind what attracted you to compact living in the first place.

17. Leaves Or TP?

School bus conversions also leave full bathrooms! you'll have an actual shower and a restroom and a sink in there. This adds on a touch more in costs than simply using the woods as a toilet, but you'll still do this, too. one of the smarter moves is that the compostable toilet and people can cost about $1,000. These toilets don't require connection to a sewer main or tank, and that they convert body waste into compost.

18. diligence Or Convenience?

When all is completed, it really comes right down to personal preference. There are high-end bus conversions which will cost upwards of $100,000. There also are school buses that cost only $15,000. The range is large. It all depends on what you would like. If you would like to only be comfortable, then go a budget route. If you would like to measure during a cute house, then spend a touch more. What if you would like to chop costs and be cozy but don't care such a lot about being mobile? Read on!

19. Tiny Homes

In the range of off the grid living options, tiny houses are the right in-between point. they are not quite as extreme as living during a van and almost as bougie as storage container houses. If you do not know what a small home is, it's basically a little house built to permit you to measure an easier life with less stuff. within the previous couple of years, it's becoming an architectural and movement. How does the value of a small home compare to a van or bus conversion?

20. Big Opportunities

The price for a small house is still drawn in comparison to a van or a bus. the typical cost of a small house is about $60,000. That's an entire house with a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen! almost like a van or bus, a small home's value depreciates, but the land it sits on does appreciate over time, which brings up another point - you will need to accumulate land for your tiny home. Fear not, though, you've got some options in securing just the proper land for your tiny home.

21. Own The House, Rent The Space

Just like van and faculty bus conversions, there's a variety of fees for a small home - and it all depends on what you would like. It's possible to create the house itself for less than $12,000, but it'll take tons of your time and checking out free materials to form that happen. the foremost significant cost factor is whether or not or not you've got an area to place your tiny house. the worth range varies counting on where the land is found. So will you create money or lose money together with your tiny home?

22. Money Making Or Money-Saving?

If you do not have land to place your tiny home on, you'll either pip out or rent it. Some people build tiny homes to stay in their backyards and hire out on Airbnb. While that's good for a few quick cash, that's not exactly living the small house lifestyle. A growing trend is building tiny homes as a hobby and taking them to tiny home fairs, where you'll network with like-minded hobbyists.

23. Travel, Rent, Or Camp

If you build a small home, then you are going to wish an area to place it. Your options are to shop for a bit of land, rent a spot at an RV park, or rent property from someone to stay your tiny home. These all vary in cost and depend upon what you are looking for. Are you looking primarily to save lots of money? does one decide to sleep in the world or during a tiny home long-term? it is also important to stay in mind that the aim of small homes is to chop costs and reduce environmental harm.

24. Live Anywhere (As Long As It's Legal)

Buying a plot of land isn't as expensive as you'd think it might be. you'll buy land for as cheap as $100, or as expensive as $1,000,000 counting on where you would like to measure. you will need to think about whether you care more about the situation or owning the land. It's possible to create your tiny home and find a reasonable piece of land to still keep costs well below $100,000. Do your research and confine mind where you want to measure when you're deciding costs.

25. RV Parks For Convenience

If living in an RV park seems like your cup of tea, then most places will rent spots to tiny homes for from $500 to $1,500. this is often basically paying rent, with the choice to go away whenever you would like. BUT you are still wasting money on rent. the value of a spot in an RV park usually covers water, electricity, Wi-Fi, and trash. So all utilities are paid, and you're probably paying but a typical apartment. Still, if you would like even more privacy you've got other options.

26. Cheap Land For Hermits

There is the choice to rent land during a more secluded area than an RV park. It’s also presumably cheaper, but the tradeoff is that your utilities won't be covered within the cost of the land rental the way they might be at an RV park. you'll rent land for as cheap as $200 a month counting on where you would like to be and the way much you're willing to buy your location. Or if you've got a lover who doesn't mind you living off their land, that works too.

27. Go All Out

There are some ways to form tiny house living that happens, which lies solely within the preferences of the builder. you'll do tiny house living during a city or the center of nowhere. you'll have a Jacuzzi and spend over 100,000 dollars designing your home. it is easy to urge sucked into all the added features, but those expenses can quickly compile. When deciding the way to build your tiny home, consider your initial reasons and goals, and that'll make most decisions tons easier.

28. Channel Your Inner designer

There are numerous sorts of housing nowadays, from vans and buses to shipping containers, to airplanes, to boxcars, to houses made out of plastic bottles. which sort of housing is true for you? the primary step is deciding what exactly you would like out of a home. the subsequent step is to try to do your research to ascertain what's possible for you to make. You'll also get to determine your budget and what level of customization is going to be needed.

29. The New Norm

As people move far away from traditional housing choices to seem for more alternative options, it becomes ever more clear that cost will always be an element. the reality behind all of those homes is that the worth really will depend upon the person. there's nobody flat rate for these homes; it all lies within the individual and their preferences. Nonetheless, it is vital to recollect the guiding philosophy behind these sorts of homes: less is more and make it your own.

[nickgerlich]

Hit The Road, Jack

One of the funniest SNL skits ever featured the late Chris Farley, in his role as motivational speaker Matt Foley. In typical SNL style, Mr. Foley was a caricature of himself in real life, and the antithesis of motivation. This became pathetically true when he kept telling his subjects—I mean listeners—that he lived in a van down by the river. The popular 1993 skit featured a very young David Spade and Christina Applegate as his unfortunate victims.

But that was a time when doing such meant you were hardly a success. Your van was all you could afford, and parking in a free place fit the budget well. It was likely the evolution of Woodstock-era hippie life, when the VW van became synonymous with the counter-culture of the day.

Skip forward to the present, though, and we see living in a van—or Van Life, as it is known—now a glamorized nomadic lifestyle. It was captured in book and film in Nomadland, although in that particular setting it was typically older, retired persons who chose that way of life, sometimes out of necessity, but other times for freedom. The story line focused on people who migrate like birds from the northland, descending on BLM land in the desert where they can dry camp for months at no charge.

Others, though, have taken to the road in rigs that cost far more than $100K. They’re downsized RVs that can be driven through town, parked, and lived in. It started with Mercedes Sprinter vans, and quickly evolved into Dodge’s versions of the same, as well as Ford Transits of varying sizes and Nissan’s varietal. But now Ford has taken the Transit to the next logical step by introducing the Ford Transit Trail Van, a lifted version of its popular tall van that can venture much farther off-road than its cousin.

With a base price of $66K, it can be tricked out by third-party aftermarket customizers who can add beds, captain’s seats, electronics, bathrooms, and even the kitchen sink. If money is no object, it can be done. It’s a process called “uplifting,” code for “get ready to pay dearly.”

Clearly, these fancy rides are intended for solo travelers, or at most, couples. There’s no room for children. I know a woman my age—a professor at an east coast university—who has a fancy ride like this, and can’t wait for semesters to end so she can hit the road. I have read of two women from Australia who came to the US, rented a base model, quickly outfitted it, and then took off to visit all of the US National Parks in the Lower 48. They lived very cheaply compared to hoteling and dining out.

In a strange twist of fate, Chris Farley was a cousin to Ford CEO Jim Farley, although the latter swears the skit did not influence Ford’s move into this segment. Ohhhh-kaaaaay. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the segment is for real. While it may not be mainstream, it is significant enough now to warrant niche products.

I realize there can be safety concerns, especially when choosing low-budget or no-budget options like the parking lot at Camp Walmart. Rest areas can also be sketchy, and many do not allow overnight parking. If you go the RV park route, though, a night there can easily exceed $50, which kind of puts a damper on the idea of saving a few bucks.

The new model, though, isn’t designed for asphalt or gravel docking. Instead, it is designed to go where your car cannot, deep into the woods or wherever the gullies and ruts make driving tricky. It’s not exactly a Jeep, but then again, Jeeps don’t have room for living either.

Whenever I see rigs like these, my heart skips a beat and I start dreaming. But then the better part of reason sets in, and I remember that I really do like warm showers in my own private room. I’m done with camping. I’m done with RVing. Those were all good years, and I have zero regrets. But I also do not regret my choice to stay in nice hotels today. I’ll just bring one of my bikes along for when I feel nature’s call to hit the trail.

As for Ford, this is a legit move. It feeds a hunger to be outdoors. But don’t come crying to me when you see me laughing as you pull into the Hampton Inn because you too want to sleep on a real bed. That should be all the motivation you need.

Dr “Who Wants To Go On A Road Trip?“ Gerlich

Audio Blog

[velvet-roads]

What Happens In Vegas: Chapter 2

Chapter 1:

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1565

Music: 22 Faces- Periphery/ Prelude 12/21- AFI

          It was monumentally disturbing to you how easy Cowboy thought it would be to catch his prey. The sad truth was, in Las Vegas it really wasn’t that hard. It wasn’t called ‘Sin City’ for shits and giggles. The place is just as dangerous as it is fun.

          Now that the vamp was dead, it was time to get out of Dodge. You pulled a black bandanna out of your bag and wrapped up your knife. It was best not to get blood all over everything. Then you went into the small bathroom to clean yourself up. Thank God you weren’t wearing much, it made wiping off noticeable blood that much easier. Once you were clean-ish and had removed your fingerprints off of any possible surfaces you could have touched without thinking, it was time to slip out quietly.  

          You pulled a nondescript, oversized, black, Las Vegas novelty zip up out of your bag and threw it on. Flipping up the hood, you exited the darkroom, keeping your head down. Vegas had cameras and video EVERYWHERE. Even when you had made it into the elevator, you still kept your eyes glued to the floor. You didn’t have the aggressive oaf to block you now.

          Several more people ended up joining you on your little ride down to the lobby. Though it was now after 2 in the morning, the entrance hall was still crowded; as were the streets. You felt so suspicious never looking up from the ground, cloaked in your hoodie with your fishnets and converse standing out from underneath. Fortunately though, you were not even close to the most disreputable looking thing in a two mile radius.        

          After walking a couple blocks, you discreetly left your jacket on a fire hydrant. Your outfit wasn’t that crazy for down town at 2 in the morning. You once saw a drag queen dressed as the little mermaid. Shell bra with fake boobs and all.

          The closest hotel to you now was the Bellagio, so you popped inside to buy a new hoodie. Granted it was warm enough in Vegas that you didn’t need a jacket but to you it wasn’t fun to be traipsing around the streets in so little. Plus, you were in a hurry before and weren’t sure you got all visible blood spatter off of you.

          There was no doubt in your mind that Cowboy was going to be found soon. Once the body was discovered there was most definitely going to be an investigation of some sort. That was your main reason for going in and getting a new sweatshirt. You stopped in the bathroom to remove your fishnets, found a drunk girl with the same color hair as you, who was willing to take a hundred bucks to change outfits with you, then you walked through the hotel and came out of the guest check-in entrance wearing a slutty blue dress. This way, even if the cops see you on the cameras, you no longer have that specific outfit.

          Then a thought occurred to you, Cowboy had friends. You were so concerned about not getting caught by the police that you hadn’t even thought of the other vampires yet. It was a good thing you had work in town because now you had to stay and finish off the rest of the fangs. However, all that excitement was going to have to wait at least a few hours because you needed to sleep.  

          Grabbing an Uber, you headed off the strip to a small campground thirty minutes out. It was a funny place. C.C Shooting Park was an RV park and a shooting range. It was nice to have a place to shoot a few if you needed the stress relief.  

          Your way of living, when it came to hunting, was a contrast to the general hunter population. Not including the honest wage, most hunters lived a life of fast food and cheap motels. Since death was inevitable in this line of work, you refused to let the last place to lay your head be a sketchy mattress. In place of a crappy motel, you lived in a van. Now that sounds very hippie/homeless but your van is not the gutter picture that most people would think of. There is no half naked woman on the side riding some sort of mythical creature.

          You had a love of vintage cars so you lived in a purple and off-white VW camper van. The little shack on wheels had everything you would ever need; a full-size bed in the back with storage underneath, one side with enough counter space to have a small stove and a little sink, a tiny table with a few well-placed power outlets for your laptop or phone charger etc., and storage space galore. Seriously, there was storage everywhere. The space was small but extremely cozy. The only downside to the van life was not having your own bathroom. However, campground restrooms weren’t too bad, nine times out of ten.

         Life in your violet and cream camper wasn’t too shabby. If you wanted to go to the beach or camp in the rain forests of the Pacific Northwest, you could. Vanning it in hot as hell Vegas was definitely not your favorite. Luckily, one small fan, open windows and in some cases a dehumidifier worked wonders in quickly cooling the small space.

          You had the Uber driver drop you off at the entrance. It was going to be a little bit of a hike to your home but that was OK. It was secluded, quiet, and fairly safe. Walking through the dusty dead grass with nothing but the sound of the earth under your feet was cathartic. The stark silence in contrast to the club thumping you worked in was nice.

           Under the light of the half-moon you saw your little amethyst and ivory home, and you swore you could hear your bed calling you. As you unlocked and opened the door, you were greeted with a small gust of heat mixed with the scent of a cedar-wood and bourbon candle. That was another nice thing about a small space, it took no effort to make it smell nice. Inversely the same thing could be said about it being, less than fresh.

