#all of these are traced from a picture of jesus btw

[colresskisser]

THE SEQUAL TO ARCHIES CRUCIFIXION; THE REST OF TEAM RAINBOW ROCKET AND... COLRESS

yes i did just reference it from the archie one. what am i? someone who puts actual effort into stuff? preposterous /ma

archie one was posted like last week and some people in a server i'm in found it and asked for more soo... 👍

[pappydaddy]

Oblivious (r.b.)

A/N: Another request down! This one is another Robin request. It's a bit longer than the last one I posted, but it's a bit dry unfortunately. I tried to make it like my other longer fics, but I just felt like this is was meant to be this length. I threw in a funny scene in the end. Anywho, I hope you like it lovely anon💛, I really tried to do your request justice (I loved it btw).

P.S: Not proofread yet. I'm gonna go over all my fics in these upcoming fics to proofread and I will do this fic then

TV Show/Movie: Stranger Things

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Fem!Byers!Reader

Stranger Things/Robin Taglist: N/A

Requested

Warnings: Fluff, a parent being obvious, getting caught getting hot and heavy the backseat. Pretty short in length.

Note: Not proofread yet. I'm gonna go over all my fics in these upcoming fics to proofread and I will do this fic then

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation - my gif -

The cool night breeze rolled in through Y/N Byers’ open window as she and Robin laid in her bed. Late Summer nights spent in bed with her girlfriend were Y/N’s favourite. Having their legs tangled together, their arms holding each other close as they lightly traced random shapes on each other. It was true bliss in her eyes. “You think your mom is back with the movie yet?” Robin broke the comfortable silence with a whisper. Y/N shrugged, pulling her hand away from where it was playing with Robin’s short hair.

“We would have heard her car so probably not,” She answered, shifting as she propped her elbow up. Robin automatically rolled onto her back, gazing up at Y/N with big blue eyes that sparkled in the silver moonlight, the sounds of frogs and crickets filling the silent room again as they enjoyed the company of each other. “Steve is probably taking forever to lock up the store and she’s probably waiting for him to leave so we don’t start without him.” She hypothesized, looking down at Robin again.

Robin hummed, nodding as she pictured Steve fumbling around with his keys, trying each one to figure out which one locked the store door. “He can never remember which key goes to what. We should get him a label maker so he can label them.” She suggested making Y/N snort out a laugh, flopping on her back, untangling themselves from each other completely.

“Are we really going to be that couple that gives friends stationary for presents,” She asked, lulled her head to the side to gaze at Robin who shrugged, pulling a face that asked her why they couldn’t be. “Because those couples are the boring couple that never get invited to any parties people actually want to have fun at.” She answered Robin’s silent question.”

“Fair point.” Robin agreed just as Y/N’s bedroom door opened. The two girls pulled themselves up, looking at the door as Joyce popped her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt girls night, but Steve is here with the movies and I got the snacks, come on out to the living room.” She told them, leaving the door open as she disappeared down the hall, getting Jonathan from his room. Silently, the girls rolled off Y/N’s bed and shuffled out into the living room, being greeted by Steve and Will placing bowls of chips and popcorn on the coffee table that already had a display of soda and water sitting on it.

“Hey, Dingus,” Robin greets Steve as she brushed past him to sit on the couch. “Will.” She nodded at the younger boy, slapping hands with him in a greeting as he sat beside her.

“Hi, Robin.” Steve breathed out, taking a seat in the armchair, cracking open a can of soda, taking a drink. Y/N stepped over his sprawled-out legs, plunking herself down on the other side of Robin, her feet kicking up to rest on her lap comfortably.

“Where are the other kids?” Y/N wondered, looking over her shoulder at Steve as he sat his open soda down, popping a piece of popcorn in his mouth.

“Dustin is sick, Max is busy being grounded, Lucas is sulking being Max is grounded, and Mike is at a family dinner with his grandparents,” Steve listed off the location of each kid easily. Making Robin laugh. “What?” Steve asked with furrowed brows as he grabbed a chip, crunching on it instantly before wiping his hands on his jeans, bouncing his knee.

“Oh nothing, it’s just that you’re such a mom.” Robin made fun of him, her hands resting on Y/N’s ankles as Joyce walked back in with Jonathan in tow looking like he just woke up from a nap, the pair sitting on the other couch.

“So, Steve,” Joyce started, reaching for two sodas, handing one to Jonathan. Robin reached over, collecting three and placed them in her lap. “What movie is first?” She asked as Y/N and Will each plucked a can from Robin’s lap, opening them at the same time, both cans hissing loudly.

“Have no idea, let Will pick-”

“Rawhead Rex!” Will interrupted excitedly, shocking Joyce since she obviously hadn’t picked that one up.

“Wiliam Byers, did you pick that up without me knowing?”

“No, please, I don’t like scary movies!” Joyce and Y/N said at the same time.

“Which is exactly why I didn’t pick any scary movies, mister.” Joyce told Will in a semi-scolding manner.

“Don’t worry, Y/N, I’ll protect you from the scary movie.” Robin looked over at her, her tone somewhat teasingly. Joyce cooed at this, tilting her head slightly.

“Aw, you two are so cute together,” She sighed longingly. “Wish I had had someone like that in high school.”

____

“I’m heading out for a date mom,” Y/N announced as she walked down the hall from her room, slinging her purse over her shoulder. Joyce opened her bedroom door, popping her head out just as Y/N was about to walk past, scarring her daughter. “Jesus mom,” She exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest as her heart tried to calm down. “You scared me! I thought you were in the kitchen!”

“Sorry dear,” She apologized, opening her door all the way and stepping out of her room all dressed up. Y/N furrowed her brows at her mom’s appearance. She was awfully dressy for a night home alone. Parting her lips as she followed her mother into the living room, she went to say something but Joyce interrupted. “You said you were going on a date, but I don’t see a car.” She pointed out as she looked out the window.

“I’m actually driving tonight.” Y/N explained before opening her mouth the ask her mother about her plans for the night.

“How progressive,” Joyce smiled, turning to face her daughter again, clasping her hands together. “I love a good feminist moment, you have fun on your date and tell me all about it when you get home.”

“So I can have the car,” Y/N asked tentatively. She had assumed that her mother would take the night to relax as this would be the first night in years she has to be home alone. Joyce nodded, looking at her daughter oddly as she tossed the car keys towards her from the bowl by the door. “You don’t have plans? You seem like you do.” Y/N pressed, not wanting to ruin her mother’s plans.

“Oh, I do have plans, I have a date.” Joyce confirmed as if it was nothing. Y/N sputtered, taken aback by this information and how nonchalantly her mother just disclosed it. She watched her mother walk into the kitchen as if it was any other day.

“If you have a date then you need the car, I’ll figure out how to work around not having a car right now-” Y/N rushed into the kitchen behind her, holding the keys out to Joyce who shook her head, pushing her hand away and cutting her off.

“No, I don’t need the car, he’s picking me up here, you go on your date with the car and have fun!” Joyce told her, grabbing Y/N’s shoulders and forcing her to turn around.

“But, this is your first date since Bob died. Do you want me to stay home in case you need to bail? What if something goes wrong and you can’t reach me or Hopper? What if this guy is secretly a mad scientist connected to the Upside Down? What if he’s just a horrible person-” Y/N rambled, fighting against her mother’s hold as she pushed her towards the door.

“Trust me, Y/N,” Joyce started, opening the front door as Y/N continued to ramble off scenarios that could possibly go wrong. “None of that is going to be an issue. I know this guy, you know this guy. He is perfectly safe and I will be fine. Besides, this isn’t even our first date.”

“Mom-” She tried to say something but was cut off by her own mother all but pushing her out of the house. She let out a shriek, stumbling along the porch.

“Go on your date, Y/N and don’t come back until your date is finished.” Joyce warned, closing and locking the front door. Her face was glaring at Y/N through one of the small windows at the top of their door, almost daring her not to go on the date. Huffing, Y/N turned on her heel and headed off to the car.

____

Joyce’s mysterious date had been pushed into the back of Y/N’s mind the second she saw Robin open her front door. Now, it wasn’t even a thought in her head, all her mind could focus on was the way she felt as Robin’s lips traced down her neck, pecking and sucking as they went. Airy moans left her mouth as she squirmed under her girlfriend, her nearly bare back rubbing against the cold backseat of the car. “Oh god-” She whimpered as Robin’s lips travelled lower, dancing dangerously along the cup of her bra, her fingertips just barely slipping under the underwire. “Oh god!” She gasped when her eyes fluttered open after seeing the flash of red and blue hues on her eyelids.

“Am I making you feel good, baby?” Robin pulled her lips from Y/N breast, looking up at her flirtatiously thinking her exclamation was from pleasure, not fear. Her face fell when she noted the wideness of Y/N’s eyes and flashing lights reflecting off her glistening face.

“That’s fucking Hopper,” Y/N hissed as they both scrambled to sit up, Y/N’s arms crossed over her bra-clad chest. They both tried to squint through the fogged-up back windshield, seeing two figures getting out of the car, the beam of a flashlight clicking on. “Shit, where is my shirt?” She panicked, looking around until Robin threw it at her.

“Duck,” Robin pushed Y/N and herself down as the beam of the flashlight swept over the back window. Grunting, Y/N tried to wiggle around and pull the shirt over her head as Robin watched the beam of light. “He’s looking in the woods, let’s crawl out the front seats!” Robin ushered her, letting her crawl over the console first.

“Something tells me we’re not gonna make it to the front seat,” Y/N trailed off as her eyes squinted at the brightness of the flashlight pointed right at her through the driver’s side window. “Hi, Hop,” She smiled, waving awkwardly. In response, Hopper simply pulled the backseat door open, revealing Joyce standing there, looking confused. “Mom, what are you doing here? I thought you were out on a date?” Y/N froze, her knee digging uncomfortably into the middle console.

“I am on my date, we were heading to the restaurant after the movie when we saw the car looking abandoned.” Joyce explained.

“Your date was with Hopper? You’re dating Hopper?” Y/N asked, shocked as she crawled out of the backseat, Robin following closely.

“You didn’t know that?” Robin asked her as if it was obvious.

“No!”

“Your date was with Robin?” Joyce ignored the two girls, her brows furrowed.

“You didn’t know they were dating?” Hopper looked at Joyce as he pointed his finger at the pair.

“No idea.” Joyce shook her head.

“You two are really oblivious. Everyone knew both of these things,” Hopper informed them with a laugh, earning two glares from Y/N and Joyce. “Well, anyway, we’ve got a reservation-”

“Wait,” Joyce interrupted him. “I thought you guys were just friends-” Joyce pointed to Y/N and Robin who both shrugged sheepishly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked her daughter, slightly embarrassed for not realizing and a bit let down that she didn’t tell her.

“I thought you knew.”