            Crawling inside, you promptly shut the doors and opened the sunroof to air out the stuffy space. Van life wasn’t for everyone. You had to enjoy nesting. That meant being cozy and in some cases cramped. All around you was beautiful wood paneling; the floor, counters, cabinets and walls. Most of your furniture covers were black, easy to re dye or didn’t show staining. For example, no one would know that you spilled red wine on your bed or that you had gotten makeup on your pillow.

           Even though you really didn’t want to, you had to take a shower. There was no doubt in your mind that you had missed some of the vamp blood on your quick cleanup, and it was very possibly in your hair. Under your bed was your clothing storage, dance wear, daily wear, and lounge. Each had their own drawer. You pulled out a black tank with a sassy saying (I put the fun in funeral), a pair of black shorts,  and a pair of flip-flops for the shower. Another random drawer held the shower essentials and a rather large bag of quarters. Most decent camping bathrooms required quarters for hot water. So, between that and the need to do laundry you always had a ton. The last thing you grabbed was the knife and the bandanna out of your bag. You figured that you might as well clean them too. A good hot shower after a hunt always felt amazing, both tension and excess vamp blood, going down the drain.  

           Once clean and refreshed the realization of how exhausted you were officially set in. Gathering up your things, you headed back to your van. You chuckled to yourself as you walked past the mirrors in the bathroom. Before your shower you looked like something out of a crazy 80s music video. Now it was just you, simple and plain you.  

          While your body was excited for sleep, your brain had other plans. That night/early morning, you dreamt about Cowboy’s friends and what they were going to want to do to you. Nightmares came with the territory and you were more than used to dealing with them but sometimes it would be nice to wake up from a nightmare in the arms of a great man. However, falling in love and keeping them alive was not something that was possible in this life. Not to mention, most normal guys tend to go running for the hills when they found out about your job and life. Rejection is one thing, but sending them running and screaming is something else.  

          As you laid in bed, you thought more about what your fictional Mr. wonderful would be like. Physically, Cowboy actually came pretty close. You liked a man who was masculine, a man who could handle himself. Most importantly, he had to be able to handle you.  

          Gripping your pillow tight, for the first time in a long time, you dreamt of your perfect man. A man you would never have.          

[mindingmyownbusiness]

Slow Burn

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary - Could something as simple as a s’more bring you and Bucky closer together? Prompt - Toasted marshmallows Warnings - none, just 100% fluff Word Count - 3,021 Notes - For @promarvelfangirl​ 2k Fall Follower Challenge - congratulations on your milestone! I LOVE FALL so writing this fic was a real treat. (sorry this is like forever late, life man…) Special thanks to @sgtbxckybxrnes​ for her invaluable input on s’mores and to @bucky-plums-barnes​ for her fabulous Insta creation seen below.

My Masterlist

The sun was sinking low in the sky as your small caravan made its way towards a rustic cabin set far back from the main road near a small lake in upstate New York. With the world safe for the moment the resident Avengers had taken this opportunity to schedule some bonding time, away from the compound and the responsibilities that hung over everyone’s head while they were there. It was about time too. You knew that the team needed to have some normalcy, something to remind them that even though they were enhanced and highly skilled they were still human. Well, most of them anyway.

You may not have been the one to come up with the idea but you were the one who had been tasked with organizing the trip. Finding and securing the location was the hardest part, after that you just made sure to pack some fun activities and special snacks to make sure that everyone had a good time. Your leg was bouncing like crazy from where you sat in the passenger seat and you kept craning your neck to get a better look.

“Calm down, (Y/N),” Steve teased from the driver’s seat. “We’re almost there.”

“I can’t help it,” you whined, “I’m excited. And I want everything to be perfect for you guys. After all, you save the world on the regular, you deserve a few days away to relax.”

“So do you, you know,” you rolled your eyes as Steve went on, “I’m serious (Y/N), you might not be out there dodging bullets but you work just as hard as the rest of us. Promise me you’ll try to have some fun while we’re here?”

“Okaaaaay, dad…” Steve chuckled as you slumped in your seat, only to perk right back up when the cabin came into view. You breathed a sigh of relief, noting that it looked even more picturesque than it did online. Steve pulled into the driveway leaving plenty of room for Clint and Bruce to park behind you then put his new old VW Bug into park, smirking as he glanced in the rearview mirror.

“You got a picture of that, right?” Steve said, nodding toward the scene in the backseat.

“Are you kidding? Those two were on Snapchat the instant they started snoring.” You turned to take in the scene behind you, Bucky with his head thrown back, mouth open, while Sam is slumped over, drooling on the Winter Soldier’s shoulder. “It’s almost a shame to wake them up… almost.” You waggled your eyebrows at Steve before the both of you suddenly and simultaneously hopped out of the car and slammed both the driver and passenger doors at the same time.

You almost forgot how to breathe for how hard you were laughing at what happened next. After a fair amount of pushing, shoving, and cursing the two men unfolded themselves from the back of the Bug, red-faced and grumbling under their breath.

“You okay there, Buck?” You wiped away a tear or two as you caught your breath. Bucky, still fuming, was slicking his hair back and scowling in Sam’s direction. “Damn birdbrain, droolin’ all over me…”

“C’mon Buck, don’t be angry. We came here to have some fun, remember?” You laid a hand on his bicep which seemed to instantly defrost his icy demeanor and he returned your hopeful smile with a small one of his own. It always amazed you that you had this sort of effect on the stoic supersoldier. Maybe it was your determination to treat him no differently than the rest of the team, maybe it was the gift you had for bringing people out of their shells, heck maybe it was the copious amount of baked goods you created and had decided Bucky would have to be your official taste-tester for. Whatever it was it worked and had created a unique sort of bond between you and the brooding brunette.

Avenger after Avenger had climbed out of the vehicles and were in the process of grabbing their bags and taking in their surroundings. “This place looks amazing, (Y/N),” Wanda exclaimed from behind you, wrapping one arm around you in an affectionate hug.

“I mean, it’s not my chalet in Aspen but it’ll do-oof!” Tony winced as Pepper elbowed him in the side. “W-what I meant to say was that this looks like the perfect getaway. Just what we all needed. Fantastic!” Tony lowered his voice as he passed you with a sheepish smile, “Seriously, ya did good kid.”

You smile to yourself before getting everyone’s attention. “Alright guys, this is it! There’s a couple hours before it gets dark so you have some time to settle into your rooms before dinner. The weather is perfect so we’ll be having a bonfire down by the lake, just head down there whenever you start to get hungry. Oh, and the rooms aren’t labeled or anything so it’s every man for himself. Have fun!” You giggled watching Peter and Scott practically trip over each other to be the first ones into the cabin.

“Idiots,” Bucky shook his head in their direction and turned to find you struggling to open the trailer where you’d stashed all the supplies for the weekend. “Here doll, lemme help ya with that.” He had the door open in no time and began to help you unload.

“You should go on in, find yourself a good room before you end up stuck with Sam or something,” you said as he helped you carry crates of food down toward the beach.

“Nah, you know me, doesn’t really matter where I sleep. I won’t be getting much of it,” he said matter-of-factly. “What about you, doll? You planned all this, dontcha want a decent room?”

Setting your crate down on a picnic table you grinned and showed Bucky what was in your pocket. “Like you said, I planned all this. So naturally I made sure to tell the caretaker to lock up one of the best rooms just for me and forward me the key. It’s got a huge bed, a spectacular view, and its own bathroom.” Bucky chuckled as you pocketed the key again. “Listen Buckaroo, I may be nice but I’m not naive, I made sure to take care of me this weekend too.”

With Bucky’s help you had everything set up and ready in no time, including a large stack of wood for the bonfire. You parted ways as you entered the cabin, you heading directly to your room for a quick shower and Bucky assuring you that he could figure out the place on his own. Before you knew it it was time for the evening’s festivities to start.

There are certain moments in life that you wish you could cement forever in your memory. This, this was definitely one of them. You took in the scene, everyone gathered around the crackling fire, all you could see were smiling faces. Everyone looked so at ease, not a trace of tension or darkness on anyone’s face. Laughter filled the air as different members of the team told stories, reminiscing and sharing favorite memories.

You found your gaze continually returning to one face in particular. Bucky was always on your radar but tonight you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off of him. Steve had just said something that made Bucky throw his head back and crinkle his eyes and absolutely laugh out loud and you swore it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. It filled your heart and your soul and you never wanted to forget it. Ever.

“Take a picture, (Y/N), it’ll last longer.” Natasha’s low voice in your ear startled you but you quickly regained your composure, getting up and moving towards the food table. “So,” she said sidling up to you with a smirk, “how long has that been going on?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Nat.” You busied yourself by digging in the crates for the marshmallows, hoping that the shadows were doing a decent job of hiding the blush creeping over your features.

“Deny it all you want but I know what I saw.” She looked over at Bucky and then at you. “For what it’s worth, you’d be good for him. He needs someone who doesn’t see him through the filter of his past. That’s a rare thing, believe me.”

You chanced a look at Bucky again, smiling slightly as you saw him still having a great time with the rest of the team. Shaking your head to break yourself from the moment you returned to your task of gathering the rest of the ingredients to make s’mores. “It doesn’t matter anyway Nat, he’s an Avenger, a hero... and... and I’m just me. I should consider myself lucky just to be in his orbit.”

You could practically feel Nat’s glare boring into your skull. “Lucky? He’s the one who’d be lucky to have you.” She looked over at him again. “You know I could talk to him if you want--”

“No!” you said, your exclamation coming out louder and more panicked than you intended. You lowered your voice, a pleading look in your eyes,  “Look Nat, just drop it, okay?” Grabbing the small crate you turned back towards the fire, a smile plastered on your face. “Who’s ready for s’mores?” you called out, thrilled to hear a chorus of cheers from your friends.

While some of them wasted no time getting started, others held back a bit. “I am unfamiliar with this Midgardian delicacy, (Y/N)” Thor picked up a marshmallow, eyeing it curiously. “What exactly is a suh-more?”

You giggled as Clint stepped up, plucking the marshmallow from Thor’s grasp and spearing it onto one of the roasting sticks you had picked up just for this occasion. “They’re called s’mores big guy, and you don’t know what you’ve been missing. I mean, you get to set something on fire and then eat it, what could be better? I do this all the time with my kids, they love it. C’mon..” Clint grabbed another stick and marshmallow for Thor and proceeded to show him how it’s done.

You scanned the scene, checking to make sure everyone had what they needed. Steve and Sam were already working on their second round, Tony was making faces as Pepper tried to get him to take a bite of hers, and Vision couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. He had completely blackened several marshmallows in a row as Wanda tried not to laugh. Natasha had politely declined claiming they were just too sweet for her. You continued looking around, realizing the one face you were missing was the one you wanted to see the most.

Finally a glint of metal drew your eye to his quiet figure, set back from the fire practically in the shadows. You slipped over, taking a seat beside him on the cool grass. “You seem to be missing something… not a fan of s’mores?”

“Wouldn’t know doll. I, ah, actually haven’t ever had one before.” He cleared his throat, “Not much of a chance for a treat like that when I was younger and well… the last few decades are sort of a blur so…” His voice trailed off, Bucky clearly doing his best to push back the dark thoughts of his past.

You placed your hand over his, pulling him back to the present. “Let’s see what we can do to change that, yeah?” You stood, tugging at Bucky’s hand, encouraging him to come with you. “I haven’t made myself one yet so we can share.”

“Share…?” Bucky looked slightly confused until you picked up one of the roasting sticks that had two prongs on the end.

“See? One for you and one for me.” You speared a couple of marshmallows and lowered the stick above the fire, slowly rotating it. “The trick is to not put it directly in the fire like some people.”

“I heard that (Y/N)!” Sam protested through a mouth of graham cracker. “Burnt and crispy in under five seconds is the way to go!”

Shaking your head you continued, “It takes longer but I like to hold it just above the flames, that way there’s plenty of heat to make it super gooey all the way through without destroying the taste by burning it.”

“So what you’re saying is you like a slow burn.” You jumped, Natasha appearing out of nowhere yet looking like she’d been there all along warming herself by the fire. You glared at her then turned your attention back towards what you were doing.

“Nothing wrong with taking my time Natasha, some things are worth the wait.”

“Like s’mores,” she said with a smirk.

Exasperated you blew a strand of hair out of your face. “Yes, Nat, like s’mores.”

“Mmm’kay (Y/N), can’t really disagree with that.” Nat walked away with a smile leaving you with a scowl on your face.

“Um, did I miss something...?” Bucky asked.

“What? Oh, no it’s just.. It’s nothing, really…” You turned the marshmallows one more time, quickly changing the subject. “Looks like they are about done…” You brought them over to Bucky to put them together. “Okay we need the graham cracker first, then the chocolate, and then…” You laid the marshmallows right on top, both of you using the other half of the crackers to slide the gooey goodness off the stick. “Perfect.” You smiled, walking with him back over to where you were sitting earlier so you could both enjoy your treats in peace.

“Ready?” You couldn’t help but grin giddily at this memorable moment.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, doll.” Glancing at each other you both went to take a bite of your s’mores at the same time.

S’mores had already been your favorite treat for practically your whole life, but to see the look on Bucky’s face and to hear the sigh of satisfaction that came when he got his first taste of one… you’d never be able to look at a s’more innocently ever again.

“Doll… this is amazing!” He quickly took another bite, almost finishing it off.

“And messy..” Laughing you reached out with your thumb to swipe a glob of melted chocolate and marshmallow from the corner of Bucky’s mouth then without thinking licked it clean. You froze, thumb still in your mouth, once you realized what you’d done. You quickly looked away, embarrassed, missing the look of shock and awe on Bucky’s face.

Awkward silences were the worst. You popped the rest of your s’more in your mouth while your brain scrambled for something to say, finally settling on pretending it didn’t happen and just moving forward. Then maybe moving to Switzerland. “Um I should.. yeah I should really start cleaning up or I’m gonna be out here all night.” You started to get up but felt Bucky reach out and take your hand to pull you back down.

“Wait, you’ve.. ah, you’ve got a little something right here..” His eyes flickered down to your lips as his thumb wiped your bottom lip clean, mirroring your previous actions by sucking the stray chocolate off his thumb. You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing as Bucky looked back into your eyes, the two of you gradually gravitating towards each other. You closed your eyes as his nose brushed gently against yours. Your heart was pounding and everything else faded into the background as you became hyper-aware of what you hoped and wished and prayed for was about to happen.

“Doll..? I’d really like to kiss ya if that’s alright..” Bucky’s lips ghosted over yours as he uttered his quiet plea.

“I think I might die if you didn’t,” you responded breathlessly. You were instantly rewarded with Bucky’s lips pressing ever so gently against yours. A small sigh escaped you as you placed a hand on his chest, one of his hands cupping the back of your neck as he continued to kiss you sweetly for a long moment. You could feel him smiling into the kiss as he pulled back slightly.

“You were right doll, some things are worth the wait.” Grinning you leaned back in, happily initiating the kiss this time, teasing him with your tongue until he opened up to you and oh if he didn’t taste of chocolate and coffee and heaven on earth. You wanted to keep kissing him forever, and you probably would have if it weren’t for something soft hitting the back of your head. Several more soft thuds on your back and shoulders caused you to pull back and look around confused only to realize that the two of you were on the receiving end of a barrage of marshmallows being hurled at you by several of your friends. “What the hell…?” Bucky quickly moved to shield you from the onslaught. “Really guys? So mature.”

“We had to do it, you guys were about to scar Peter for life.” Scott mock scolded the two of you while tossing a few more marshmallows your way.

“Seriously you two,” Tony was using his dad voice, “get a room already.”

Bucky looked at you. You looked at Bucky. Grins broke out on both your faces as he hopped up and pulled you up with him. “I believe that can be arranged. Scott!” you called out in your most commanding voice, “You’re now officially on cleanup duty. See you guys in the morning!”

The two of you got out of there as fast as you could, not stopping until you reached your room. Stepping into the darkness you couldn’t take your eyes off the view through the huge picture window of the moon reflecting off the lake. “Oh Bucky, would you just look at that…”

Bucky stepped up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “It certainly is a gorgeous view... and the lake doesn’t look half bad either.”

You swatted his arm playfully as you turned to see him smiling down at you in the moonlight. “Now, where were we…?”

“Right about here…”

Just Some Tags: @dianelogan @bucky-plums-barnes @buckyywiththegoodhair @cate-lynne @avengerofyourheart @sebspocketsquare @sgtbxckybxrnes @bionic-buckyb  @plumfondler @ms-potts-to-you @chaneltheavenger @imaginingbucky @sexonastickstan @angryschnauzer @witchymarvelspacecase @palaiasaurus64 @eyecandybarnes @the-observant-fangirl @trinityjadec @ballyhoobarnes @kjs-s

[arplis]

Arplis - News: How to Keep it Simple with Your Camper Van Conversion

If you have dreams of traveling and camping in a photoshoot-worthy campervan, youre not alone. Lots of people are inspired by the beautiful campervan conversions they see on social media. But do you really need your camper to look like something out of a catalogue? Or do you simply want to live and camp comfortably while traveling?

The reality of converting a van into a campervan is that everything you add has the potential to create more work and more issues when youre on the roadnot to mention the upfront time and money youll need to install every fancy feature you find on Pinterest.

When I bought my GMC Vandura and started living in it part-time, simplicity was my focus. I wanted to seriously downsize my life, so I didnt want to fill my van with too many extras.

The Key to a Successful Campervan Conversion? Keep it Simple.

The van life movement is rooted in minimalism. The VW van-dwellers of the 60s didnt have Pinterest to source ideas from. They lived and camped in their camper vans as a way to escape the confines of too many possessions. And the recent resurgence of van-love, now replete with a hashtag (#vanlife), grew in tandem with the tiny house obsession, along with the idea that less is more. People wanted to reinvent the American Dream, without expensive mortgages and working their lives away to pay the bills. They wanted to get outside more. Mobile living (including tiny homes, vans, RVs etc.) offered a simpler version of comfort, along with mobility, freedom, and low-cost living.

Kelly S. is keeping it simple with her 2002 Chevrolet Express camper van conversion.

But as this alternative lifestyle has turned into mainstream clickbait, the minimalism is sometimes overshadowed by expensive Sprinter van build-outs and elaborate rigs.

Now, dont get me wrong. I love a gorgeously curated interior. I bet you do, too. But the reality is I dont have the budget or the time for all the bells and whistles. And when Im sleeping at campgrounds, I really dont need them. If youre looking to turn your van into a camper van, you might not be interested in the fancy build-outs either.

Whether youre parking at campgrounds or boondocking, you dont have to spend tens of thousands of dollars in converting a van into a camper van.

Lets break down the things you do need in your simple camper van conversion

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Camp fire in the woods

. . . . #campfire #campfirecooking #camplife #camping #campinghacks #adventure_culture #adventureland #adventurers #outdoorliving #gooutdoors #vanlifecamping #vanlifeexplorers #vanlifeproject #welovecamping #Mountkidd #rvparklife #summeradventure #coupleswhocamp #campgoals #campvibes #weliveinavan #modernnomad #modernmillennial #lifeofadventure #twogirlsonevan #exploretheoutdoors #explorers #lesbianswhocamp #gaysinthewoods

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Two Girls One Van

(@two_girls_one_van) on May 30, 2018 at 3:29pm PDT

5 Things to Focus on for a Simpler Campervan Conversion

I spoke to some fellow vanlifers some of them live in their vans full-time, others camp in their vans on weekends to round out my own advice on what you need for a simple van conversion.

M own camper van conversion is a 1986 GMC Vandura. Its old and creaky and slightly unreliable, but (most of the time) I love it, and its perfect for camping.

A Bed

The bed is the foundational difference between a van and a campervan. (Related: once you have a bed in your van, its officially an RV, according to AAA, and youll need their RV coverage if you ever want a tow. I discovered that on the side of the highway in Seattle.)

Ive seen vans with the backseats removed and a mattress thrown in. Ive even seen a hammock strung up inside of a van, which can be easily removed to maximize living space when youre not sleeping.

My van came with a bed that folds into itself to create a bench seat. Its similar to this one, built by @gnomad_home:

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Everyone has been asking us how our couch to bed situation works in our #van! So we decided to make this little #timelapse video for you all to see! Thanks for all the questions and compliments so far, and feel free to keep 'em coming!!

A post shared by Jayme

John

Nymeria

Delilah (@gnomad_home) on Mar 5, 2017 at 12:43pm PST

But I keep mine out like a bed all the time, and find the bed works fine for sitting and occasionally working on my laptop. If I did a camper van conversion myself, I wouldnt bother with the fold-up feature.

The vanlifers behind Two Wandering Soles built a super simple platform bed in the back of their Chevy, and they offer detailed instructions on how to make your own.

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The sleeping area! A custom cut (bigger than) king sized mattress! It fills the back of the Doka and creates a HUGE bed!

>>>

@Vanlifeing_com >>> #ThisisVanlifeing Captured by@vwdoka

A post shared by Vanlife Calendar 2020

(@camper.lifestyle) on Jun 21, 2018 at 12:11pm PDT

When it comes to bedding, Im a big fan of an excessive number of pillows. And Im kind of in love with my Pendleton wool blanket. But now that the weather is warming up, its much too hot. I love the concept of the Rumpl blanket its made out of sleeping bag material which stays nice and cool, but also keeps you warm. Plus, my dogs hair wont stick to it, like it does with the wool blanket. I dont have one yet, but its on my list for summertime van camping.

Power + Light

Theres something special about being in the van at night. I drove miles up into the coastal mountains of Oregon to reach Horse Creek Campground on my first van camping trip. The dark tunnel of dirt road was eery, as I drove further and further away from civilization. But then I reached the nearly empty campground, turned on my collection of Christmas lights, strung around the vans ceiling, turned off the headlights, and felt right at home.

The thing is, if you want to do anything in your van at night, youre going to need light. Ive amassed more and more Christmas lights, which I plug in to The Lycan Powerbox from Renogy. If I want to read, I also turn on a little lantern I have hanging over the bed.

My lights, computer, and fan can all run at once from The Lycan Powerbox. So I have power for camping or working in a Starbucks parking lot (as Im doing, here).

I have a foldable lantern in the storage compartment over the drivers seat in my camper van conversion, so I can see to find my clothes. And a few smaller lights scattered around the van, so theres always one in arms reach when I climb in and need to see before I accidentally step in my dogs water bowl.

The UCO Gear Sitka Lantern is another appealing option. The extendable arm can give you light from above, which is especially handy when cooking or reading.

Im also a big fan of battery operated twinkle lights. Theyre not great for reading, but they give my van a cozy vibe for nighttime relaxation.

My dog, Jackson, likes the twinkle light vibe. He does not like it when I shine my headlamp in his face to take a photo.

Because you can never have enough options when it comes to your ability to see in the dark, I also keep a headlamp on hand. Ledlenser Headlampsare so much brighter than most headlamps Ive tried. Stick one behind your gallon of water for a makeshift lantern when its not on your head.

Fellow van camper Kelly S. also keeps it simple when it comes to lights:I didnt want to mess around with wiring a van, storing an extra battery, figuring out how to charge an extra battery, etc, so I have hooks on the ceiling for battery powered LED lanterns. This way, theyre portable too, and you can use them outside of the van!

Econoline-dweller Rachel loves her LED lights for keeping things simple, too: For lights I have an LED strip that plugs into USB and I just use those little backup phone batteries and switch them out and charge them through my lighter while Im driving.

Shelly S. is hooked on LUMINAID. I get the Cairn subscription box, which is how I received the initial run of this awesome little lantern and have been stuck to it ever since.

Water

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We recently upgraded our water tanks. We bought 3 taller tanks that fit in the same space as our 2 old tanks. We now have ~ 15 gallons of water which can last 1-2 weeks depending where we are and what we're doing. Great decision. #garageviews

A post shared by Megan Cable (@meganmcable) on Jun 7, 2018 at 2:49pm PDT

Rule number #1 with any type of camping: Bring more water than you think youll need. This isnt hard when youre van camping theres plenty of room! But you have a bunch of options when it comes to water storage.

Kelly S. shares how she sourced her best van ideas from traditional tent camping, including water.

For water I have a 7-gallon aquatainer. If you need drinking water? Theres a spout right there! Coupled with a tub on the floor underneath the split, you have a sink to wash your hands, too! Having it bungee corded in place for transport works great, and then if you want to spread out somewhere you stop, you can take it out!

Related Reading:

This Family is Building a Modern Camper Out of Free Materials Found on Craigslist

When it comes to water storage, you really cant beat the classic big blue jug. The Reliance Aqua-Tainer 7 Gallon holds plenty of water for a summer weekend of water drinking, dish washing, and the occasional foot rinse after a barefoot stroll around the campground. Just make sure you have a way to secure it to the floor when youre bouncing down dirt roads.

As for showers, if your van is strictly for camping, then you can usually rely on campground bathrooms for bathing or simply embrace the dirt while youre out there.

If you want to get a little crafty, you can add a makeshift outdoor shower to the roof of your van with ABS piping and a hose.

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One afternoon last spring, we wandered into a Home Depot and stared up at the black ABS piping in the plumbing section. Keith figured there had to be some way to make a shower outta that stuff. Wed mount it to our @yakimaracks roof rack, the sun would warm it up, and gravity would send it down. And thats exactly what it does. Simple. Just like everything else we have goin on in this home of ours. We dont have a fridge, we have a cooler. We dont have LED lighting, we have an old string of Christmas lights. We dont have air conditioning, we have wet rags and a tiny tower fan we got for 9 bucks. We dont have a toilet, we havethe groundand Starbucks.. What Im saying is, you can install plumbing in your van if you want toyou can spend months on end googling every tutorial on earth if you want toyou can pay big money to build out the most well-equipped vehicle around if you want to We simply hope to serve as a reminder that you dont necessarily *have* to.