“Well, now that I do know, I want to get to know Robin as your girlfriend so would you guys like to accompany us to our dinner reservations?” Joyce asked, her eyes wide as she hoped her daughter would say yes. She always knew that she liked girls, but she had no idea they were dating.

“Only if I get to drill Hopper with questions to make sure he’s good enough for you.” Y/N playfully glared at Hopper, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Deal.” Joyce nodded firmly.

[barnesandco]

Nikah: March

Story Masterlist

Nikah: noun, Arabic, meaning the contract of marriage.

Bucky marries Peter’s former tutor because her student visa’s about to expire and the government isn’t granting her a green card. Can she find a way to permanent residence by marriage, and if so, will it be at the cost of their hearts?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: None.

A/N: Written under the Arranged/Accidental Marriage trope for @mermaidxatxheart​ ‘s writing challenge. Thank you all for reading and commenting! (Picture below is mine, btw)

Bucky’s birthday arrives amidst blooming flowers and a pollen-scented breeze, the day marked by preparations for a party Sam is throwing for him at one of the hotels downtown. Avengers and close friends only, yet he’s spared no expense, insisting on a proper welcome back. The captain is unrelenting in matters of social activity, especially since he has been spending minimal time with his teammates since his marriage. Marriage. He shakes his head at himself in the floor length mirror as he straightens his cuff-links and moonlight catches on the gold band on his finger. It no longer feels like a burden.

Rather, it’s a seed that’s been planted on him, and it’s taken root inside him, growing, growing, growing into a steady feeling of friendship with the person he wears it for. An understanding, a companionship. He refuses to confess to anything more, even within the confines of his own mind. His heart, on the other hand, has no compunctions about making its opinion known, setting off like a hare being hunted whenever she approaches. Most dangerous assassin in the world, defeated by her smile.

She offers him one now when she enters, picture perfect elegance very nearly succeeding in concealing her nerves. Bucky’s nerves, meanwhile, are on fire at the sight of her, sensory overload short-circuiting his brain. He finally turns to look at her directly and the fox-hunt pace of his heart stumbles, stutters to a stop.

“You- you’re- jeepers,” Is all he can manage, the rosewater blush deepening on his cheeks. It has the opposite of the desired effect, and she steps back, mascaraed eyes widening, horrified.

“It’s too much, isn’t it. Oh God, I knew I should’ve-”  She begins to reach for a tissue box on the dresser and Bucky stops her. Lowers her hand slowly and keeps a hold of it, as if she will float away otherwise.

“Jesus, doll, stop. You’re perfect,” He tells her, and she slips her hand away but smiles a little as she sits on the foot of the bed - their bed - to put on her shoes.

“Thank you. You look nice, too,” She says, lifting the hem of her black gown as she pulls on pearl white heels. The matching clutch - pearl encrusted - is on the bedside table, and he hands it to her as they leave the room and then the apartment. 

“Hang on, your tie is loose,” She says the moment they enter the elevator. He can’t even press the button for the ground floor while she holds him in place. The split-second it takes for her to wrap her hands around the green silk and pull it tighter stretches into hours, the graze of her knuckles gentle in his cotton-covered chest. He has enough time to carve the shape of her cupid’s bow into his mind, the descent of her jaw to her chin into his lungs. After half an eternity, she puts distance between them again and presses the button while he tries to smooth his hair back only to feel the short strands tickle between his fingers, and he remembers cutting it last week.

The lobby is bustling, people coming and going like bees in a hive, and they nod their hellos and offer the doorman a Good evening before getting in the car Sam sent. The seats are cold and comfortable, and the chauffeur tips his hat once in the rear-view mirror before putting the Rolls Royce into gear.

“ ‘Possess ye, therefore, ye who borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue’ ” She murmurs, letting her fingers trace the stitching in the butter-soft leather. 

“Marlowe?” Bucky asks, turning away from the New York evening, that special, streetlights-reflecting-on-wet-asphalt evening, to look at his wife. 

“William Cowper. The Task.”

“I think I’ve read that one,” He lies, fully prepared to come clean, and she looks at him curiously. 

“Wow, really? Even I haven’t read all six books,” She says, dubiously verging on impressed, and Bucky drops the facade.

“I’m pullin’ your leg. I’ve read some of Cowper’s work. Don’t remember much, but bits and pieces of school are still there,” He explains, all cheeky smile. “What’s it about? And why in God’s good name is it six books long?” This - the conversation, letting her talk about her work, her passion for literature - this he can do. Playful questions intermingling with genuine intellectual interest is manageable. Her beauty, her grace, the cloud of perfume that bleeds into his veins and makes his lungs strive for air, is not. So he concentrates on what he knows. Or doesn’t know, apparently.

“Honestly, what isn’t The Task about?” She laughs, eyeshadow glimmering like stardust in the smile wrinkles in the corners of her intelligent eyes. “Cowper had a bit of a breakdown during his barrister training in London, and retired to the countryside. In 1781, he met his friend Lady Austen, who later gave him a task to write about, to cheer him up. He started, and then just followed that train of thought wherever it took him.”

“Which book is that line from?” Bucky asks as the car stops in the inevitable Friday night traffic jam. At least they accounted for it, leaving early on purpose to avoid tardiness.

“I don’t actually remember. I think it’s from an extract in which Cowper criticizes the superficial pleasures and unnecessary luxuries of city life,” She answers, opening her clutch. Her phone and a tube of lipstick peek out but she reaches deeper for a pair of earrings.

Closing her eyes, she fastens the first one on the side Bucky can’t see, the other crescent-moon shaped accessory in her silk draped lap. The flower made from pearls matches her bracelet, the two pieces of jewellery clinking together as she puts on the other one.

“City life, huh?” Bucky muses, trying desperately to calm his heart. The earrings dangle, contrasting wonderfully against her simple black gown, and he swallows. She looks like royalty.

“Yeah, many poets of the time wrote a lot about the beauty of nature. They had a lot more of it at their disposal, I guess,” She shrugs.

“Do you have any favorites?” “Nature poems? I don’t know. There are so many good ones. Wordsworth’s To the Cuckoo, Herrick’s Daffodils, Yeats’ Wild Swans at Coole, Tennyso-” She cuts herself off with a huff of a laugh at herself.

“What is it?” 

“Nothing, no- I just-” She laughs again, trying to wave her hand like she’s shooing a fly. “I just have conflicting feelings about these poems by classical authors who write about nature. Poems that express a keen appreciation of beauty yet are fillled with sadness because so many beautiful things are short-lived and because human life itself is so short,” She says, twirling the ring around her finger, deep in thought. Bucky doesn’t know how he found her. This simple, wise soul, in the midst of all the chaos of the world. The chaos of resettlement. 

The chaos of the kitchen, an hour before dinner as the Avengers prepare dinner together, is unholy. Sam’s panicking about dessert while Wanda stirs the marinara sauce for spaghetti in her signature demure fashion, while Peter’s pile of handmade spaghetti grows taller and the pasta dough shrinks. His phone lights up on the table, and Bucky - kneading more dough nearby - is the only one who notices. He calls for Peter and pushes it over to him, not knowing what the point of having a phone is if it’s always going to be on silent, but Peter holds it out to him after just a moment of conversation.

Bucky reads the caller ID on the top and sees who it is, closing the kitchen door behind him, flour on his black t-shirt, as she speaks.

“Hi, Bucky. I hope I’m not disturbing.” 

“No, not at all. Have you decided?” He asks, pacing the hallway, staying out of sight of the others. Not that it matters, they’re still fairly busy. She had seemed unsure when they met, and he had given her time to decide it she wanted to do this. 

“Yeah, but I just- this is a huge favor,” She says.

“Not to me, doll. I’m just helping a friend of a friend,” He says, and it isn’t entirely true. That isn’t why he’s doing this. Something in him wanted to help, wanted to repay the debt of kindness that he owes the world. This is how he wants to do it, although he doesn’t think it’s fair that he gets to choose his penance.

“I thought you said Peter talks your ears off.” Bucky cringes, grateful she can’t see his face, even though he can hear the joking lilt of her tone.

“He’s a good kid. And I want to do this. Do you?” 

“Yeah.” A lengthy pause, heavy and tangible, even across the phone line. 

“When do you want to get married?” She asks finallly, voice shaking. His hand is, too. 

“We have a week-long mission right after Christmas. Boxing day arms deal in Sao Paulo,” He replies, cursing the Brazilian gangs who could find no other time do get up to no good. Evil doesn’t go on vacation, and neither do the Avengers.

“So… New Year’s Eve?” She asks, doing the math. He realizes that’s true. A week from Boxing Day.

“Yes. Shit, you don’t have a ring-” He begins to say, freaking out about the logistics. He didn’t even propose properly.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye Bucky.”

“G’night.” He bids her farewell, then looks at the phone, asking himself what the hell he’s just gotten himself into. A knot builds and twists in his body, and he tries to loosen it. Breathes, and makes his way back.

“I’m engaged,” And the kitchen freezes in time as they all drop everything - not literally, Sam’s holding a knife - to look at him. The smile on Peter’s face is brighter than the Christmas tree in the adjacent common room, and the somersaults in Bucky’s stomach only settle at the sight of his relief.  

It seems that his teammates gave him a later time on purpose, because they’re all ready, dressed to the nines and wine-tipsy, waiting for him when they enter. It’s a small ballroom, downtown Manhattan, quaint and graceful. A chorus of Happy Birthday erupts in the room, and he smiles and thanks them. The hugs pile on, and he begins to introduce his wife to his friends. Home away from home for the man who has never had one since the 1940s - until he met her, that is. She’s home now, though he wouldn’t tell her that.

Instead, he relishes in the grin she offers him between introductions, till Sam drags him off to stand him on a chair and sing a birthday song. The party commences in much a similar fashion, too much noise in the room for a couple of dozen people. He stays away from Thor’s alcohol, knowing she doesn’t drink, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. 

He’s just thinking about how she might be dealing with the hectic atmosphere when her hand slips into his while he’s talking to Harley Keener about letting him look at his arm. He’s shocked, looks at her to see her smiling and concentrating only on the conversation, but he can tell she’s tired. It’s been hours, and he knows he can’t leave early - it’s his party - but he just wants to slip those heels off her feet and sit and talk, still in partywear, for hours on end. Let her quote Byron and Cowper and Austen to him, poems and essays and books, until he falls asleep on their sofa. Instead, her voice says something he isn’t expecting at all.

“Is it possible to put some sort of temp regulation in it?” She asks curiously, head tilted to the side like a sparrow. Harley thinks it over for only a second.

“Of course, why?”

“It hurts in the cold. He rubs and rolls his shoulder a lot in the winter,” She answers, and the thoughtful observation astounds him. It’s accurate, but it hadn’t even occurred to him, the movements that she’s citing entirely subconscious. They talk to Harley for a while longer, and then dance to several of Bucky’s favorite songs. Billie Holliday is crooning in the background as the second-to-last guest exits, leaving only his wife and his captain and his deputy director. When the door shuts behind them, they break apart, and Sam and Maria approach, ready to call it a night.