A post shared by Brianna Madia (@briannamadia) on Apr 3, 2018 at 7:50am PDT

Since I sometimes spend several weeks in my van, I wanted to have a place to wash my face and brush my teeth. I relied on disposable face wipes and gym bathrooms for the first few months. But then my friends at Wood Intimations built a gorgeous sink that is super simple and looks great and its been a game changer.

The pump faucet draws water from a 4 gallon jug beneath the sink, and gray water drains down into a hole in the van floor, so I dont have to empty anything.

It also provides some much needed counter space, and a little shelf for storing those tiny things that always get lost in the van, like the remote to my twinkle lights and my chapstick!

Organization

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TO ALL WEEKEND WARRIORS

. . #doit #doitagain #comfortzone . . #ontheroad #optoutside #wanderlust #nature #vwcalifornia #vankit #freedom #solitude #stayandwander #wilderness #rygg #vegan #croatia #roadtrip #issiontour #vanpuppy #explore #adventure #vaninterior #handmade #bagdesign #travel

A post shared by VANTALE (@van.tale) on Jun 8, 2018 at 8:31am PDT

Organization is so important for your sanity when living or camping in a camper van conversion. Even if youre a minimalist guru who wears one outfit and lives off protein bars, youre going to manage to collect more stuff than you think.

And if your lighting isnt great, its going to be even more difficult to find that stuff.

Staying organized will make you feel like you have a handle on the whole #vanlife thing. Organization can be as simple as a few plastic bins that can slide under your bed. Just make sure you know exactly what youre storing in each of them. (Clear storage containers are ideal so you can see whats in there when you inevitably forget.)

Shelly S. camps in her 4Runner. Its not a van, but the same concepts apply, she tells me. Organization is important for her, too. Mountainsmith has some nice storage cubes soft sided and stuffable. That being said, you can do about the same with those free cloth shopping totes, stored in either a cardboard box or a plastic bin.

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#HELP All right Vanlifers or Van designers or Anyone reallyI need your help! I have this space. All this space. Crazy right when you live in a van, usually it's the complete opposite. So.what the heck do I do with it!? I'd prefer not to put any more storage or I'll just fill it with crap (most of this stuff in the back is not mine). I don't need a pull-out kitchen or a place to store bikes, adventure gear. So other than turning it into a bedroom and renting it I'm at a miss.. Any suggestions???

A post shared by Sian Knox (@exmouth_vanlife) on Dec 22, 2017 at 9:07pm PST

Leah W. recommends as few belongings as possible for staying organized. My biggest recommendation is really paring things down to what you NEED. I had one set of basic utensils, one pot, plate, and bowl, a one burner stove, etc. A small toiletry bag, one duffel bag of summer clothing, one duffel bag of winter clothing. She agrees with Shelly about using bags for organization. While most people are fans of creating boxes for organization, we found that sturdy-ish bags worked best.

I went to the Container Store and bought a couple of soft containers with attached lids. Because the structure of the containers is fabric, theyre easy to stick into places where they barely fit, like the storage area above the driver and passenger seats of my GMC Vandura.

Hooks have also been a sanity saver for me in my sometimes not so organized camper van conversion. I keep a jacket and a couple of shirts that I dont want to be all wrinkly, hanging on a hook by the door. I always know where they are, and I can reach extra layers if I get cold at night. I also have a hook for my headlamp, because that is something that always gets lost.

When it comes to food storage, youll need to think about uninvited house visitors.

Store your food in closed containers or bins, advises Leah W. We started our trip with our food in an open crate, and quickly had mouse friends also enjoying our snacks.

Related Articles:

Truck Bed Tents

Off Road Campers

The post How to Keep it Simple with Your Camper Van Conversion appeared first on The Dyrt Magazine.

(function(){if(window.instgrm)window.instgrm.Embeds.process()})() Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/how-to-keep-it-simple-with-your-camper-van-conversion

[privateplates4u]

Volkswagen California XXL Concept First Look

Let’s manage expectations right up front for the rabid aficionados of vintage Volkswagen campers—this baby ain’t slated for production, and even if given the green light, it’d be a long shot to be exported to the States—even the state it’s named for. That’s because VW has yet to climb on the Transit/ProMaster/Sprinter bandwagon and homologate the Crafter Transporter commercial van chassis this concept is based on. But the thing is so cool and filled with such clever space utilization features that it captured our attention on the Frankfurt show floor. Note also that this is not a Westfalia product, springing instead from VW’s own internal design department, some members of which must live in tiny apartments and hence be well acquainted with the multipurpose furniture biz, as it’s chockablock with clever touches aimed at doing more with less. Although it’s tiny as a house, it is B-I-G as a vehicle, based on the Crafter lineup’s middle (143.3-inch) wheelbase. Its pano-sunroofed ceiling measures taller than the standard Crafter high-roof, at 114.2 inches. It also features a permanent bump-out at the rear, cantilevering the rear bed about 10 inches beyond the rear bumper (drivers might want to parallel park this one with a spotter). Climb aboard through the sliding side door, and you’re in the kitchen/dinette area, which features a pop-up table that the front seats can swivel around to face. The kitchenette features two 1.8-cubic-foot fridges and gas range burners that recess to be flush when not in use so that the area can be used as a work surface. A spice rack holds jars magnetically to reduce rattles. Dividing the dinette from the bedroom is a clever bathroom with a fold-down sink over a toilet. You enter by pulling the inboard wall out along with its own floor—like a drawer—then sliding a pocket door closed behind you. The whole space becomes a shower if you like, using water heated by an onboard boiler. The big side windows in the back open and offer integrated slide-up screens and slide-down shades. A picnic table folds up and stows in a slot under the dinette floor, sliding out of the step as you enter. Two folding camp chairs stow behind the rear-cargo-compartment hatch. The space inside that hatch is also accessible from under the bed inside. Come bedtime, the missing section of mattress in the back deploys from its stowage spot under the section behind the bathroom to form a bed that measures roughly 6.5 feet by 4 feet. A couple of kids can sleep up above the front seats and dinette area by sliding the back half of the mattress rearward on tracks and installing a small extender that gives one taller kid a bit more headroom or legroom. The main bed here measures just over 5 feet by 4 feet. A decidedly modern touch is the tablet and app control of all the interior ambient lighting (including closing the skylight shades) and the infotainment systems, which include a projector TV in the back bedroom. The California name originated on a line of VW-based, Westfalia-upfitted camper vans starting back in 1988 and continues today on VW-produced campers built off the T5 Multivan platform—itself a descendent of our late, lamented Eurovan. (DaimlerChrysler purchased Westfalia in 2001, marking the beginning of the end for VW-Westfalia campers, and Chrysler wriggled free of Daimler before building the Routan for VW, which might explain why we never saw pop-up camper versions of that van.) Probably about the best we Yanks can hope for is that Mercedes and Westfalia are taking notes and planning to deliver us something equally cool to look at and use based on a Sprinter van. The post Volkswagen California XXL Concept First Look appeared first on Motor Trend.

http://www.motortrend.com/news/volkswagen-california-xxl-concept-first-look/

[whoopsblackdress-blog]

Wedding Dance1

A/N:  It’s been a while since we wrote something together, but we hope you enjoy this.  We think it’s going to be about 5 parts long.  This part is all Harry fluff.  Enjoy!

It’s already dark outside, but the chilly summer breeze feels comfortable. It had been a warm day, not hot like the days in late August usually are -- a perfect day for a wedding. I want such a glorious day for my own wedding. The sun shone high in the sky during the day, and now the stars and the moon are twinkling with fairy lights.

I’m sitting in my chair, my place card in front of me in case I forget my name. Giggling at my own joke, I play with the white card which tells me my name in raised gold letters. My other hand rests on the stem of my wine glass. It’s nearly midnight. I promised myself I could leave at midnight, go upstairs to my room and sleep, falling onto the bed while still in my dress without removing make up. Who cares? I am alone here, so nobody will see me in the morning. My plan is to leave early tomorrow, so maybe I will be able to escape the parents of the bride. I crave my flat, a warm bath with a glass of wine, and listening to my favourite records. Yes, my flat is tiny, so I can hear the record player in my bathroom. Though my cozy home is small I could never relinquish the luxury of a bathtub. I sigh yearningly as I think of my empty flat.

I have been here for two days, helping my university friend to organise the final details of her wedding. She found a lovely man in her company. It was the perfect romance when they met at the copy machine. Since that auspicious meeting they can’t live without each other. He is a handsome man, the kind of man any woman would want as a husband. Allen is funny, but you can chat with him about serious issues too.

Admittedly, I’m a little bit jealous. No, jealousy is not the right word. I grant her this man, every single inch of him, though I miss the feeling of a good night kiss, of coming home and someone being there, waiting only for me, asking how my day was. But I also make it less than easy for the men in my life. Ruefully, I turn the glass in my hand, observing the dark red liquid. I can hear my mum in my head, “You’re married to your job! You have to step back!” Maybe she’s right, but I had to climb high mountains to be where I stand right now in my career.

Looking around on the table I reach for the bottle of wine two places over. Pouring the smooth red wine with relish, I smile slightly.

I knew it would be a big wedding, but I was speechless as I arrived at the manor. My old VW beetle looked very shabby with his worn out red color in front of the stately home. It’s like she is marrying Mr. Darcy, and I’m Emma sitting here alone at the table dwelling on my thoughts, thinking of missed opportunities, elusive kisses, mucked up dates. Asking me why I don’t wear the white dress and dance with my new husband.

Closing my eyes, I hear the band play another love song.

But here I am. Sitting at the round table which is covered with a white tablecloth and a glamorous flower bouquet in the middle. I cannot see those seated across from me because of the huge floral arrangement. I have brought no company with me, so I am practicing self-care, rewarding myself with wine.

My feet are throbbing with pain; my big toe is numb, so I decide to break the rules and slip out of my shoes. I usually wear sneakers or some comfortable shoes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to dress up elegantly occasionally.

I wiggle my toes under the table, not caring that the tablecloth only reaches to my ankles. God! I feel the cold ground under my feet. Can I say the feeling is better than sex? I guess I can say that since the last time a man visited my bedroom was because he installed my new bed (by the way, no man has slept in that bed).

I close my eyes, leaning back while listening to the music. I resist the urge to put my heavy legs on the empty chair next to me. The crowd has thinned out with only a few dancers still on the floor alongside the bridal couple. Opening my heavy lids, my glance weaves through the tent. The band is playing “Have You Met Miss Jones,” and I slug deeply from my wine. I would be lying if I said I don’t feel the pleasant feeling of the wine in my veins. During the week I allow myself sometimes a glass of wine, mostly on Friday nights when I’m sitting at my desk working on paperwork.

My eyes wander further through the room and rest on my dear friend in her bridal regalia. She looks beautiful in her dress, a little bit like a cupcake, but a gorgeous one! I roll my eyes. Did I really think that? Biting my lip, I try to hide my smile. All the dresses I pulled out when we were shopping for wedding dresses, the bride claimed were too simple, too straight, or too boring. Finally I sat back in the chair, defeated, and examined her in several dresses. The one with the tulle skirt won.

They are in love. Anyone can see that, and it’s beautiful how he whispers something in her ear, and her smile brightens. My heart aches a little bit. I used a whole pack of tissues in the church, and I don’t want to continue crying, so I unfix my glance from them with a sad smile.

Weddings. What used to be fun has become a bit of a drudgery for me. One of the things my fame has stripped from me is anonymity, and at a wedding this size, every girl over the age of four wants to dance with me. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My whole body aches. All I want is to rest and enjoy a glass of champagne and toast my friend Allen on his wedding day. Glancing at my watch, I see it is nearly midnight, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. At midnight I can turn back into a pumpkin and haul my weary ass up to bed. If only I can remember where my room is. Getting in so late last night and then stumbling downstairs barely in time for the wedding means that I have no idea which way to go to my room.

Sinking into my chair, I look at the congealed plate of meat. Having had no time to eat with all of the dancing, my stomach growls a bit, but no way am I eating this. It looks disgusting now, even though it probably cost a lot of money to serve. Maybe I’ll get some cake. There has to be wedding cake somewhere, right? My eyes roam the tented space, skirting over all of the women in the room who are still trying to make eye contact with me. Damn. I knew I should have brought a cousin or Gemma as my date.

As my eyes skim the room, seeking out the table with the sweet confection, they pause and return to settle on one woman. She’s sitting at a table by herself, her hand playing with the base of the wineglass in front of her. The look on her face likely matches my own, as she seems to be exhausted and anxious to leave.

A drunken wanker approaches her and begins talking. She’s annoyed, but polite. It seems he won’t leave her alone until she gives him a withering stare, which finally forces the drunk arsehole to back off. The satisfied look on her face makes me grin. I don’t know her, but I can imagine her internal dialogue. When she looks up, I catch her eye and raise my champagne glass in a silent toast to her.

Blushing, she looks away. Her eyes are slightly puffy, as if she has been crying. That’s what women do at weddings, right? My mum and Gems certainly cry buckets at these things. I continue to examine her while she looks away, her eyes resting on the newly married couple. The graceful turn of her neck captures my attention, and she raises her left hand to her cheek. No rings on her fingers, and I wonder why it matters to me enough to have noticed. Her long elegant fingers cup her cheek, and I have this urge to replace her fingers with my lips.

From here, I can see that she isn’t wearing her shoes. Oh, how I wish I were so bold as to remove my shoes, but I’m wearing my boots. They aren’t easy to take off, so I guess I’ll just have to suffer in my sweaty footwear. Besides, if I did manage to take them off, surely pictures of me wearing only my socks at my mate’s wedding would show up in tomorrow’s Sun. And no matter how many times I remind myself that I shouldn’t care what the tabloids say, it still bothers me. Plus, Mum would be upset with me for being so casual at an event like this.

It is only for a few seconds our glances meet, and he raises his glass, but….. Is it the wine? I didn’t notice him the whole day and evening. He sits across the room, the dance floor between us, and now I can’t see him anymore. What kind of man would raise his glass to a totally unknown woman? I’m nosy in a way, but maybe he is dunk. I give in and bend my head forward a bit, while I stroke a strand behind my ear, playing nervously with my earring.

The band starts a horrible version of Elton John’s “Your Song”.

His arm supports his chin while it rests on the backrest of the white chair. The fabric of his black jacket makes waves on his upper arm. I open my lips a little bit, bending further down as he looks at me again. I blush and feel caught. Damn. In shock I slip completely out of my right shoe, and my foot touches the cold ground again. He smiles at me. I never saw such a pure smile before. I don’t want to smile back, but I have to. A soft smile appears on my lips as I see his fingers. On nearly every finger is a ring. His head tilts to the right, and I can see dimples. Jesus! Dimples. I’m not sure if he smiles at me or at someone else, so I turn to the right and to the left. Nobody there. He means me. Biting my lips I frown, pointing with my finger at my chest, mouthing “Me?” My heart is racing. I feel how my mouth curves in a smile again. What am I doing here?! I’m not the type of girl who sleeps with the groomsman. Is he the groomsman? No. I would have recognized him in the church.

I can’t see him, an old couple is dancing between us. But there is something I can’t describe. Something in his glance, something between us, a tension? Is this the right word? God, I’m so bad at such things. The last time I was out, the whole evening ended in a catastrophe.

When she sweeps her hair behind her ear, I get a glimpse of that perfect shell there, and my cock jumps a bit thinking about kissing her right behind that ear. Just a whisper of my lips over the skin there would be enough. I bet her hair smells clean and flowery. She looks soft and warm, and I want to cuddle with her. That sounds stupid. We haven’t even met, and here I am thinking about kissing her and smelling her hair and cuddling with her.

This elderly couple continues roaming around the dance floor, blocking my view of her every once in awhile, and I wish they would move. They’re cute, though, and I suddenly get a stab in my heart as I think about dancing one day with my wife when we are old like these two. They are shuffling along, their feet barely moving. Their cheeks are pressed tightly together, and he holds her loosely around the waist. Together they look so in love, even though they are likely in their 80s.

When I glance back at her, I see that she’s been watching me watch the old couple, and I blush, embarrassed. She inclines her head and smiles at me, and my stomach does this little flip. It’s late, and I must be getting delirious because I’m compelled to go talk to her. That’s a silly thought because tomorrow morning I get on a plane to go back to LA to work on a new movie role. There’s no time to get to know this woman.

Briefly I consider a one-night stand with her. A fling. But the more I gaze at her, holding her eyes now with my own, the more I know that she’s not the type to fuck a stranger. No. This woman is the type you grow old with, shuffling around the dance floor together in your 80s. There is applause from the remaining crowd as the bridal couple dance, Allen twirling the bride around in her gown, lace flouncing out. It draws my attention away from HER, and when I look back, she has a wistful gaze on her face as she watches them dance. Why is she lonely? Why is she here by herself? A woman with her unconventional beauty should not sit alone at a wedding. It feels like a betrayal to women everywhere.

When her eyes turn back to mine, I try to determine whether I should approach her or not. Her fingers rest over her mouth now, absently tracing the line of her lips, drawing my attention to them. I lick my own lips as I watch her. It’s after midnight. I could easily head up to my room, making my excuses. No one would question me. But still, I hesitate.

He is still observing me. Is he watching or flirting with me? Nervously my fingertips dance over my lips. Shifting on my chair I feel a little uncomfortable. Why should a man like him flirt with me? I bet he is thinking of a one-night stand. Shag the bridesmaid, and then disappear in the morning. God! I have heard such stories. I know millions of stories like that. I take another slug of my wine. The velvet liquid moistens my suddenly dry lips, and I swallow it down without tasting.

I can hear my best friend, “Have fun! Maybe you’ll meet someone.” Then she smiled at me and kissed my cheek. Yes, why I shouldn’t have fun? Was it not allowed for me to have fun? Yes! But I know how it would end. He would whisper sweet things in my ear, so I would give in, and he would leave while I’m sleeping. Only the sheets which smell like him would disclose that he had been with me. And I would ask myself the whole way home why he left without giving me his number or without any greeting or even a goodbye. Then I would lay in my bathtub, disgusted with myself that I was so stupid.

Sadly I look down at my lap, smoothing my dress. But why not? I know how it ends, so there would be no surprises for me. Why am I hesitating? What if he is Mr. Right? I roll my eyes. What a stupid thought! But what if he is my Mr. Knightly? Stealthily, I try to look up to him. I try to hide my face with some loose strands which fall over my cheek. I can see only his right foot. He wears black boots, and the trousers are in a black and white floral pattern. The old couple turns around, and I recoil immediately as he appears in my point of view. The backrest of the chair drills into my back. What am I doing? Closing my eyes I hear the band start a new song. One of my favourites. Privately, I hoped they would play it. The soft tunes from the guitar wave to me as the musician on the record starts to sing.

“So, So you can tell...Heaven from hell”

Still with my eyes closed I start to sway my body to the melody. Slowly I open one eye to check to see if he is still looking at me.

Watching her sway as she listens to Pink Floyd makes me smile, and I decide to approach her while she’s enjoying the song. Maybe just a single dance with her, a sniff of her hair, and then I’ll go upstairs to my room to sleep the night away. At least I will have the pleasant memory of her in my mind.

My eyes stay on her as I skirt the dance floor. She opens one eye slightly, looking at the spot where I had been sitting. When she sees I’m no longer there, both of her eyes pop wide open, and she starts scanning the room. The look on her face is more than curiosity or mild interest. No, she is concerned, worried, disappointed. The moment her eyes find me rounding the table nearest her, her shoulders slump in relief, and then immediately stiffen again in fear. I see the emotions cross her face, and I know she considers leaving the table before I arrive.

Suddenly a drunken bridesmaid is in the aisle blocking me. Where did she come from? She’s chugging directly from a bottle of champagne, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand when she finishes, and then burping in my face before she says, “Aren’t you Harry Styles?”

Nodding, I look around for her keeper. Someone has to be in charge of this woman. She’s a clingy drunk, too, and she leans into me, turning around so her back is rubbing against my front, and I know exactly what she’s trying to arouse as she tilts her head back to look up at me. “I bet you get lonely, don’t you, Harry?” she slurs, and I roll my eyes.

Hearing laughter, I move my eyes to HER where she’s clutching her sides as she giggles uncontrollably. “Help,” I mouth at her, and she continues to chuckle until I add a “please”. Coming over to where I’m standing as I try to fend off the advances of this handsy bridesmaid as she actually grabs for my cock through my pants. I hop my lower body away from her, and her hand falls flat.

My savior swoops in and takes the drunken girl by the arm, turning her around. “Melody,” she coos, “I think your date is over here,” as she leads her away from me. I notice that she has slipped her shoes back on before rescuing me, and I watch her ass sway as she guides the offensive woman away from me.

Will she return? Spotting her evening bag still at the table, I know she will, so I sit in the chair next to the one she’s abandoned.

“I guess she had enough to drink tonight,” I press my lips tightly together as I hand Melody to her date. She falls clumsily on his lap, and I ask myself why I slipped back into my shoes. Bending down to Mel, I look over my shoulder and spot his curly head at my table. Shit! Too quickly I stand up, and my head spins a bit. Biting my lip, I feel butterflies in my belly. Butterflies? Jesus! I’m nervous. If the key to my room wasn’t in my bag on the table next to him, I would sneak out of the tent. But now I have to return.

God! His smile makes me woozy, and as I think of his dimples the butterflies start flying again in my belly. Pressing one hand to my stomach, I start to walk in the direction of my table. It’s not my table anymore, though. He sits in the chair which was reserved for my guest. With shaking hands, I attempt to smooth some strands behind my ear, a nervous habit I’ve developed. They are still behind my ear from previous swipes, but… God, I’m so tense. Only a few meters separate me from him. My hands are fists on either side of my body. I square my shoulders. Involuntarily, I smile.

He looks to the right, and I see his profile. He has no hard lines on his face: it’s very smooth, nothing angular. It’s like a painting that the painter drew in complete devotedness. His lips are curved slightly and the color of his lips… I have to breathe in and swallow as my glance wanders further up his face. The straight nose … and his eyes. Damn. I never saw such an intense glance. His gaze is awake, and suddenly his hand slides to his lip, pulling on it. It seems that he is nervous too. Such a handsome man is anxious? No, not possible. I reach the table, still with the soft smile on my lips as he turns his head in my direction. His green eyes look up, and I hold my breath for a moment.

“Thank you,” he says in a smooth, husky voice. “It seems you’re the kind of helpful woman a man needs by his side,” he winks. I blush, sitting down on my chair.

“I don’t think so,” I mumble, pressing my flat palms on the table. Where is my glass of wine? I need something to hold. He raises his eyebrows, fixing me with his eyes. I stretch out my hand to grab the glass, still looking at him. It was inevitable that exactly this would happen. My hand misses the glass, and I try to catch it. As clumsy as I am, the half full glass falls over. The white tablecloth stains immediately with the dark red, and some thick drops dribble from my hand. My eyes are wide as I follow the path of the wet liquid. On his left leg is a darker spot, and I see how the wine has soaked his trousers. All I want is to escape. Tears well up in my eyes, and I quickly grab the cloth napkin, pressing it on his leg. This is it. I will never be able to date a man. To marry a man. Or even talk to a man. Ever again.

“I...I..God.. I’m so, so sorry!” I press the napkin hard on his leg as if it were a bandage. His hand touches mine while I’m pressing on his leg. Shyly, I look up to him, only to lower my glance promptly again.

“Everything’s fine,” I can hear his smile, but I do not have the courage to look at him. “It’s last season’s Gucci suit.”

I ruined a Gucci suit. I ruined a suit which cost a fortune. Where is the hole into which I can disappear? Closing my eyes I press tighter on his leg. His hand slides tenderly over mine; his forefinger strokes over the back of my hand.

She’s so nervous, and it’s so sweet watching her press the cloth to my trousers. “It was an accident,” I try to tell her, but she’s having none of it. I don’t care about the suit. It’s a pittance in the grand scheme of things.

Her eyes have filled with tears, and she won’t look at me. “I can pay you back for your suit. It will take me a few years, so please tell me you’re okay with a payment plan,” she whispers.

I chuckle loudly at her comment, “You want to pay me back for spilling wine on my trousers?”

She nods, and those tears look like they are about to spill over. “Simple,” I smile at her, and I know that my dimple is showing at its finest right now, which is good. The dimple is a great weapon. “Dance with me.”

Her breath catches, and I want to bundle her into a hug. Her eyes roam over my face, and I can tell she doesn’t believe that it’s that easy. But I rarely wear the same suit twice, and I’ve worn this one three times, so it’s time it retired anyway. What would I want with her money? But a dance. Fuck me. I’ve wanted to dance with her since I laid eyes on her.

“Really?” she whispers, “You want to dance with me after I ruined your suit?”

“I’ve wanted to dance with you since spying you over here with your bare feet,” I reveal to her cautiously, afraid she will bolt at my attention.

She blushes, “You saw? I only took them off for a few minutes.” So I tell her how much I wished I could have taken my own shoes off, and she’s laughing within the next few minutes.

When the song changes to “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye, I stand and hold out my hand to her. She smiles at me shyly and takes my hand. Pulling her close, I practice shuffling my sore feet like the elderly couple had done. She feels so soft in my arms, and I spin us both around a few times, twisting her in time with the music. Her left hand grips my shoulder, and our right hands are intertwined.

As I had imagined, her hair smells amazing when I bury my nose in it. And when I press a soft kiss to that spot behind her ear, she shivers just a bit. I pull her tighter to me, sliding my leg between hers just as Marvin is singing, “I’m asking you, babe, to get it on with me.”

[commercialvansolutions]

Finetza expanding camper van is part beauty, part beast

Looking to capitalize on the upswing in domestic business and leisure travel, India's Pinnacle Specialty Vehicles has created the Finetza, a camper van quite unlike what we're used to seeing from the American and European markets. Outside, it's a fairly rough-looking hunk of van, even within a motorhome segment where homely, boxy eyesores are the norm. But beauty in this case is much more than skin deep, as the chunky bodywork slides away to reveal a motorhome interior designed like a luxury business van. Billed as India's first expanding motorhome, this camper van is truly a story of beauty within the beast.