The car ride home passes in complete silence, a comfortable weight resting like a blanket between them, so much so that she falls fully asleep on the way, her head resting against the cold window when they arrive. He doesn’t have the heart to wake her, so he goes around to her door, opening it slowly and lifting her into his arms, not caring what it might look like to onlookers. It’s late, and there are few of them, at least in the lobby, and as the elevator doors shut, her head curls against his shoulder, hair tickling his Adam’s apple.

Bucky looks down at her, her resting, easy expression, the chandni earrings still on, and thinks: what a way to turn 103.

Taglist:  @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​ @starnight-charmer​

[zweiginator]

D’yer Mak’er

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and your roommate Brian are losing sleep because of your neighbors’ loud sexual endeavors. What begins as a payback to annoy the couple ends in the eruption of years of tension, lust, and love.  (Prompt idea from @okqueenie ;) )

Word Count: 6,933 

Warnings: cuteness, pining, sexual tension, unprotected sex, oral, handjobs--VERY filthy oopsie (btw it’s late and im too lazy to proofread so sorry!) p.s sorry national geographic for defaming your brand :/

Your arm was tingling, your nerves needle-like, shooting through your bicep, then threading towards your elbow, down into your fingers which felt numb, prickly, and in pain. Your head rested upon your desk, your hair fanned out in front of you, covering your book--an awfully boring paperback of Hamlet that Brian, your roommate, so kindly let you borrow. You were groaning when your professor assigned the reading; Shakespeare’s language wasn’t one you spoke. So, Brian, being the sweetheart he is, shuffled to his room, his wool socks staticky against the wooden floors. He traced his elegant fingers along the spines of his books--all of them neatly arranged, from tallest to shortest. His fingers halted at a thin paperback, yellowed and dusty, with a cracked spine. He plucked it from the shelf and ran back into your room next door.

“Found it!” He tossed it to you, catching you off guard. The book fell open on the floor, a sepia dust bunny escaping from between the pages.

You picked it up apprehensively, holding it by the corner so dust wouldn’t latch onto your thick knit sweater. “Thanks?” You shook the book, jumping back as more dust fell from the copy, like a desert storm tumbling from sand pages. “But I already have a copy.” You cocked your head towards your desk, where a pristine, non-dusty copy sat, untouched.

“You don’t have Brian May’s copy though.” He grabbed the book from you, not caring about the particles that danced upon the sleeve of his blue zip-up hoodie. “Be ready to be amazed, Y/N.” He patted the spot next to him on your bed. Your comforter was piled into the corner, your sheets crinkled and cold from the winter air seeping through your window that never seemed to close completely. Instead, you sat on his leg, and he winced, his leg pulling away slightly.

“Your arse is cold as hell.” He looked up at you, his thumb marking the page he was going to show you--it must have been a good one.

“Shut up.” You motioned to the book, scooting yourself into a comfortable position which seemed to fare impossible; his leg was much too bony. “You know my ass is hot.” You wiggled a little, and he grabbed your waist reflexively, quickly turning to the page. He looked flustered, his eyebrows knitted together as he squinted at the text, the book tiny in his hands.

“See?” He ran a finger down the golden yellow page, tracing over countless translations and ideas he had written in the margins, some in smeared pencil, some in deep black ink.

You grabbed the book, squinting at the barely-legible handwriting that bordered the pages. “Too bad I can’t possibly decode what the hell this says.”

Brian rolled his eyes, his jaw tensing, just barely. “Forget about it, then.” He turned his nose up, yanking the book from you and softly pushing you off of him, getting up to return it to its rightful place in his own room.

“No!” You reached out, grabbing his leg and pulling him back to sit on the bed, but he slipped, and fell promptly on the floor, his tailbone smacking against the hardwood.

“Fuck!” He rubbed at his ass, wincing in pain, hissing at the ache that was climbing up his spine, tingly and sharp.

“I’m sorry, Brian!” You ruffled his hair, jumping up to get him an ice-pack, or really, a freezer-burned package of frozen vegetables which you and Brian would forever be too lazy to prepare. But instead, he grabbed your ankle, making you stumble to the ground like he did, catching yourself, your open palms tingling as they hit the floor. “Okay, I’m not sorry anymore.” You sat up, leaning against your bed like Brian was, grabbing the book from him and trying to read the margins. In reality, his handwriting wasn’t too difficult to decipher; you had known Brian for so long, it became second nature to read his chicken scratch. It was almost a test to see who was closest to Brian--it seemed only his bandmates and you could make out his convoluted lettering.

You shook your arm as you recalled the memory, lifting your head from its spot on the desk. Your ankles were crossed under the chair you were sitting at, and you realized Brian shoved a pillow between your back and the chair, which relieved some of the pain. Your neck hurt though, as it hung--almost lifelessly--for the entire night. You wiped some drool from your chin, grimacing at the gross sensation; it was semi-dry and crusted on your face. “Ew,” You sat up straight, your back cracking slightly as you maneuvered it. Brian’s copy of Hamlet was face down on the desk. You had actually been reading it pretty easily--thanks to Brian’s annotations--but you were exhausted from the antics of your neighbors.

For months now, you had been lacking sleep severely, waking up in the wee hours of the morning, your bed shaking from the arrhythmic banging of your neighbors’ headboard against the plastered walls. You always resorted to covering your head with your pillow, groaning and rolling your eyes and suppressing laughter at times--the couple’s moans were so fake and contrived. And every time they had sex--which was often--it seemed to get worse; more pornographic and less passionate--if that were possible, with the lack of chemistry these people seemed to have. There were plenty of times you had surrendered to your curiosity and held a cup against the wall, cringing as you heard screams that sounded more panicked than pleasured. Sometimes you would yelp as a firm, assured slapping noise would ping off of the walls, echoing in your ears even though they remained squished and completely covered by your pillows.

You had noticed Brian becoming more restless too; his eyes had become more sunken, his lips in a perpetual pout. Whenever he shaved, there was an uneven patch or two that he would forget to touch, and you would laugh at him, stroking your fingers over the thick, almost black hair, confused as to how he could have possibly missed it.

“Brian, come here.” You wiped your hands on your jeans as you chewed some buttered popcorn, your feet on the green coffee table, which didn’t match the design of the flat at all. You and a few friends were watching a soap opera, curled under Brian’s favorite knit blanket. You could tell he was mad you were using it, because he rose his eyebrows at you, cocking his head to the side as he sat next to you on the couch. There wasn’t much room for him, so he sat awkwardly on the edge, looking like a small child waiting for instructions of what to do next. You traced your fingers along his jaw, scratching at the dark stubble that was juxtaposed by the completely bare, hairless skin on the rest of his face. “You missed a spot.” Brian’s hand slapped yours away. “Just a smidge.” You tilted his head to the other side, seeing that the same spot on his right side was hairy as well.

“Stop!” He rolled his eyes, pinching your leg as he got up, pulling his hoodie over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. “I’m tired from rehearsals. Plus--” He shook his head, opting to leave his thoughts unsaid. He yanked his blanket off of your body, folding it neatly and tucking it under his willowy arm.

“What? Spit it out.” You and your friends looked at Brian inquisitively, all cocking your eyebrows at him, almost synchronized.

“The neighbors.” He mumbled, bending over the coffee table to straighten a book your foot had moved off-kilter. Brian’s body obscured the television, and you lightly pushed him back, your foot pressing against his hard stomach.

“Move,” You ate more popcorn, watching your program. “What about the neighbors?” You obviously knew what he was alluding to, but you wanted to see him flustered; you loved to tease him.

“You haven’t heard them, you know--” His voice faltered, falling a few decibels. “Doing it?”

“Oh God, Brian.” You giggled, a piece of popcorn falling onto your lap. “Grow up, man. ‘Doing it?’” You mocked him, and he tickled your foot, making you yelp, your head falling back as he scratched a nail on the underside of your sock-covered foot, knowing you were ticklish there. He grinned, canines exposed, his cheeks lifted. He took some popcorn from your bowl and walked into his room, giving you and your friends a quick wave before shutting the door softly behind him.

__

A few hours later, your legs were resting on Brian’s lap, your head laying against the arm of the couch. Brian was flipping through a National Geographic magazine, examining the wildlife pictures, like he always did when a new issue came out. You were reading Hamlet--still--but you were almost done, thanks to Brian, who happily analyzed the scenes for you, even insisting on pointing out some far-fetched allegories that made you second-guess trusting his far-fetched ideas.

“I don’t think that’s true, Brian.” You peered over your book and nudged his leg with your foot. Brian finished reading a particularly riveting line about the anemone in the Great Reef, holding a finger up until he was done reading.

“Hmm?” He bookmarked the magazine with an old receipt, throwing it on the coffee table.

“I don’t think that the costumes represent--” You started, before hearing a crashing noise next door--like metal pans clashing together, then falling twenty seven feet into jagged rocks. It was piercing and utterly startling, so your foot accidentally dug into Brian’s balls sharply.

“JESUS!” Brian tossed your legs off of his lap and held his groin, hissing in pain.

You hushed him, apologizing by stroking his hair a bit as you sat on your knees, leaning towards the noise. “What are they doing?” It sounded like they were in the kitchen; their apartment was a mirror image of yours, so everything was just a bit flipped around.

“I dunno.” Brian crossed his arms and picked his magazine back up, grumpy from lack of sleep and the dull pain stagnant in his balls. He picked a piece of lint from the page he was reading, flicking it onto your stomach, covered by his hoodie.

“I think they’re having sex in the kitchen this time.” You whispered for some reason, as if it were possible they could hear you. You braced your hand on Brian’s shoulder, the knobbed end of his collarbone hard against your touch.

“It’s weird to listen in on them.” Brian announced in monotone, flipping the page of his magazine, his eyes gleaming as he saw an article about space exploration. “Did you hear about thi-” Brian began to ask, before you interrupted him, which he registered as quite rude on your part, with a sharp inhale.

“Listen in on them?” You scoffed. “Bri, we haven’t slept for weeks because they’re fucking each other so loudly. We aren’t spying on them.” You shoved his shoulder a little, watching him as he nibbled at his lips as he attempted to focus on what he was reading. You could tell he was being stubborn, that he was curious like you, but he acted unfazed, shifting in his spot as his eyes scanned the glossy pages in front of him. Plus, he thought it was a little odd, listening to a middle-aged couple have sex with his roommate-slash-best friend.

You scooted your body closer to his, leaning forward to press your ear against the wall that the couch was leant against. Brian gulped and looked away, seeing your pajama shorts ride up a bit, the curve of your ass prominent from under the cotton fabric, lace trimming adorning the hem. He loved when you wore those, and he may have accidentally-on-purpose washed them extra frequently so they would shrink, just a bit. He moved the hair away from his eyes and tapped his fingers along the page he was reading--or attempting to read--before he shoved it in between the cushions and joined you, the peculiarity of the situation next door trumping his interest in space travels for the time being--no matter how pathetic that sounded to him.

The sides of your arms touched as you both listened, the sounds barely subdued by the layers of drywall in between you two--and the blood thumping, rushing towards your hot ears. It sounded like their sink had turned on in the process of their endeavors, and Brian, feeling cheeky, banged on the wall with a closed fist. “Turn off the bloody water! You’re wasting it!” He turned to you for approval, almost. You shoved him playfully and banged on the wall with him, cackling together as you heard the husband’s skin slapping. It was obscene and inappropriate, but you looked at Brian menacingly.

“OH ALLEN!” You moaned dramatically, coming up with an arbitrary name on the spot. It was completely fake-sounding, and Brian giggled, rocking on the couch to bang it against the wall repeatedly. You nodded at him, determined, doing the same thing that he was, rocking your bodies forward then backwards to push it against the wall forcefully. Your pinkies touched as your elbows did too, completely and utterly focused on annoying them just as much as they had you. Brian lifted his arms up and banged them against the wall again, his shirt riding up enough for you to see his stomach, toned and still tanned from a short-run of being a summer gardener--your idea to bring in more rent money. Your own stomach flipped and you turned away.

“PLEASE DON’T STOP AMANDA!” Brian moaned facetiously, pushing his knees into the back of the couch, his hips bucking forward dramatically. You looked at him questioningly, mouthing Amanda? Really?, as he smiled at you, his knuckles raw from beating on the wall.

And as suddenly as they began, the noises stopped. The pans halted their clanging, the grating sound of the metal fizzling, dissipating from your ears. You both sighed in relief, and Brian plopped down on his knees, taking a deep breath that ghosted just barely over your neck. You shivered, the aftershock of the odd situation making your breath hesitate as you also fell to your knees on the couch, the springs creaking as you both moved, unsure of what to say or do next.

Brian was panting, a coy smile on his lips. He was a bit sweaty, his neck was glistening, and his fingers fiddled with his silver necklace, the metal of the ring he was wearing clinking against the thin chain, the small tinkling pleasant in your ear after the horrible noises that had just stopped minutes before.

“Are you hungry?” Brian asked, pulling his legs out from under his butt, slipping his socks off. He saw you grimacing at him and clicked his tongue at you, his jaw twitching. “What? I’m sweaty.”

You feigned a gag as he held the sweaty socks in front of your nose, swinging them like a pendulum, soaked with body odor. “Gross!” You tried to smack them out of his hands, but he held them higher, just out of your reach to tease you. “Get your dirty socks out of my fucking face, or I swear to God--”

“You shouldn’t say that, Y/N!” He bit his lip and gasped dramatically as you tried to knock the socks out from in front of your face again. His voice was deeper than usual, and you grabbed his wrist as you fell forward; the couch cushions were unsteady. Brian fell backwards, his head hitting the arm of the couch opposite of you. His hair bounced, the ambient lighting shining against his brilliant curls. You had convinced him to embrace his natural hair, and it looked good on him, accentuating him, his look. Your thigh brushed against his crotch, and Brian hissed, sitting up quickly, shaking the curls from his eyes. “I’m going to get us some takeout. Chinese?” He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as he stood up, the buttons of his shirt threatening to pop as he extended his long arms towards the humming ceiling fan.

“Yeah, sounds good.” You curled up on the couch, opening your book again, your eyes skimming the page, but not encoding a thing. You noticed Brian shifting his trousers, wincing as his hand brushed over the front of them. He grabbed his keys from the table, his magazine strategically placed in front of his groin as he said goodbye, waving at you, his keys tucked under three fingers.

“The usual?” He peeked his head through the door, his curls getting caught by a raw splinter of wood sticking out from the door frame. He pulled the strand from the sharp edge, waiting for your response.

“Yeah,” You nodded, tilting your head back to give him a grin. “But get extra white rice. You always forget.”

He began to shut the door, his large hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, shrouded by a dulled stain.

“Wait!” You jumped up, bracing yourself on the coffee table as you slipped. Brian flinched, lunging forward reflexively.

“You ok, sweets?” Brian lifted a brow, pulling fallen strands of his hair from his hoodie. You smiled at the nickname, standing up straight, adjusting your sweater that was becoming increasingly hot and heavy. You revealed a pen from behind your back, pulling Brian towards you by his hands which were warm, and very soft. You wondered if he had been using lotion more often--and then you coughed, registering the innuendo. You clicked the pen, poking your tongue out slightly as you wrote the note on his hand, underlining it twice, the scrape of the pen against his hand making a sharp white line appear, just momentarily.

“Don’t forget.” You looked up at him, noticing a faint droplet of sweat dripping down his neck, pooling into the hollow space where his collarbones protruded.

__

Your throat was dry when you woke up, and you didn’t know if it was because of your and Brian’s acting the day before, or the spicy kung pao chicken that Brian brought home in a greasy paper bag, beaming as he pulled out a giant takeout carton full of white rice, some of it spilling from the top. You swallowed, feeling a burn perfuse down your esophagus, wincing and coughing as you sat up. Your neck was still achey; your head automatically positioning itself in the position that allowed the least amount of sounds to pass through your ears--perks of having awful neighbors.

You pulled on a sweatshirt--one you stole from Brian’s room. It was red, and had that fresh, clean softness that proved it hadn’t been washed too many times. It was comforting; Brian’s scent pervaded the fabric, and you relished in the earthy, almost sweet smell of him, rubbing your hands together as you pulled your door open. You walked to the kitchen, where Brian’s guitar case was laid on the counter. You sighed, rolling your eyes. He knew you hated when he did that. You didn’t even have a reason for loathing it--you just did. Both you and Brian had little things that made you tic. The first time you ever heard Brian really yell was when you found out one of his--he despised disorganization. He was at a gig the year before, and the venue was a few hours away, so the boys slept in the van, half-drunk and a bit dizzy, weaned off of adrenaline highs. While he was gone, you rearranged all of his books. You flipped some so the pages faced forward, and kept some of the spines facing out. You took all of his pants from one drawer, and then all of his shirts from the other--then you switched them. You could have done more, but you didn’t hate Brian. So you fell asleep, curled into the corner of the couch to let Brian in more easily when he came home--he could never interpret how to work a key and a lock when he was drunk.

He wasn’t drunk when he returned, though. He opened the door discreetly, slipping through, taking his clogs off as he sat down, hunched over to be as quiet as possible. When he saw his bookshelf, he exploded.

“Y/N!” He slammed his duffle bag on the floor, his pins from all of the different cities he’d visited scratching against a raised floorboard. You jumped up, patting your hair down as you turned the floor lamp on, the warm light ambient and mellow.

“Brian? You’re home already?” You glanced at the clock; it was seven in the morning, so it made sense for him to be back.

“It’s seven.” He confirmed. “Can you explain this?” He crossed his arms over his chest, his forearms were veiny, bulging from his sleeves; one was pulled all of the way down, one was rolled up halfway.

You laughed softly. “The books? I just thought it would annoy you.”

His eyes hardened, and his jaw protruded as he sucked his bottom lip, before releasing it with a pronounced pop. “It worked. Don’t you have better shit to do than mess with my personal fucking belongings?”

You scowled, stepping closer to him. For the first time since you had met him, his tall frame wasn’t languid--it was intimidating. The shadow of a beard was forming on his cheeks, pebbling down his elegant neck, where two necklaces were layered, resting on his collarbones. “It’s not a big fucking deal, Brian.” You turned around to leave, but he grabbed your wrist, holding onto it so hard he could feel your pulse racing.

“Fix it.” He looked at you sternly, his eyes glaring into your own. You expected him to laugh and ruffle your hair a bit, but he didn’t. He just stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door; you heard the shower faucet creak a minute later. Your legs shook as you bent down to fix the books, trying to ignore the warmth pooling at your core.

_

You were reaching into a cupboard, trying to find a glass for some water, when you heard crashing in the bathroom and the shrieking of the shower curtain rings scraping at the curtain rod.

“Y/N!” Brian yelled, almost hopelessly.

“Hmm!” You scurried to the bathroom door, pressing your ear against it. You could faintly feel the warmth emanating from underneath the door.

“I forgot to bring a towel in with me. Can you get me one?” You could hear him gathering the fallen shampoo bottles and setting them on the ledge.

“What do you say?” You challenged.

“Please, would you so kindly fetch me a towel, Y/N?” He pleaded, half sarcastically.

You got him one, wiggling the doorknob to the bathroom as you held it underneath your arm. “Open up, Bri!”

He quickly unlocked the door, peering through the crack, reaching a soaked hand out. His wrist was dripping with steamy water, his arm a lot more defined than you remembered it being in the summer. He pulled the towel from your hands, quickly turning around so he could wrap it around his waist. You saw his ass for a split second, and you attempted to stifle your laughter, to no avail.

Brian shut the door, re-locking it as he dried his hair and got dressed for class. He had a denim button up on, and black velvet trousers that hugged him nicely. His hair was still sopping wet as he left the bathroom, but he softly dried his locks with the towel; you told him to be gentle with his curls.

You were biting your lip, trying to suppress the laughter which was bubbling up into your throat and quickly threatening to spill over. Brian looked at you, knowing that meant you were about to make fun of him for something.

“What is it? Lay it on me.” He sat down, resuming his reading of his National Geographic, his eyes roaming the pages quickly. He turned the magazine sideways, squinting at a picture of the stars that filled the entire two-page spread.

“Your butt.” You sat down next to him, poking at his ass as he attempted to focus on his reading.

“You saw my arse? Big deal.” He feigned to be uncaring, but you could see his cheeks flushing into a scarlet that seeped down his neck.

“It was small! Your butt is tiny.” You tickled at his hips, and he flinched, his teeth protruding from underneath his pink lips, forming the beginnings of a smile. “Tiny butt.” Brian rolled his eyes, turning his head to face you. He closed his magazine and crossed his arms, resting his legs on the coffee table.

“So what if I have a tiny butt--hey! That rhymed!” He realized, leaning his head on the cushion behind him.

You heard a crashing sound--the unfortunately familiar sound of clashing pans crossing your threshold, even between Brian’s Led Zeppelin vinyl and two--albeit thin--walls. “They’re fucking at it again!”

You both groaned, following the sounds like a labyrinth of awful moans and grunts swirling into one epicenter. “Wait.” Brian halted, holding his arm out, as a signal for you to stay still. “I think they’re in the shower.”

Sure enough, you heard their shower running, then panting, then the sound of someone’s body being slammed against the wall. “Ouch!” You looked at Brian, amazed. “That must’ve fucking hurt.” You leaned against the kitchen counter, Brian’s guitar leant against it; you smiled a bit, realizing he moved it off of the counter, knowing you hated when it was there.