Pinnacle starts with the Force Motors Traveller, a commercial van and small bus line that looks quite ideal for creating some pretty cool camper vans of various sizes and styles. Pinnacle has chosen the 4,020-mm (158-in) wheelbase Traveller and fully reworked the body.

Pinnacle's dressed-up front-end actually looks okay, the kind of thing you might expect from an aftermarket tuning or armoring shop like Dartz or US Specialty Vehicles. But that face traces back to an awkwardly short hood pushing off a messy, overworked body that seems to want to be part camper van, part Type C motorhome, part bus and part armored SUV.

The Finetza's high roof and drooping lower body surely increase space and practicality, but they certainly don't add anything positive to the aesthetic. The polygonal doors and off-angle windows feel like they belong more on an armored truck than a camper van. Then there are the bulging fenders trying (and failing) to trick our eyes into thinking that huge mass of bodywork wouldn't immediately flip over and ignite into a smoldering pile of twisted metal on the first rock encountered off-road. No amount of window tinting and glossy charcoal paint can make that picture look right.

But camper vans don't have to look good to be good. Saunter through the Finetza's sliding door and the story quickly changes ... quite dramatically. The cabin designs are downright sleek and elegant, looking more private jet than rattling motorhome. The lounge-like atmosphere of the central cabin is enough to make you forget you're aboard a camper van, let alone what might be the world's ugliest camper van. The curved LED smart TVs are set neatly into the walls rather than jutting out off wall mounts, and they benefit from the complement of home theater sound.

One floor plan includes a central lounge area with four chairs set in vis-a-vis fashion. A third two-chair row sits in back of the lounge for added passenger capacity. Another layout shows a vis-a-vis lounge with sofa and love seat benches and a wall-mount TV and low coffee table in between.

The interior also makes clear that there's some reason and rhyme to Pinnacle's bloated exterior. All that bodywork swallows up a slide-out rear expansion module, similar to the DoubleBack VW. The Finetza's pod opens via mobile device app, revealing the master bedroom suite, split from the main cabin by a doorway. Buyers can choose between fixed and convertible sofa-bed options.

While the Finetza has the overnighting capabilities of a proper camper van, its cooking amenities are more on par with the business van it resembles inside. Instead of a typical dual-burner and stainless steel sink kitchen block, the advertised standard is a "pantry" with mini-fridge, hot plate and coffee machine, a kitchenette available optionally. The onboard bathroom is likewise equipped more for the business traveler than the usual motorhome traveler, there's a toilet and sink, but the shower is optional.

The Finetza's options add up quickly, and that's because Pinnacle has really created it as a buyer-led build. Buyers can choose from various lounge layouts and sleeping capacities between two and eight people. Pinnacle also offers a choice of tables, upholstery, moon/skyroofs, ambient lighting and entertainment equipment. The exterior is also customizable, though we don't think there's a "de-fuglify" option.

We've seen an onslaught of multi-personality camper vans designed to double as everyday people haulers and/or work vans, and the Finetza is a different spin on the concept, capable of serving as a combination camper van/luxury travel van/mobile office. The power system includes multiple charging ports to keep devices running during the drive.

The Finetza comes powered by a 3.2-liter four-cylinder common rail diesel with 115 hp and can carry up to eight passengers. It measures 270 in (6,857 mm) long on the road and 333 mm (8,447 mm) when fully expanded at camp. An air suspension cushions the wheels.

The Finetza made its debut at India's Auto Expo in February. Price will of course vary wildly based on options, but the company puts the starting point for the expandable Finetza at 50 lakh, or 5 million rupees, which comes out to roughly US$76,700. That converted price doesn't look half bad considering the luxurious look and feel of the Finetza's interior. We'd definitely want to add the kitchenette and shower options, though.

Do you wan to know more details about the sprinter commercial van and refrigerated van for sale near me then please contact us and send your queries.

[stophookingatmeswan]

And All This Devotion (1/1)

Happy Valentine’s Day, @once-upon-a-captain-swan!

Hi, dollface! I’m your CSSV and had so much fun writing this for you. I’ve enjoyed our little chats over the last few weeks and I hope you enjoy the story. I tried to put as many little touches of you in it as I could. 

xoxo,

Megan

****

The knock came at 2:05. It was tentative, barely pulling Killian out of a dreamless sleep and for a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. Fuzzy-brained, he was a second away from chalking it up to a rattling pipe or noise from the street when another knock came, this one more insistent. 

Tossing the covers off and cursing as he kicked his feet free from the tangled sheet, he padded through the living room, throwing the deadbolt and dramatically pulling the door open, ready to give his untimely visitor hell while wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs and a scowl.

The piss and vinegar was short-lived when his eyes fell onto the figure standing in the hallway. 

Her face was red and blotchy with strands of blonde hair sticking to tear tracks. A cheap diaper bag, stretched to the limits and overflowing, was slung over her shoulder, one of those infant car seats designed for carrying at her feet, the baby inside asleep. 

Chin lifting just enough to convey some measure of pride, her eyes wouldn’t rise enough meet his. When she spoke it was to the dog tags resting on his chest.

“We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

**** 

He’d left them. Run off with another woman while she was at work, leaving behind nothing more than a few clothes, an eviction notice and heartbreak. She and the baby had been sleeping in her car for weeks, her job lost due to not having money for a babysitter, moving around to different parks and parking lots to avoid being ticketed for loitering. It was an exhausting way to live at best and dangerous at worst. 

The final straw had been witnessing a midnight scuffle that turned bloody, the assailant tossing the knife he’d used to stab a man as he ran past her beat up yellow VW, yelling, “If you tell the cops, you’re next, bitch!”

The open-palmed smack he’d delivered to her window had both terrified her and woken Henry, who had been sleeping peacefully in her arms.  As her son started to wail, so did she, hot tears of frustration, anger and shame flowing with no signs of stopping. She quickly consoled Henry, popping him into his car seat and a pacifier into his mouth, the trilling hum of the car’s engine lulling him back under as she left the park, trying to convince herself she was driving aimlessly when she damn well knew she wasn’t.

“Any time, Swan.”

“You’re always welcome.”

“Anything you need.”

It would take her two hours and nearly all the gas she had left in her tank to make the drive to find out those words once spoken were true. 

****

“You look tired. When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

Emma didn’t have to look up from the steaming mug of tea he’d brought her to know Killian’s eyebrows shot up when she mumbled, “Month, maybe.” The Earl Grey was nowhere near as interesting as her intense stare may have suggested, but it kept her from seeing any pity he be may throwing her way. Aside from an initial sweep to ensure he hadn’t moved and that the man opening the door in his underwear was her old friend from high school and not a random stranger, she really hadn’t looked at him much at all, and she balked when he said her name softly, shaking her head. 

“It’s okay. It’s been a little rough lately. I just – we need a place for the night, then I’ll figure something out in the morning. I wouldn’t have asked but – Henry.” Voice trailing off, Emma barely caught the sob working its way from the back of her throat, but the teardrop falling into her tea was almost deafening.

The couch shifted, the three-foot gap Killian had left between them as if she were a skittish kitten after his trip to the kitchen suddenly filled. He smelled the same, the softness of the ratty tee shirt he’d pulled on hauntingly familiar and both served to undo any strength she had left to keep up a wall.

She let her cheek fall onto his shoulder as his arms circled her, stronger and more muscled than they used to be after a stint in the Navy, and Emma let herself melt into his embrace, her shoulders wracking as she cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. 

**** 

The morning brought two waves of panic that raced like ice water through Emma’s veins.

One, she was in a bed, not her car. When the events of the previous night rushed back and she realized Killian must have brought her into the guest bedroom.  Two, when she leaned over the edge of the mattress expecting to see Henry asleep in his ring of pillows only to find he was gone. 

Jumping up, Emma raced out of the room, stopping short when she saw two dark heads at the small kitchen table.

Henry was in Killian’s lap, happily fisting what looked like Gerber puffs and drooling copiously over the wrist their host had wrapped firmly around the baby’s midsection to keep him upright. Emma pressed a hand to her chest, partly to ground herself after the moment of panic and partly to quell the tug on her heartstrings at the sight of someone acting more fatherly to Henry than his own had a day in his short life.

“Morning, Swan. Coffee maker’s over there.” Killian’s head jerked toward the counter next to the sink and the smile on his face faded when she didn’t move. “I hope this is okay.” He looked over at the Gerber canister and then to the crushed, gummy mess in Henry’s hand. “I watch Liam’s kids sometimes and their youngest is right around his age and loves these things.” Killian’s eyes widened comically. “He doesn’t have any of those allergies, does he? Like…soy? Or gluten?” 

As Killian grabbed the canister and scowled at it, Henry kicked his legs and started babbling, giving Emma a toothless grin. He looked happy and she felt more rested than she had since everything had gone to Hades in a hand basket. And coffee did sound good. Maybe a night away from the current wave of bullshit the universe was currently handing them was something they both needed. 

“Those are fine for Henry. Uh, thanks.” She took the baby from his lap and nudged Killian with her other hip as she walked past him to the Keurig, stopping short when she saw the box of hot chocolate K-cups and a plastic shaker of cinnamon; a throwback to their high school days when everyone they knew gleefully ordered double espressos just because they could while Emma wrinkled her nose and artfully sprinkled spice on the extra tall swirl of whipped cream on her own drink. 

A lump rose in her throat. 

Killian had always been too much.

Too nice.

Too giving.

Too open.

Too earnest.

Too willing to give her his heart.

Too willing to shoulder her burdens.

It made her want to run.

Haphazardly fixing herself a cup of the breakfast blend coffee in a box next to the hot chocolate and leaving the nostalgia where it sat on the counter, Emma turned and went back to the table, putting down her mug and apologizing when the baby blew a raspberry and what was left of the puffs he’d been hording in his mouth like a hamster landed all over the table. She took a sip of coffee after settling with Henry and looked down at her cup. 

“Thanks for letting us crash with you. I think we’ll get on the road after I finish this.” 

To avoid looking at Killian, she busied herself with Henry’s hair. At four months, most of the sides and back had fallen out – totally normal according to the ratty copy of a child development book she’d found at a thrift store while pregnant. The shedding had left him with a tuft of hair on the top of his head and not much else. Emma thought it was adorable and buried her nose in it, dreaming of the day he’d smell like Johnson’s baby shampoo and powder again instead of the industrial soap from gas station bathrooms.

“Swan –“

She didn’t wait to hear him out. Taking a last gulp of coffee, Emma stood, slung the baby onto her hip and walked back to the guest bedroom, praying to a God she wasn’t sure was even listening that Killian wouldn’t follow her. 

No such luck.

Putting Henry down in his pillow ring for some tummy time, Emma started gathering their meager things. Her stomach churned just thinking about the impending awkwardness of leaving made infinitely worse by the weight of Killian’s stare from where he leaned against the doorway.

“Stay.” 

The casualness of his tone was designed to put her at ease and Emma cursed internally because it almost worked. She faltered just a bit before picking Henry up off the floor and putting him into his car seat. 

“I can’t. We have to go.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. 

“Go where?”

Dammit.

Her pause gave Killian the opening he needed.

“I have a proposal for you.”

It wasn’t funny and he didn’t mean it matrimonially but Emma chortled anyway. A few weeks ago she had a fiancé and an apartment and a real family. And now? Now she had a broken heart, a literal mobile home and a son whose father had abandoned him. She didn’t think she had it in her to accept any more proposals. 

“And for Henry.”

Emma’s temper rose in a flash and she stood, turning on Killian. 

****

“Don’t use him like that. Don’t use him to get me to accept your charity.”

Emma looked him dead in the eye now and, for a split second, Killian pitied the idiot who had left her high and dry should she ever catch up to him. Luckily, he was used to this version of Emma – the one for whom fighting was a natural state – and Killian went on calmly.

“I have an empty room.” He gestured with flourish. “I have a flexible schedule. It’s one of the perks of managing the bar instead of being a lackey. That means if someone needed a babysitter while they got a job to get back on their feet, one would be available.”

He could see the wheels turning in Emma’s head and Killian wanted to simultaneously roll his eyes over her stubbornness and pride, and high five her for the bone-deep tenacity she had to make her own way. Tossing Henry into the mix was risky and, if he was being honest, a pretty low blow, but desperate times call for dick move measures.

“I’d pay you.” She said it quickly and definitively, crossing her arms.

“After you’re settled.”

“Jones.” 

“Swan.” 

She bit at her lower lip with her teeth, eyes darting to Henry who had fallen asleep, a pile of smushy baby with his chin resting on his chest. 

“Just until I can afford a place of my own.” 

“Of course.” He crossed his own arms and, when he saw her gaze leave his, flexed his pecs to make them jump. Her laugh was short, but he’d take it.

“And you don’t buy anything for Henry. He’s my responsibility.” 

“Understood.” Killian gave her a cheeky grin and saluted.