The room was quiet, save for your and Brian’s breathing. The heel of your foot hit the wooden paneled column of the counter every once in awhile. You heard heavy panting, groans and whimpers from next door, and you and Brian just looked at each other, as if saying: Are we really gonna do this again? You both understood each other’s almost subliminal looks, and nodded simultaneously. You raced back to the couch, both of your socks making you slide against the floor, and you both braced your inevitable falls on the arms of the couch, climbing over them.

Brian held up three long fingers, then two, then just one, before giving you a firm nod, eyebrows concentrated, solemn looking. “Oh FUCK! RIGHT THERE!” He knelt on the couch, scooting forwards and backwards to imitate the harsh banging noises they so often made next door.

“THAT FEELS SO GOOD! OH GOD!” You did the same as he was; you two were synchronized, breathing heavily as you began to grunt and whimper, Brian clapping his hands to simulate skin-slapping sounds, and you rose your eyebrows, giving him a thumbs up. Nice touch, you mouthed, and he bowed a little, his hair bouncing, messy from his movements.

The couple was relentless though, continuing their desperate, obviously bad, sex. Brian held a finger up, before stepping off of the couch and kneeling in front of it. He gripped the bottom of the furniture, his wrists flexing from the weight, pulling it forward and slamming it back against the wall--with you still sat on top of it. He continued to do this, the grunts coming organically from his lips, from the exertion. You were panting, your chest heaving quickly from the yelling, from the odd exhilaration you were feeling, from the wetness you were feeling in your pajama shorts, which Brian couldn’t help but notice were riding up your thighs; he could see the hem of your lace panties from his position underneath you, looking up.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this, baby.” Brian moaned loudly, looking up at you. His mouth was hung open, hot breath fanning over your body. You returned the gaze, falling to sit on your feet in front of him, facing him.

“You’re fucking me so good!” You cried, cringing at the words, your mouth agape as you watched Brian’s forehead begin to sweat. Neither of you were laughing anymore. The air was dense, and tension-filled--wet almost. You sat down in front of where he was knelt, his hair matted a bit from the sweat, and still wet from his shower. You spread your legs, and your feet hung off of the couch, resting near either side of his head. He grabbed your ankle, looking at you with wide eyes as your fingers played with the elastic of your shorts, fiddling with the ties, the ends of them tickling at your inner thighs. Brian stared at the soft flesh of them, at a small freckle you had where the hem of your shorts laid. Your cheeks were flushing, your heart thundering in your chest, and Brian’s sweatshirt was becoming an actual sweat shirt. Your ankle was almost glowingly warm from Brian’s firm grip. His other hand grabbed your free ankle, which was noticeably colder, aching for his touch. His fingers began to ghost up your legs, inching up your shins, making you whimper softly from the anticipation of Brian to touch you more and more. His pupils were dilated and you noted how pretty his eyes looked, the yellow light shining into them. Brian was a beacon of allure, lust, love. You untied your shorts, watching as Brian’s eyes widened, his grip on you tightening, almost constricting, but in the best way possible. You pushed your hand down the shorts, slipping through your underwear to rub at your clit. You were soaked for him. Brian’s nails dug into your ankles as he pulled you forward on the couch, so his body was in between your legs, kneeling in front of you, on his knees. He ghosted a finger over your lips as you pushed a finger into your wet hole, gasping as you grazed against your clit. He breathed against your neck as he stroked your hair, kissing at your shoulder, his forehead resting upon it. He moved to kiss up the column of your neck. They were sloppy, open-mouthed kisses; he was desperate, rocking his cock against the couch as he held your waist, your fingers now deep in your pussy. You held his head, threading your fingers in his semi-dried curls, gasping as he sucked hickies on your collarbones, nibbling at the sensitive skin enough to make your hips jerk slightly. You pulled his head back by his hair, thick in your hand, kissing him on his bruised lips. He was fiery and passionate. He was making you dizzy, suffocating you from fresh air with passion-infused sucks to your bottom lip, his tongue massaging yours. Brian whined, his cock rubbing against the textured velvet of his trousers, leaking with precum, just for you. You pulled your fingers out, which were a bit pruned from the slickness which was staining the couch now, deepening the grey of the taut fabric. You held your fingers to his mouth, watching at his tongue swirled around your digits, sucking your juices from them.

“Taste me.” Your eyes were hooded, blown with desire. You felt like you were on the verge of fainting, or that you were experiencing a hypnagogic dream--like this was all altered from reality, not real. But the feelings--the sensations--you were experiencing in that moment, with your best friend’s tongue lapping up your wetness from your soaked fingers now coated with his saliva--were anything but a dream.

“So good.” He moaned, looking at you innocently. His chest was heaving as he grabbed your wrist, pulling your fingers from his mouth. He pulled at your shorts, his fingers shaky as he slid them down your legs, keeping your underwear on. “I love when you wear these fucking shorts, sweets.” He kissed your knee, scratching softly at your inner thighs, as you pulled at his hair. He threw the garment on the floor, scooting forward on his knees, yanking your underwear to the side. You gasped loudly at hearing his usually innocent nickname for you in such a dirty connotation. He ran his fingers up your neck before rubbing them along your soft lips, the calloused pads of his long fingers tickling the pink flesh barely. You sucked on his fingers this time, swirling your tongue around them, whimpering at how dirty this was, at how good it felt to feel Brian.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Brian’s fingers left your mouth, dripping with your spit. He trailed them up your leg, before pulling your legs over his shoulders, kissing at your inner thighs and softly biting the skin.

“Brian, oh my god.” Your hand grasped at his hair, desperate for his mouth to latch onto your clit--anywhere. He looked up at you, his eyes hooded, his nose nudging at your clit. His hand snaked around your waist, holding your hips down, his fingers splayed across your lower stomach. Then he began to lick at your folds, pointing his tongue and licking upwards, directly on your aching bundle of nerves. “Fuck, Bri!” Your heels dug into Brian’s upper back and he hummed in appreciation before sticking his tongue out and delving into your hole. You ground against his tongue, desperate for your orgasm, which proved to be approaching quickly.

“Cum on my tongue, honey.” He poked his tongue out, tilting his head to look at you. He was idle, and you realized quickly he was waiting on you to grind on his tongue. You did, holding his hair with one hand as the other grasped at the couch cushion. Your hips moved up and down repeatedly, his tongue sliding against your clit, the stimulation making your eyes water.

“Oh my god--” You were mewling, completely at his mercy. “Brian--your tongue feels so good.”

“Does it baby?” He batted his eyelashes, his curls tickling against your skin as you ground against his tongue faster.

“Fuck, it feels so good!” You screamed, your breaths becoming laborious as you came on his tongue, your wetness dripping down his chin. You had barely recovered from your orgasm before you pulled Brian’s mouth to yours, wrapping your legs around his waist, his body now hovering over yours, his knees resting on the edge of the couch. You scratched your nails at the nape of his neck, kissing at his stubble on his jaw. You both were starved--two years of friendship and a blindingly close proximity to each other in your entireties was being released by fervid kisses, frenzied touches. Your hands traveled down his chest, your fingers popping open a few buttons on the way to his cock, which was achingly hard and prominent in his trousers. You unbuttoned them, immediately shoving your hand down the front of his briefs, massaging at his balls.

“Fuuuck.” Brian let out a drawn-out moan, and it echoed across the room, making a tingle sprinkle down your shoulders and to your core. You dragged your nails softly up the shaft of his cock, and he buried his face in your neck, whimpering your name. Your hand held onto his hair as you pumped him, precum leaking onto the junction between your thumb and forefinger. “Jesus christ, more.” He whined, the couch hitting the wall forcefully as he thrusted into your hand.

“You’re so needy, Brian.” You pulled him forward. “Thrusting into my hand.” He nodded, a choked moan breathy against your lips.

“I need to fuck you, sweets.” He pushed his forehead against yours, digging his fingers into your hips. “I’ve needed to fuck you for so long.”

You exhaled, tightening your grip on his cock as he lazily thrust into your hand. “I need you so bad, Brian.” You pulled at his necklace, kissing him deeply. You felt his hips stutter, a low whimper tumbling from parted lips.

You shook your head. “Not yet.” Brian nodded, kissing your neck, just once, before he grabbed you by your waist, turning your body so your body laid across the couch, flat. He grabbed a throw pillow, putting it beneath your back. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him forward by your locked ankles. Your arms grabbed at the arm of the couch as Brian spit in his hand, stroking his cock--which you noticed was a lot larger than you originally thought. The tip was bright red, still leaking, his shaft veiny and impossibly thick. You shifted beneath him, your entire body sheathed in sweat and a scarlet blush.

“Condom?” He asked, his thumb running over his tip, massaging his slit carefully.

“I want you raw, Brian.”

“Jesus Christ.” He hitched your legs up onto his hips, dragging his cock against your folds, the ridges of his veins blissful against your clit. “You’re so fucking wet for me.” He dragged his hands up your torso, touching the fabric of his sweatshirt, damp from your sweat. His thumb and forefinger found the zipper, pulling it down agonizingly slow, groaning when he saw your bare chest revealed from underneath his hoodie. “Dirty girl.” He bit at his lips, and you sat up, shrugging the hoodie off. He pulled the sleeve back up over your shoulder, shaking his head. “No. I want you to keep my jumper on while I fuck you.” He held your chin as he said this, and you slipped his thumb into your mouth, making him twitch against your thigh.

Then he was thrusting into you--deep into you--his thumb stroking at your chin as his pelvic bone was flush against your inner thighs. You screamed, holding onto the arm of the couch as he pulled out, pushing himself back in immediately. “God, Brian it hurts.” He was stretching your walls, and your cheeks were blotched red from the dull pain--but it was a pain so akin to pleasure that you writhed underneath him, moaning.

“ ‘m sorry sweets. I’ll go slower baby.” He held onto your thighs, still wrapped around his waist.

“No. Fuck me.” You sat up, resting on your elbows as he obliged, Fucking into you at a brutal pace, his hand snaking up your torso, squeezing at your breasts. Your moans were breathy, hot, passionate--true. They were the antithesis of the sounds your neighbors were still making next door, opposite of the ones you and him were making seemingly seconds before. Brian was angling his hips up, thrusting deep inside of you as his thumb massaged your clit, savoring your noises, the way you arched into his every touch. Brian’s breaths were interwoven with impassioned moans, and the paradox of them sounding so angelic yet so sinful was making your orgasm near. He began to slow, his thrusts becoming erratic but far-in-between, his eyes rolling back as his voice cracked with a long groan. You began to fuck yourself on his dick, panting, the couch scooting loudly, creaking against the floor. Brian’s other hand trailed its way to your neck, his delicate fingers, wrapping around the hot skin, just touching. But you grabbed his wrist, tightening his grip around your neck, both yours and his moans becoming more primal and raw at the sensation.

“Brian--” You threw your head back, your legs unable to support themselves on Brian’s hips. He thrust harder, snapping his hips as he repeated your name, panting into the muggy air around you. A bead of sweat ran down his neck. His hair was wild from your pulling, his lips a deep pink from bruised kisses. Hickies adorned his collarbones, which his necklaces were bouncing upon with every yearning thrust. His hand was still wrapped tightly around your neck, pushing gently upon your throat, your hand gripping at his wrist.

“Good girl.” he gasped, as you clenched around him, involuntarily. “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna cum.” He tilted his head back, somehow pushing deeper inside of you; he was completely sheathed inside of you. “Fu-I’m cumming!” He announced, barely pulling out before he came inside of you, the feeling bringing on your own release as you screamed his name, your walls clenching. He spurt more of his cum inside of you, hissing at the overstimulation as he pulled out, watching his seed spill out of you. He didn’t know what to do; and in a panic, he grabbed his magazine placing it so the cum leaked onto it and not the perfectly good couch you had. You both were panting, but you furrowed your eyebrows. “Now your magazine has your cum all over it.”

“I know, I’m not too happy about it. That was a good issue.” He said from the kitchen, wetting a cloth to clean you up with. He sat down next to you, pulling his National Geographic from under your ass to wipe you clean. “It’s cold, sorry sweets.” You winced at the cool water, but his warm touch on your lower belly acted as a needed equilibrium.

He kissed your collarbone, and you pulled him in, locking your lips with him as he zipped your--his--hoodie up, pulling the hood over your hair and yanking at the strings. He pulled your panties up your legs, and then your shorts, before he slipped his briefs back on, laying on his stomach, in between your legs, which were still shaky. You pet at his hair and noticed how normal this felt--you and him together like this. Brian, reading your mind, lifted his head and kissed your nose, pulling the hood down.

“I’m in love with you.” He confessed, hugging you tighter, anticipating your response.

“Hi, I’m in love with you, nice to meet you.” You picked his hand up, shaking it firmly. “Funny, because I’m in love with you too!”  Brian laughed, muffled into your stomach as he kissed the fabric, his eyes fluttering shut.       

__

taglist:     @silencedleviathan @alexfayer @ledger-kaos @ma-ntequilla @discodeakky @richiethotzierz @thisloveisreal1 @heartsarecompatible @thelondondreamer5 @brian-may-brian-may @okqueenie @gailymlee @trickster-may @bubblypenguin123 @queensdarlingg @soloosunflower @dvndermifflinassociate @fredthelegend @miez-lakatz @arrowswithwifi @mouse507 @mespetitestortues @yourstateofdreaming @pamoreno @helenathe3rd @allie-of-asgard @deacytits @hystericallyqueen @missqueeniewrites @bulsarahutton @paper-queer-plane  @xilann  (message me if i forgot you/you want to be added!)     

[mactuna]

ђคгɭєץ ợยєєภ

↠ summary: jisol isn’t the only who got run over by the gossip train... and in the process, she learned a lot more than she was ever supposed to... (lmao this is such a trashy summary!!)

↠ idea: jungkook x oc!! bts mafia au!! kpop universe!!]

↠ part 1 [] part 2 [] part 3 [] part 4?

“I’ll bring you your stuff later, ok sis? Just please don’t trip on yourself if you see Han Jisung. Please.”

“For the last time! I DON’T LIKE HIM!”

“Sure sis… you definitely don’t have a sketchbook of drawings of him.”

“You can stop talking now!”

The two had arrived at Jeongmi’s new room, because college dorms were way too expensive. And lucky for her, there was a Min Jisol who was looking for a roommate.

“I’ll bring your stuff around later, ok?”

“Ok… bye!”

But in his defense, Jungkook believed he had the right to be worried about his little sister. Because he was pretty darn sure he knew exactly how her roommate was: the infamous Min Jisol of Daegu Town High School. She was the girl that everyone warned you about. It was obvious she smoked because she always coughed as if she had smoker’s lung and could literally collapse at any given moment. And Jesus Christ, she always smelled like goddamn alcohol! She always seemed as if she had tried to get the stank of alcohol off, but in the end she miserably failed and the smell basically radiated off of her. But of course, can’t forget that she was always late and skipping class. The problem? She never got in trouble for it. To top it all off, she graduated as valedictorian. Combined with her popularity amongst the boys for her looks, it was no surprise when the gossip train tooted about Jisol sleeping around with the administration to get straight A’s. Hence, she was basically the queen of the school in all aspects. Despite all the obvious warning signs, people loved her. Earning her the nickname, Harley Queen.

But Jungkook was barely any better and he knew it. His reputation wasn’t exactly spotless since he hit high school. Puberty had treated him very kindly, earning the attention from all the girls within the school district. Especially at sport competitions. And every so often, a girl would ask to speak to him somewhere quiet. Alone. Like a lost lamb, he would follow. He never did anything, didn’t even touch them, yet the gossip train tooted that Jungkook had a knack for quickies and breaking the girls’ hearts once he was done with them. Because of this one fact, Jungkook had begrudgingly agreed to let Jeongmi room with Jisol. Maybe she was just another victim of the gossip train, just like him.  Or maybe it was just his grudge against her for… a number of reasons.

“Ok… bye Jungkook!”

“I’ll bring your stuff up in like, two hours ok?”

“Uh-huh. Goodbye!”

Obviously, Jeongmi was super embarrassed that her brother was basically dropping her off at her first apartment. And she didn’t want to make a bad first impression, so she did everything in her power to shoo him away. But as soon as the door opened, Jeongmi was shocked by the girl’s beauty in front of her. All of her doubts disappeared into thin air and she found herself bowing awkwardly.

“Hello, my name is Jeongmi. It’s really nice to meet you!”

But Jisol was already busting a lung with laughter.

“You are so cute!! But anyway, you don’t have to act so formal around me. We’re roommates now Jeongmi. As you probably know, my name’s Jisol and welcome to the apartment!”

Despite having only met once or twice, Jeongmi already felt the bond forming between them.

“Do you need any help bringing your stuff up or anything?”

“Actually, my brother is bringing up my stuff in a couple of hours.”

“Girl, that’s honestly sibling goals. My brother would tell me to suck it up and be independent like all the girls in the world preach about.”

But now, Jeongmi was confused as hell. How in the world did Jisol have such awful rumors circulating about her? She was honestly one of the sweetest, most wholesome Jeongmi had ever met. But for Jisol? She was just over the moon that there was someone who was willing to give her a clean slate and actually get to know her. Not try to kiss up to her just so she could be referred to one of the guys. The reason everyone thought she was a slut was that most of her friends were guys. Mostly because the other girls at school were entirely too judgemental. And super bitchy.

“Feel free to explore, Jeongmi. Lol, you don’t have to be so nervous. You kinda live her now?”

And Jeongmi was like, why the hell does it literally smell like freaking daisies? Smoker’s lung, my foot! There wasn’t even the slightest whiff of smoke or alcohol anywhere. That’s when the knock came faintly. Which Jeongmi barely heard.

“Hi, I’m Jungkook, Jeongmi’s older brother. I came to drop off her stuff?”

Already, Jungkook was gaining attention from the neighbors. Mostly because the apartment was a hot spot for college kids who couldn’t afford or didn’t want to live in a dorm.

“Unnie, do you mind if he comes inside? Because there are literally people crowding the hallway just to stare at him. And it’s kinda gross?”

“Yeah, of course! Come on in.”

See, Jeongmi was totally clueless to the history between Jungkook and Jisol. They had been rivals at everything, all the way up until high school. But that was a different story. Sighing, Jisol let him in, promising herself to be civil for Jeongmi’s sake, if not hers.

As for Jungkook, he was surprised to see the two three-star black belts hanging in the open closet and the sheer amount of beat-up medical textbooks on the kitchen table.

“Do you want anything to drink?”

“Uh, no. I’m good actually. But thanks.”

And he was 100% surprised at how well Jisol was keeping her cool. Taking the heavy box from him, Jisol gave Jungkook a tight smile.

“I  can help Jeongmi unpack if you have somewhere you need to be.”

But Jisol knew that look in his eyes all too well. There was no way this could be the apartment of the Harley Queen, right? There was no way that the Queen would actually be reading and studying to get good grades, right? She had to be hiding the booze somewhere, right? The drugs? The weed? The cigarette packs? And Jungkook understood the tone of dismissal in her voice all too well.

“Then I’ll be going then. Bye, Mi!”

But as Jungkook made his way down to his car, he couldn’t but think of the little collage of Jisol’s baby pictures on the wall. One of them was of the two of them holding hands as they crossed the street. Groaning out loud, Jungkook looked towards the sky.

“STOP BEING IN MY LIFE MIN JISOL!!!!!”

Why was his life so intertwined with Jisol’s?!! On top of already being entangled with every aspect of his life, why was she his ex-girlfriend from preschool too?!! He thought he’d erased his memory of her a long time ago!!

When Jungkook got back to the house, he wasn’t surprised to find Yoongi watching TV on the couch.

“So… how did it go?”

“I mean, Jeongmi seems to really like her, so I guess that’s all that matters.”

Shaking his head, Yoongi sat up straight.

“But I asked what your thoughts on Jisol are?”

“She’s… a lot different from what I expected.”

“How so?”

“She seems a lot more… put together than everyone takes her for. There’s not a single trace of cologne, smoke, drugs, or alcohol in there. I honestly have no idea how the hell these rumors formed about her. She seems really nice.”

“Well… she has changed a lot since high school ended. Plus, the rumors are mostly my fault. But I thought you were-”

“What are you talking about, hyung?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Jungkook. However, this story isn’t entirely mine to tell, so it’d be a tad unfair if she weren’t here to explain the entirety of the situation.”

“But-”

“No.”

Grumbling, Jungkook made his way to the shower. He knew where he stood among the seven guys as the youngest: at the top. But when it came to Yoongi? That was all null and void.

“YAH JUNGKOOK-AH! JOONIE HAS A MISSION FOR YOU, JIMIN, AND TAE!!”

Jin yelled through the door, banging on it to disrupt the peace of the hot, running water.

“Ok hyung! I’ll be out soon! BUT YOU BREAK THAT DOOR I SWEAR-”

“BYE!”

But why was Tae coming on this mission? That almost never happened. He was the one who usually stayed back to work the comms and get all the inside info that was necessary to send to whoever was out in the field. But if he was coming, Joon-hyung’s mission for them had to be insanely top priority if Tae was coming out to play. 10 minutes later, the boys were seated on the floor in front of Joon.

“Does everyone here know Song Yuri?”

“Yeah. We’re all in the same biology class.”

“Well we just found out from our spy that Yuri is actually the heiress of the Ahn Empire in Daegu.”