“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.” Emma’s head tilted and she grinned back as he bowed dramatically. 

“I would despair if you did.”

**** 

Emma recognized that look - the darting eyes, the spiking adrenaline, the wistfulness, and the fear. The hunger. 

And as the young girl in the same too-large shoes and the flannel with the worn out elbows reached for the box on the shelf with one hand while fidgeting with the flap on her book bag, Emma pretended to be occupied with one of the toys hanging on Henry’s carrier, Killian in the next aisle over muddling over exotic spices Emma had never even heard of. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the girl stuff the box into her bag – strawberry, her favorite, too – and Emma took a few quick steps to grab the thin wrist before it could clear the dirty khaki canvas.

“Take it out and come with me.” 

The girl, scared into silence, walked beside Emma as she grabbed a few more things, meeting back up with Killian and rolling her eyes as he bent to pick up one of the many jars he was juggling. Before she could say a word, he turned and popped a butt cheek out in her direction. 

“What the hell are you doing, twerking in the grocery store?” Emma looked down at the proffered ass. “Get that away from me.” She laughed as he bumped it even more in her direction, giving her a salacious grin. 

“There’s a twenty in my pocket. Take it to cover these.” He held up his treasures. “Who’s this?”

He finally noticed the girl standing by Emma’s cart and went back to standing normally once the money had changed ownership. 

“A friend. Let’s get Henry moving before he realizes we’re standing in one place and loses it.”

Heading to the checkout, Killian made quick work of emptying her cart onto the conveyer belt and when he finished loading and moved forward, she nodded to the box of Pop Tarts the girl was holding.

“Put them on.”

The girl balked, shuffling her feet. A hand with bitten nails came up to tuck a lank of neglected hair behind her ear. 

“I don’t understand. I thought you were going to turn me in.”

“I don’t think you need help getting into trouble. But I’d bet you could use a little help staying out of it. Put ‘em on.”

Emma stepped to the register and counted out the cash for her purchase. Money was tight and she was still counting every penny, but two months of working in a bail bonds office afforded her the ability to trade off with Killian when it came to buying the weekly groceries along with taking care of Henry and saving for an apartment. When she heard a gurgling laugh, she looked back to see the girl making a silly face at Henry and cooing at him. 

Killian caught her eye as Emma shuffled a few things around in the grocery bags, raising an inquisitive eyebrow but she shook her head. Emma thanked the cashier and grabbed few of the bags, watching as the girl rushed to help then blushed and apologizing when Emma bumped into her. 

“No, those two are yours,” Emma said as the last of the bags came off the carousel. “There’s some bread and peanut butter in there, and some apples. And Pop Tarts.”

She started pushing the cart toward the exit, Killian quiet – for once - at her side, and heard the slap of sneakers coming up behind them. They were ten feet past the doors before the girl was able to step in front of her.

“I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Look, kid. I’ve been where you are. I get the pride. I get feeling like you have nothing. I even get slipping some things in your pockets just to have something in common with the kids at the next lunch table. And I’ve had somebody help me out before. So…just take it and pay it forward when you can.”

The girl nodded, blinking back tears and mumbling a thank you. As she darted off around the store, Emma looked at Killian. His eyes were soft, searching her face and he shook his head slightly as he stared at her.

“Just who are you, Swan? 

It sounded like a loaded question and coupled with that look – the one he’d been giving her for months when he doesn’t think she’s looking as she rocked Henry to sleep or they fought over the small sink in the bathroom in the mornings – it was too much.

Whipping her ponytail over her shoulder, she started toward her car, tossing a flippant, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” back to where Killian was standing.

As she turned her back and walked away, she could have sworn she heard him say, “Perhaps I would.”

****

Killian knew he’d had his share of women. Probably more than his share. And he knew from the long-distance relationship that hadn’t worked out when he was in the Navy to the string of one-night-stands since that “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” was an apt description on occasion. That he was prepared for, learning as a sixth grader watching his older brother navigate the early waters of dating and getting an earful over the phone for stupidly breaking up with one girl to ask out her friend.

What he hadn’t known about, and was currently getting a crash course in as Henry wailed uncontrollably, was that hell also hath no fury like a teething baby. 

He swayed in the living room with an armful of sweaty, angry baby going through the list of remedies in his head. 

Henry had chucked the teething ring behind the sofa the second it had thawed and no longer provided icy relief. The Tylenol Killian had carefully measured out and given him couldn’t touch the pain from cutting four teeth at the same time. Neither could the Orajel he’d massaged on Henry’s gums. Even his favorite – a slice of cold celery to chew on that was carefully monitored to ensure he didn’t bite of a piece and choke – was flung aside in favor of screaming. 

Two seconds away from calling Emma on the chance the only thing that Henry really wanted was his mom, Killian’s brain floated above the deafening sounds of crying and offered a last-ditch idea.

As he walked down the hallway to Emma’s room – it hadn’t been called the guest room since the second night she’s stayed – chatting to Henry over his bellows. 

“Alright, kiddo. Your mom is working overtime trying to catch that skip, so we’re doing to give this a shot.” He went to Emma’s dresser, sparsely decorated with a few garage sale and Dollar Store finds, and picked up a necklace and slipped it over his own head.

**** 

Counting the cash in the envelope twice before letting herself believe it, Emma’s hand smacked down onto her steering wheel. 

“BOOM!” 

She’d done it. Six months since the man Killian had officially dubbed “That Asshole” had left her and she’d knocked on Killian’s door in the middle of the night with twelve dollars to her name, she’d done it. There was finally enough money to get an apartment and even furnish it if she bargain-shopped.

The grin on her face stretched from ear to ear and, after a long night of getting dolled up for her “date” with a skip who’d tried to run on her and cried like a little bitch when she gave chase and tackled him to the pavement, she felt like celebrating. 

The time on her phone said she had fifteen minutes to hit the liquor store before they closed, so she drove as fast as a pair of 6” honey heels would allow. Ignoring the double take the employee did when his last customer of the night came in wearing a skin-tight dress and FMPs, Emma went straight to the small section of champagne. Looking over the labels, she threw up her hands when she realized she had no idea what to get. Eighty dollars was still a bit steep for her and the only brands she recognized were in that price range. And what the hell was Brut? 

Scrubbing her hands over her face, Emma huffed and reached out for a pretty (and affordable) bottle of something pink, reminding herself she needed to get home.

**** 

Her chest seized up the minute she stepped through the door, her purse and the bottle of champagne left behind on a small table as she quietly kicked off her shoes. 

They were both asleep sprawled on the couch, Henry’s face squished against a faded Navy tee shirt, his chubby hand clutching the amber teething necklace that was around Killian’s neck. The baby was only wearing a diaper and Emma could see that his hair – long grown in from his four-month-old Mohawk – was lightly matted with dried sweat. There was a puddle soaking Killian’s shirt near Henry’s mouth and that – along with the burp clothes they were using to deal with the copious amounts of baby drool, discarded sticks of celery, a tube of Orajel and the infant Tylenol on the coffee table – painted a clear picture of how their night had gone.

Emma drank in the sight; two dark heads, tandem soft snores. She’d found them on the couch like that more than once coming home after a late night at work. 

Her boys.   

Her…loves. 

The word flew into her head and she gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. She backed up until her knees hit the chair by the window and she sank down into it.

Before she could even start figuring out what the hell it all meant, Henry whimpered at the noise she’d made. Emma started to stand but the large hand on his back started to move and a soothing whisper of, “Shhh, shhh, shhh” quieted him back down.

“I hope your night was better than ours.” Killian’s whisper was rough but she could see him smile as he lifted his chin up and over the top of Henry’s head to look at her. 

Swallowing hard, Emma pushed the word down and plastered a smile on her face. 

“I had to dress like a Kardashian hitting up the number one paparazzi-staked gas station in Beverly Hills to reel in a skip who ran on me anyway.” 

Killian made a show of looking her up and down, tongue tracing over his upper lip. 

“Dumb as hell on his part, but go on – wait, is that blood??” He braced a hand behind Henry’s neck and swung his legs off the couch, holding the baby tightly to his chest as he sat up and craned his neck to look at the road rash decorating her leg.

“Yeah, but I caught him.” She couldn’t keep the pure satisfaction out of her voice. “And,” she took a dramatic pause for effect, “I scored a commission. Do you know what that means?” Emma propped her elbow on a knee and dropped her chin into her hand, leaning forward and waggling her eyebrows at Killian. “It means that I finally have the money to move out.”

“Oh.” He paused, an unreadable look on his face before it brightened. “That’s great, Swan. I’m happy for you. For you both.” His chin dropped as he pressed a kiss to the top of Henry’s head. “This one’s had one hell of an evening. Do you think he’d stay asleep if I put him down?”  

Crossing over to the couch, Emma leaned over and picked up the hand not holding the necklace, raised it a few inches and let go. 

“I guess we have our answer,” Killian said as they watched it drop with no startle reflex. Emma reached for Henry as Killian stood. “No, no, I’ll take him. You tend to that gash on your leg before you get gangrene and it falls off.”

They peeled off in the hallways with Emma giving Henry a kiss, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo and muttering, “You’re so dramatic” to Killian’s back as he went to put Henry to bed. She nearly walked into the doorframe when he stage whispered but you love me in retort and she couldn’t get into the bathroom and close the door fast enough before almost hyperventilating.

Leaning over the sink, she splashed cold water on her face as if the flow from the faucet could drown the thoughts racing through her head.

But you love me.

She didn’t believe in fate. Or magic. Or fairy tales. Or that orphans found happy endings with deliciously pretty men with big hearts and blue eyes. But the tiny part of her that wasn’t walled up and jaded wanted to believe it was a sign. That’s she’d just been thinking that maybe she loved him not five minutes before he said the same thing.

The first aid kit under the sink was tidy and, of course, fully stocked. Emma squeezed her eyes shut when she saw a bundle of Elmo Band-Aids; damn sure Killian hadn’t bought them for himself. But he’d always been like that. 

He had always been there. Even when she didn’t want him to be. Even when she’d run, scared of all of the devotion he’d always had in his eyes when they were in school, and gone to live a life with someone else. Someone who had never promised to give her the world so she wouldn’t be disappointed when he didn’t. Because nobody ever had.

He was even there when she’d shown up with that other man’s baby at his door. But was that it? Gratitude and a sense of obligation disguised as love? With a bone-deep, ridiculously strong attraction contributing to it? 

She felt like they’d been dancing around something for months.

The first sign – aside from his piercing gaze - was the unwillingness to talk about why neither of them had gone on dates since she and Henry moved in. Emma’s hasty excuse made sense; she was concentrating on herself and her son, not looking for a rebound. Killian abruptly got up to get another beer and when he’d come back to the table, the subject was pointedly changed before she could press him. 

Then there was the morning she’d walked in on him while he was getting out of the shower. Exhausted from a rough night with Henry, she’d pushed the door to the bathroom open without a thought and got an eyeful. Lean muscles and rivulets of water running down his belly to where he’d managed to loosely clutch a hastily grabbed towel over himself. Mostly.

The visual had stayed with her. Wet hair slicked back, making the curve of his cheekbones more prominent. The v-cut just inside his hipbones. And, as her eyes traveled down, the length of him along his thigh just barely hidden by the towel. 

Emma had avoided him for a week until he reeled her in on Saturday night with spag bol, a moderately priced bottle of Pinot Grigio loosening her tongue. She brought up that night. The one their senior year where they’d kissed messily on a camping trip, pouring three years of what ifs and maybes into a stolen moment in the trees. It had scared her and she ran without looking back. The morning after she clumsily tripped down memory lane, she wondered if Killian had the same stunned, slightly hurt look on his face then as he did when she drunkenly leaned in four years later over empty pasta dishes and tried to kiss him. He’d dodged, bussed her cheek and walked her to her bedroom before going on to his own.

Since that night, she’d been careful. Careful to not lead on, although she wasn’t quite sure who she was worried about leading on – him or herself.

**** 

A by-product of his military days had Killian hanging Emma’s purse up on a hook by the door and lining up her discarded shoes next to his on the mat while she was cleaning herself up in the bathroom. He’d seen scores of women in heels just like that but none could have held a candle next to her when she’d come out of her room, the stilettos paired with a red dress that made his head swim and the bulge in his pants twitch. She was unbelievably sexy and that was just the surface. Her toughness, intelligence, tenacity and kindness shone just as bright as the cascade of blonde hair and ass that wouldn’t quit. 

He’d been trying his hardest to not let his brain go there. For all of her strength, Emma carried a certain degree of fragility, and he didn’t want to push her or, even worse, think that she owed him something for letting her and Henry stay with him.

They’d had a connection from the day she’d shown up in his English class halfway through sophomore year, all darting eyes and fidgeting fingers worrying the hem of her shirt as Mrs. Wolfe instructed her to tell the class about herself. It wasn’t until the following year during a rare moment of candor that he found out she wasn’t a military brat whose Naval father had been moved around a lot. 