“Wait… aren’t they the ones-”

“Who created a memory implanter and have passed down some secret through generations, using it?!!”

“Yes, that one. And if everyone else knows, then everyone is going to be gunning for her. She’s dating one of the NCT boys so we have to be careful. From what we know, she’s close with all of the NCT boys so we have to be careful. The reason I chose you three is because you have a subconscious memory of Yuri’s behavioral patterns So please bring her back alive. Got that?”

“Yes hyung.”

“Good. We’ve also got word that it’s one of the Dreamies’ birthdays today so they’ll be vulnerable. I will take the other hyungs to take them out, ok?”

“Ok hyung. See you later!”

________________________________________________________________

A/N: OKAY YAY PART 1 IS DONE OF THE BLOOD UNIVERSE SERIES!! lmao idek if i actually want to turn all the “books” of this series into the same universe but we’ll see:) btw i literally just fangirled so hard in the car when dream glow came on LOL!

↠ part 1 [] part 2 [] part 3 [] part 4?

[deanssweetheart23]

Five Years Of Christmas

Title: Five Years Of Chirstmas (Mechanic!Dean AU)

Summary: 25th December 2013. Dean isn’t looking for love. In fact, he’s doing his best to steer as clear from it as possible. And then he meets her. The girl that shows up at his brother’s party only to turn his entire world upside down and makes him believe in the magic of Christmas again. So, he falls for her, falls so quickly that no one in the room even hears the sound. And that is the beginning of their story.

Author: deanssweetheart23

Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy (mentioned), Autumn Brae Winchester (OFC), Benny Laffite, Lisa Braeden (mentioned)

Word count: 8129 (it’s a monster fic, I know, but it’s worth it)

Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Some language. Implied smut. Death of parents, references to loss, grief and infedility (not Dean associated). Domestic Dean Bean (yes, totally a warning)

Author’s Notes: This is my submission for @d-s-winchester‘s 12 Days of Christmas Challenge. Ashley, thank you so, so much for letting me participate and being so kind and understanding when I asked for an extension. I hope this was worth the wait.

Also, special thank you to my amazing friend slash sunflower @trexrambling because she beta’d this entire thing and helped me figure out how to make this story better and more beautiful. This would have never been posted without her.

My prompt for this was Baby, It’s Cold Outside by Michael Bublé and Idina Menzel (I love it btw) and it’s been used both as an inspiration and a key for the plot of this fic.

Thank you all so much for sticking with me and Merry Christmas! <3

Wednesday, 25 December, 2013

Arkansas Street, Lawrence

Dean knows she’s trouble the first time he sees her.

He’s leaning against one of the bookshelves in his brother’s living room, tiny snowflakes still sprinkled across his hair, and even though there are so many things he could have noticed, the fresh evergreen branches and the printed patterned ribbons and a Christmas tree with plaid garments, she’s the first thing that catches his attention.

He finds her dancing on top of a sofa, one of her hands reaching up towards the ceiling while the other holds a mustache stick close to her upper lip, and God, she’s singing, she’s actually singing Michael Bublé’s part in Baby, It’s Cold Outside while his little niece is sitting on the floor, just a couple of feet away, giggling and clapping her hands giddily.

And though there are reindeer antlers on her head and her tiny feet are engulfed in a ridiculous pair of red and green fuzzy socks and she probably looks like a mess in that oversized Christmas sweater of hers, Dean’s sure he’s never seen anything more radiant in his life.

It’s there, in the way she moves and laughs and sings so completely out of tune, in the way her eyes shine, alive with a warmth Dean has never seen in a stranger’s eyes before, in the way she just lives in the moment, and everything else around her ceases to exist.

He’s smitten.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Sam’s voice crawls deep into his thoughts, and he’s so lost in his own little world, so lost in her, that he doesn’t understand what is happening until he hears himself humming in response.

His brother chuckles.

He turns to look at him, chin jutted in offense.

“Dude, don’t gimme that look. You were obviously staring.”

“Shut up.” A pause. Eyes glancing towards her again. “Who is she, anyway?”

“Eileen’s roommate from college. Just moved back from Italy.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” Sam smirks, patting his brother on the back. “Totally single, by the way.”

A groan.

Eyes rolled skywards.

“What?”

“Man, you got to stop trying to hook me up with friends of your wife.”

“I’m not, I swear,” Sam huffs out, hands thrown up in surrender. “All I’m saying is, she’s kind and smart and I like her. And,” -he jabs a finger at her direction- “Autumn Brae loves her.”

Dean shakes his head a bit then and lets his eyes drift back to the fascinating girl with the lively eyes, the girl that dances with his niece and blows Eskimo kisses on her nose and tickles her sides.

Her eyes dart up and meet his and she smiles.

She doesn’t know him, she’s never even spoken to him before, but she smiles like she does, like he’s a dear friend, a smile that’s all softness and sweetness and sunshine.

He nods at her, “Nice mustache.” He smirks before he can stop himself.

Her cheeks flush pink.

She bits her bottom lip and he’s sure she’s going to look away but-

“Nice smile,” she retorts.

And he’d give anything to come up with something smart to say, he’d give anything to impress her and smirk and flirt in that way he knows makes women swoon but, somehow, he feels like that’s not nearly enough with her.

He makes sure to sit next to her at the dinner table that night.

Friday, 27 December, 2013

Merriam Ln, Kansas City

Dean had stopped looking for love a long time ago.

He used to, once, back when he was younger and the world was much simpler, a place swirled around his parents’ fiery glances and their inside jokes and a love so profound he thought nothing and no one would be able to conquer it.

He’s seen enough since then though, has seen too much, and knows that true love does fall apart, and the world is a pretty crappy place and there’s no justice, no magic in it, just like there’s no point in falling in love just to get your heart broken in the process.

Because he had had his heart broken. And ripped out of his chest. And stood up at the altar.

So, yes.

Dean’s not looking for love anymore.

But as he sees the way Y/N’s eyes shine in the dim light of his car, its soft glow dancing across textures and shades and edges he so desperately wants to trace with his fingers, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s found it anyway.

“Are you sure this is edible?” Y/N asks after a few seconds, voice laced with a bit of uncertainty as she squints suspiciously at the paper box of Poutine in front of her.

They’re at a drive-in movie theater, slumped in the front seats of the Impala, and she’s got one of those blankets he keeps at the trunk of his car wrapped around her because she is always too cold for her own sake.

She looks like a burrito.

The thought makes him smile.

“Kid, I’m telling you this is one of the best street foods in America right now.”

“Yes, but is it safe? Because it looks like-”

“A mess. Yes, that’s the whole point. Just,” he spreads his hands and locks eyes with her, wide and pleading, “try it.”

She pouts, brows furrowed into a curious scowl. “Okay. But if something happens to me-”

“You’ll serenade me to death with Baby, It’s Cold Outside. Yeah, okay.”

She groans and rolls her eyes, but he can see the brightness there, can see the amusement and the playfulness as she takes a reluctant bite.

Silence and then-

“Oh my God,” she moans, looking up at him, “dude, this tastes like heaven.”

He chuckles, a rich, loose chuckle that dances in the empty space of his car and nestles between them.

“You like it then?” he asks, hopeful and pleased and just a tad cheeky.

“Do I like it? S’ so –how did you even know about this?”

He shrugs, something nonchalant, and hands her a cold beer.

“Got a buddy that spent a couple of years in Canada before moving here. He’s the one that told me to try it out.”

She nods and takes a swig from her beer. “Did he also suggest taking me ice-skating on the first date?”

A groan.

Eyes rolled skywards.

“You’re never going to let me hear the end of that, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, for the record, I’m actually terrific at ice skating.”

“Obviously.” She shakes her head, raises her brow a bit. “I mean, that fall on the ice was definitely terrific.”

“Hey,” he groans, pursing his lips, “I was just trying to keep you entertained.”

“And you almost lost a leg in the process.” She snorts. But then. “Seriously though. I had a really good time today.”

And though she’s fidgeting as the words come out, he can tell it’s a genuine statement, and he smiles, just a tug of his lips upwards, but so thankful, so heartfelt.

“Hmmm. Sounds like someone’s impressed.”

She laughs.

Her lips curl up in a smirk.

“Or. This could be the booze talking.”

“Oh, yeah, blame it on the beer, you lightweight.”

More laughter and eyes that shine brighter than any star he’s ever seen.

Fingers that tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

God, he really wants to kiss her.

He clears his throat, quietly.

“What?” she asks, nervous half-smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“Nothing, I’m just,” he scratches the back of his neck, “m’ glad Eileen invited you to that Christmas dinner.”

She beams and Jesus Christ, it’s brilliant.

“Me too.” Her fingers brush up against his. “She’s…. She’s just amazing, you know? She’s the only college friend that actually stayed in touch after I moved to Italy. And she’s been so helpful since I moved back.”

Dean nods, mind drifting to Eileen and how selfless and loving and accepting she is, how hard she tried to win him over when she started dating his brother, how she loves him like he’s family and makes Sam happier than he’s ever seen him.

“Yeah, she’s pretty awesome.”

“Runs in the family, doesn’t it?”

He chuckles, but it’s bitter and darker than before.

“I dunno about that, kid.” He thumbs the label on his beer bottle. “I come with a lot of baggage. Eileen, uh…” He rubs at his forehead. “She said Sam’s told you about Lisa.”

The muscles in her face tighten.

She knits her brows in a frown.

“I didn’t ask him, if that’s what you think. I mean, I might have asked about you, but not like –Sam only wanted-”

“Hey,” he soothes, placing his hand on her arm gently, “’s okay. I’d rather you didn’t know that my fiancée dumped me at the altar for someone else, obviously, but it’s not like it’s your fault my brother can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“It wasn’t like that. Autumn Brae...” She sighs, eyes going a bit narrow. “She was going through some photos of their wedding and there was a picture of you and Lisa there and-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her firmly, but his jaw still clenches a bit. “That was years ago, but she just… What happened with her really messed me up, kid. And m’ still probably not as great as Sam and Eileen paint me to be.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not Little Miss Sunshine either.” She snorts and pushes some hair off her face. “I got plenty of issues I need to work on. Family stuff, personal crap I need to deal with, all that jazz. But. That’s conversation for like, the sixth date, so…”

“Sixth date, huh?”

“M’ willing to bribe you with homemade Italian cuisine. Hell, I’ll even add my famous tiramisu to the mix if you’re willing to put up with me that long.” She grins. “What do ya think?”

He smirks then, and leans closer, close enough that he can feel the heat that’s radiating off her. He tries hard not to think how much he wants to lose himself in it, and reaches for her hand, small and soft in his large one.

She looks up.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away, sweetheart,” he whispers, and she flushes, lips trembling into a shy, radiant smile.

He never once pays attention to the movie when it starts.

Monday, 30 December, 2013

Tennessee Street, Lawrence

Dean’s in way over his head.