Emma had popped up in their town as a ward of the state, her transience a byproduct of bad foster homes and a system that had never worked in her favor. He supposed the pretend life she’d made up for herself was part of the reason he’d joined the Navy; a fool’s hope that he could be the stable home she so desperately wanted and that the rigidity of the military could rid him of his youthful, rakish ways.

She’d kissed him the night he told her he was shipping out, all teeth and tongue with a sand dune at his back and an order for him to not follow her when she’d had her fill. Killian always wondered if she’d succumbed to a moment of weakness or if the news he was leaving gave her the strength to let him in, even just momentarily, because the safety net of him leaving made it easier. Either way it had left him pining, the only reprieve a relationship with another sailor that started out strong but fizzled when she was reassigned and the distance was too hard to bridge.

Emma herself had moved on quickly from their shared moment, moving in with someone who had graduated a few years before them the ink on her diploma had dried. Killian stayed single for a while, scratching the itch whenever the need arose, but the drive to find someone else wasn’t there until news of Emma’s engagement hit his email inbox by way of a mutual friend. The universe was telling him to move on and he did, sending a congratulatory Hallmark card that gushed with a sincerity he didn’t really feel. 

It was harder to be bitter when word of her pregnancy reached halfway across the world. He was happy for Emma and the chance for her to have the family she deserved. By the time Henry was born, Killian was out of the Navy and working at an upscale bar in Boston, raking in tip money thanks to his looks and the bottle flipping tricks he’d perfected on the long nights stationed overseas. He could well afford a decent place and a one-bedroom bachelor pad loft was at the top of his list until he went to sign a lease and balked, telling the rental agent he really needed a second bedroom and refusing to allow himself to dig deep to ask himself why.

Killian scowled at the bottle of champagne Emma had left on the table when she walked in, fisting a hand through his hair. Having her and Henry pack up and leave didn’t feel like something to celebrate.   

“You can’t will the cork to pop out on its own.”

She startled him and Killian let out an inventive string of expletives. He’d been lost in thought so long he hadn’t heard her leave the bathroom and go change. She was wearing a tank top and pajama pants, the curls she’d sprayed into submission before her “date” brushed out. The heavy fake eyelashes were gone, as was any stitch of makeup. Suddenly exhausted, his thoughts draining him more than a night with a teething toddler ever could, he gestured toward the bottle.

“Do you mind if we save this for another night? It should chill anyway.” When Emma nodded, he picked it up and took it to the refrigerator, walking back toward her. “See you in the morning, Swan.” 

His head swam as he headed down the short hallway. A box hadn’t so much as been packed and Killian’s stomach churned. When he passed the door to her room, he felt fingers on his. Jaw clenching, he closed his eyes for a second before turning, looking down at Emma’s pinkie curled around his own.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Killian swallowed hard and nodded, not quite sure what to say. 

Fingers moved, first hers and then his, until they were completely laced together. Killian was so focused on the sensation of her palm against his that he missed the fact Emma was on her tiptoes and leaning in. 

The feel of her lips on the corner of his mouth took him by surprise and his first reaction was to back away like the last time when nostalgia served as a chaser for a few glasses of liquid courage. 

She wasn’t having it. Her other hand came up, fingernails lightly scratching his scalp as her fingers anchored in his hair, pulling him back toward her. The kiss was sweet and Killian savored it, careful to only take what she was giving and not ask for more. It felt like a metaphor for their entire relationship, friendship – whatever the hell it was. When it was over, he pressed his forehead against hers, more breathless than he should be after a kiss that bordered on chaste, and when her arms circled around his back, he dropped his head onto her shoulder. 

“I wish I could stay.”

Heart leaping into his throat, Killian drew back. 

“You can. I mean…not because…it has nothing to do with,” he gestured between them, “whatever this was just now. But you can stay. You and Henry. With me.” 

Smooth, Jones. Just babble in her face.

Her fingers smoothed over the nervous twitch in his jaw.

“I know. I know you’d let us. And I lo – I appreciate you for that. But I feel like I have to do this. Go out on my own. To prove to myself I can.”

Huffing out a breath, Killian rubbed her upper arms and smiled.

“Your heart’s desire, Swan. I promise that’s all I want you to have.”

“You actually mean that, don’t you?” She sounded…shocked.

“Does that surprise you?”

Leaning in once more, Emma kissed him again; the only difference between this one and the last a tiny flick of her tongue against his bottom lip before she drew back.

“Not anymore.”

****

The knock came at 11:15. It was tentative, barely pulling Killian out of a dreamless sleep and for a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. Fuzzy-brained, he was a second away from chalking it up to a rattling pipe or noise from the street when another knock came, this one more insistent. 

Tossing the covers off and cursing as he kicked his feet free from the tangled sheet, he padded through the living room, throwing the deadbolt and dramatically pulling the door open, ready to give his untimely visitor hell while wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs and a scowl.

The piss and vinegar was short-lived when his eyes fell onto the figure standing in the hallway. 

Emma was in a sundress, a picnic basket at her feet. Before he could say anything, a bundle of energy charged at his legs and Killian bent to swoop Henry up into a fireman’s carry as he backed up to let Emma in, carefully dipping his head to kiss her so Henry’s gleefully kicking feet wouldn’t hit her.

Six months had passed since the day Killian had helped Emma pack up the truck she borrowed from one of the bondsmen at her work and moved her and Henry into their own place. It had taken minutes for him to miss them terribly. It had taken another few days for him to work up the courage to call and ask her out on a proper date. Since then, his weekend days were filled with petting zoos, trips to the park, picnics by the water and running Henry ragged.

On the nights neither of them worked, they made up for lost time.  

The first time they were together, they hadn’t even made it to the bed. Lying in a tangle of sweaty limbs, Killian had loudly proclaimed the rug burn was worth it and Emma had shushed him by rolling him onto his back for round two.

A few days had passed and today was picnic day, Killian squinted at the clock as he twisted his torso to swing Henry to and fro.

“Am I late or are you early?”

Setting the basket down, Emma walked up to them, ducking at the last moment to avoid a kick to the head, and reached her arms up toward Henry.

“We’re early. Too early? I should have called.” 

The look on her face was comical and even though a few more hours of sleep would have been nice after a rare fight at the bar during last call drew blood and a few arrests, keeping Killian there until nearly seven, he didn’t mind the wake up. 

“It’s fine, Swan.” He hunched his shoulders and let her take Henry.

She settled her son on her hip and kissed his flushed cheek.

“Come on, kid. Let’s let Killian get dressed.” 

“Killy dress,” Henry agreed, clapping his hands and they both laughed.

“I would pay so much money to see that – EEP!” Emma jumped as Killian passed and flicked his hand back to swat her ass.

****

A quick shower and the decision not to shave had him ready to go in no time. When he came back to the living room, Emma was sitting on the couch with Henry in her lap, a sippy cup of what looked like apple juice in his hand. Two champagne flutes and an open bottle were on the coffee table in front of her.

His eyes darted from the bottle to the kitchen. It was the same brand as the one she’d bought the night she’d told him they were moving out. The one that they’d never opened and had been in his refrigerator for the last six months.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Come sit with us.” Emma waved him over and handed him one of the flutes. “I’d like to propose a toast.” She reached for the other one and held it aloft. “To us. Ewwwww.” She giggled when Killian surged forward and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek, and made a show of pretending to be disgusted and wipe it off. “Gross! Like I was saying…um, so Henry and I have something to ask you.” 

The glass she held trembled just a little, and the smile on her face faded. Before he could ask her what was wrong, Emma took a breath and sat up a little straighter.

“Jesus, I’m horrible at this,” she muttered and cleared her throat. “We wanted to know if you would move in with us.” 

Killian was all too aware how monumental a moment this was. Both for them and for Emma. She was inviting him in. 

Into her life. Into her space. Into her home.

He looked at her, tears pricking at his eyes, nodding his head effusively in the affirmative because he was too choked up to say yes. She was laughing through her own tears and held up her glass for him to clink since neither one of them could speak.

“Sad, Mama?” Henry was looking up at Emma from his spot on her lap and making an exaggerated frowny face. Those Baby Einstein books Killian gave him for Christmas were really paying off. “Sad?”

Killian put an arm around her and drew them both into a hug, kissing her hair and resting his chin on the top of her head.

“No, Henry. Mama’s happy.”

[asoftjourneythroughrigidter-blog]

Day 19: 6/17

1367.1- 1373.4 I wake up to a light sprinkle on my tent around 5. I pack up to avoid rain coming in today and head to Hat Creek, I am only 6 miles from town.

I feel lighter today, the glittering drops on the foliage bring more magic to the landscape.

Sage and chartreuse contrast against damp dark soil and bark.

I decide to take a day in town so I can have a fresh start and a dry pack before setting out again. I hitch to the town’s restaurant, picked up by a sweet family in a VW bus. They are on their way to Crater Lake. The dad of the family is Dutch.

I cleaned a plate of veggie scramble and hash browns and a pancake and cookie on the side. I chat with some nobos who are flip flopping south right now.

I feel ashamed for staying at a hotel another night. But I know that once I set my mind to something, it’s all I can think about. My mind was set on: bath, laundry, fresh food, and bed. I need a fresh start after my down-spirited day yesterday

I check in and take everything out of my backpack. I hang my soaking tent and tent fly, I wash my dishes in the bathroom sink, I dispose of my trash, I plug in my power bank, phone, and gps, I separate all of my clothes, I check all of my food, I wipe down other items, and get in the shower. I only showered 2 and a half days ago, but it always feels like a treat. I lather myself in the hotel organic citrus soap. I use the body bar on my face, which almost feels sinful. As someone with acne-prone skin, I have always been particular about my skin care regimen- of course I can’t worry about that now. I use conditioner on my buzz-y head that is starting get longer, gradually getting wavier.

I bring my clothes to the on-site laundromat, walking across the small RV resort in just my down coat and a towel wrapped around my waist, tied by a rubber band.

There is a bath tub in my hotel. I buy a packet of epsom salt and soak for 40 minutes. I attempt to massage my feet, which is surprisingly hard to do. I rub my Achilles to soothe my tendinitis, feeling it crackle under my skin. It’s been swollen and tender for almost 3 weeks. I use the nail tool on my Swiss Army knife and clean, cut, and file my toenails. My feet still look horrific; my callouses flakey and yellow, but clean. I have learned how important it is to clean your feet- 1-2 times a day. The shoes I wear have excellent ventilation, which subsequently allows for dirt to seep into my shoes, through my socks, and between my toes. It can be really abrasive, feeling like sandpaper that slightly erodes your feet a little more with each step. It is important to often shake the dirt out of your socks and shoes.

To finish off my self-pampering, I slather on the organic hotel lotion which smells like honeysuckle. I hang out and drink a few beers with a group of hikers also staying at the motel, while eating my grilled cheese which I ordered to-go. I’m glad to hang out with fresh faces.

I retire to my room and turn on the tv, one of the classic Jurassic Park films is on and it feels appropriate. I am happy to be roaming in lands free of dinosaurs.

I get a bit organized and go through my lists of reminders, my meal planning, and my schedule. I’ll sleep in as late as my body lets me in this bed, sprawling out, legs all over the place. Then I will head out 2.5 miles, back to the restaurant which is conveniently right off of the trail in the direction I am heading, have one more meal before hitting the trail again, take care of some business while I have WiFi, buy a few more food items, and head towards Burney Falls, which I will arrive in 2 and a half days.

I am having a hard time sleeping, I feel like I am forgetting something. Must be that lingering grad school anxiety..

[lorenasilvis39-blog]

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You can use paper, wallpaper or even fabric scraps as the masking in your craft projects. This wallpaper paste is as exciting to make as it is to use and you will help you save dollars by building your individual. This recipe tends to make about 1+1/2 gallons of wallpaper paste. That's a good deal of paste! Improve your household by reducing your energy expenses. Check out with your utility corporation to see if they present strength audits of homes. There are a lot of alterations you can make to make your property far more vitality productive conserving hundreds of bucks a calendar year based on the quantity of changes you can make. It also adds a great marketing position for a home for the future. Store the paperhanger paste in a included jar. Do not refrigerate. If it thickens, increase a bit of warm water before the following use. If you additional the preservative oil, the paperhanger paste will keep for several months. The toilet is another important component of the residence when you're hoping to flip it. Bathrooms need to have to be in superior shape than most other rooms given that they are so considerably more durable to update. A new customer may possibly be worried off by pricey alterations wanted to make a bathroom purposeful. Replace any worn or outdated tub, shower or sink. If you have linoleum flooring, set up tiles alternatively. Even although hand-woven and pure fiber rugs cost additional, they will past longer in your household. Hand woven rugs can be designed with various colors and patterns to make them special. Normal fibers do not have synthetic fabrics, so there will be less people working with allergies. So, how do you get the awesome style and design that you buy? A designer has to set it up. It is intricately personal computer reduce on a device with a very smaller blade. When the machine is concluded slicing the style, a production individual has to take away all of the unwanted material (vinyl) generally by hand. When this is completed, if you don't have transfer tape used to your style and design, you would have to acquire each letter of your quotation off the paper, letter by letter. So transfer tape, which is like masking tape but not as sticky, is utilized so that you can transfer your style far more effectively.