He has known it from the very beginning, has known it from the moment he locked eyes with her and felt like a part of him had returned home, but it’s only getting clearer, only getting more evident now that they’re walking around the crowded Christmas market trying to find a present for his niece, and every time he catches her staring he just wants to lean over and kiss her until he can’t breathe anymore.

The Polaroid flashes for what feels like the hundredth time that day, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He groans.

“What?” she asks, a nervous chuckle escaping her.

“You do realize I know you just took a picture of me, right?”

She smiles then and, even though it’s nervous, there’s a glow to it that does funny things to his heart.

“Always so observant, Sherlock.” She waits for the photo to print, then hands it to him. “Here. S’ a good one.”

It really is a good one.

“So, I take it you like photography?” 

“Kinda, yeah.” She gnaws on her bottom lip. “I, um… I actually wanted to become a photographer when I was a kid.”

And he’s not sure whether he’s supposed to ask but-

“Why didn’t you?”

She sighs, lets her eyes drift to the floor for a second.

“Y/N, look, you don’t have to-”

“My parents… I’m not sure whether Sam’s told you anything about them but they’re very difficult people. Very frigid, very driven. They, uh,” she laughs, but it’s harsh and there’s a darkness in it that hadn’t been there before, “run one of the most prestigious business companies in Kansas so, having a photographer daughter just didn’t fit into the kind of high profile they wanted to keep.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know.” She rocks back and forth on her heels a little, seemingly thinking about something. “There was this program… I got accepted into it after I graduated high school. My parents and I got into a terrible fight about it so, I ended up getting into Princeton instead.” She gulps, head tilted to the right. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Princeton was great, and I love the job I have now but…”

“Your relationship with your parents was never quite the same,” he whispers, careful to keep his voice void of all emotion.

She nods, bottom lip wobbling.

“We were never close, but,” she runs a hand over her face, “they’ve been crappier and way more judgmental about my life choices since then. Which is why I spent the past five years working in Italy. Hiding is easier than dealing with them, sometimes.”

His jaw clenches.

He tries hard not to think about the scars those people have left on her, tries hard not to think that they might match his, despite the fact he’d grieved for the loss of his parents after they died in a car accident, while she’d grieved for the loss of hers whilst they were still alive.

Maybe that was worse.

“Well,” Dean mumbles and lets his fingers lace with hers, then grips, “for the record, I think they have no idea what they’re missing out on.”

She cracks a small, shadowy smile. “Thanks, D,” She whispers. Her eyes drift to the Polaroid he’s still holding. “You should keep that one.”

“Kid, I-”

She takes a step closer to him, purses her lips in a pout.

“Please?”

He chuckles.

God, how can he say no to her?

“Okay, but,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and lets his knuckles brush against her skin for just a second, “I want to see the rest, too, if that’s alright.”

“The rest?”

He grins and it’s all mischief and brightness. “Everything you got,” he says.

“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Over dinner at my house. I’ll even let you buy me ice cream.”

“How considerate of you.”

“Just be glad I’m a cheap date, sweetheart.” He smirks and she laughs.

He knows then, knows with a certainty that’s beyond him and seeps into his bones, into his very marrow, that he’ll never fall deeper in love with a laugh.

He kisses her outside the ice cream parlor that same evening.

Thursday 25 December 2014

Massachusetts Street, Lawrence

Dean can’t take his eyes off her.

They’re strolling down the snow-covered streets together, surrounded by Christmas lights and large, fluffy flakes of whiteness, and still, all he sees, all he can see is the soft girl in his arms, the one that marched into his life a year ago and turned it upside down just by being in it.

“Are you sure Sam and Eileen were okay with us leaving so early?” Y/N asks, biting the inside of her cheek nervously.

He snorts out a laugh. “Oh, please. Benny and the Harvelles were still there. They won’t even notice we’re gone.”

Y/N arches an eyebrow at his response but he just chuckles and presses a kiss on the top of her head, lips brushing against the fabric of the burgundy beanie she’s wearing.

“We should have stayed a bit longer. Eileen worked so hard to make this dinner perfect.”

“And it was. But as much as I enjoyed getting my nails painted by Autumn Brae, I’d like to spend the rest of my time doing very adult things with you,” he gloats. “’Sides. We’re having breakfast with your parents first thing in the morning, remember?”

“Yeah, I’m actually trying to forget that,” she deadpans, brows furrowed in a scowl. “Do we really have to go? S’ not like they’ll care.”

And he knows she doesn’t want to sound bitter, knows she tries very hard not to let the venom that’s been poisoning her seep into her voice, but she does because she’s so tired of trying to win a battle that’s already been lost, tired of trying to make the two people that are supposed to love her unconditionally actually care about her.

So, he shakes his head and wears the fakest smile he’s ever worn in front of her.

“You know they will,” he says, squeezing her hand tight into his.

“D. -”

“Look,” he starts, “they’re not my favorite people in the world, alright? I know they got tons of flaws and they made lots of mistakes and they never valued you enough.” The muscle in his jaw twitches, but he just licks his lips and carries on, “But they’re trying, kid.”

“Are they? Because they’ve been treating you-”

“—c’mon, don’t go there.”

“No, Dean. They’ve been treating you like crap for months,” she retorts, and though Dean knows she’s trying to keep her emotions at bay, they’re tumbling out of her very soul, illustrated in the way she clenches her jaw and juts her chin.

“They have been nasty about your job and your family and the fact you didn’t go to college so that your brother could, and I’m just –you don’t deserve that because you’ve been,” she lets out a nervous chuckle and spreads her hands in a spread-armed shrug, “you’ve been everything I could ever ask for and-”

“Hey,” Dean whispers, titling her chin, “breathe.”

He gives her a second, lets her frustration burn out until all the angry things she wants to say are swallowed up by the crispy night air.

And then.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what your parents think of me,” he tells her, but there’s no hatred there, no bitterness or pain or tartness. Just the truth, spoken into the darkness only for her to hear.

“Not when I got you. I wish we could get along, obviously, because they’re your parents and you’re –you’re too important to me. But this.” He laces their fingers together and brings their joined hands to his lips. “God, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.” He kisses her knuckles sweetly. “And I’m not letting them ruin it.”

She smiles, and it’s a smile he’s seen there before on afternoons spent by the fireplace with Vonnegut books and wine flavored kisses, in between tangled sheets and mornings when they wash each other in the shower, fingers running leisurely through shampooed hair, and in those nights they spend making lazy love like it’s the first and the last time.

It’s the smile that lets him know he’s not the only one feeling this way.

It’s the smile he loves.

“So,” he drags his fingers through her hair, “you and I are going to go out with them tomorrow, and we’re going to have fun and whisper inappropriate things to each other until they give us that murderous look you hate so much.” He smirks, all spark and playfulness. “And then, we’re going to come back home, and I’ll give you that gift I’ve been bugging you about.”

A lazy grin spreads across her face.

“So, you’ll just wear that pair of godawful Santa boxers you bought from the mall and dance for me?”

He lets out a loose chuckle, green eyes sparkling in mischief as his mind drifts to the new professional camera that’s wrapped in a plaid patterned roll, just waiting for her under his Christmas tree.

“Well, that wasn’t the plan, but if you’re into that kind of thing, I’m sure we can-”

“Shut up.” She whines and smacks his chest, trying to push him away.

He wraps his arms around her middle, firmly.

“C’mere, kid.” He cups her face with his large hands. “You’re cute when you blush, you know that?”

“Am not. M’ vicious and scary.”

“Hmmm,” he nuzzles her nose, leaning in, “so vicious, tiger.”

He kisses her then, lets his mouth brush up against hers, all purpose and fire, and smiles when he realizes he can taste the apple pie they’ve shared earlier, can feel the Tennessee Whiskey she’s been drinking on her lips.

“So,” he beams when it’s all over, hands precariously low on her back, “everything you could ever ask for, huh?”

“Well, yes,” she grins, “I love you, D.” She traces his jawline with her thumb. “Christmas Grinch and all.”

“Pffft. M’ so not a Christmas Grinch.”

A chuckle.

Lips curved into a smirk.

“Sure you’re not, old man.”

“Old man?” he growls out as he lets go of her, eyes drifting to a pile of snow beside him. “Careful, sweetheart. You don’t wanna poke the bear now, do you?”

She breathes out air through her nose, hand on her hip.

“M’ not poking the bear. I’m poking the Grinch,” she says with a brilliant, unwavering grin.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, you brat,” he hisses, reaching out for a handful of snow, smashing it in his hands.

“Dean, don’t you dare.”

“What, you’re scared now?” he asks, heat dancing in his eyes. “You were such a smart mouth just a few seconds ago, baby.”

“Dean, I’m warning you. If you throw that snow –you jerk!” she shouts as the ball crushes right against her chest, flecks of snow dotting her coat and the Y/H/C of her hair, but he just laughs because he isn’t even sure he’s played in the snow before.

She reciprocates after that, allows the snow to fly back and forth until their clothes are soaked, and they’re exhausted and limbless and frosted to their very bones.

She never stops though, wild laughter spilling from her lips as she runs away from him to collect more ammo, and he sees a chance and takes it, lunges for her and pins her to the ground with him.

And he’s sure the fall must have been painful, but she blinks, a pleased, half-smile spreading across her lips, lighting him up like a firework.

Leaning closer, he holds her hands above her head and takes everything in, the flushed cheeks and the snow-painted eyelashes and those brilliant eyes that look at him like no other eyes ever had.

He feels alive.

“What?”

He feels them then, feels those three little words he’s never told anyone since Lisa ready to slip out of his mouth and nestle into her softness and, this time, he’s not afraid, not willing to hold them back.

“I love you,” he whispers, and she beams, like he’s just whispered the words to her old favorite song.

It’s the happiest moment of his life.

Friday, 25 December, 2015

Karl Johans Gate, Oslo

Dean’s never been abroad before.

He’s never been particularly fond of the idea, never really cared to see what was beyond the little world he’d built for himself because he was content, he was safe there.

And then she came along.

Y/N waltzed into his life with her ugly Christmas sweater and her ridiculous fuzzy socks and brought with her colors and feelings and love, the love he’d given up on, the love he thought he’d never deserve again, and let them wrap around him like a vine until they seeped into his veins, into his very being and became a part of him.

He’s felt it before, felt that change creeping in through stolen kisses and drunken nights at Irish pubs, and he feels it again now that he’s leaned against the wall of one of the oldest hotel rooms in Oslo and watches in amusement as Y/N stands in the balcony and leans over slightly so she can take the perfect picture of the frozen landscape.

Joining her outside, he wraps his arms around her waist quietly and presses a soft kiss on that spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Taking pictures already, aren’t we?”

With a hum, Y/N lets the camera hang from the strap around her neck. “Well, we have to fill that scrapbook somehow.”

“You mean the one that’s already been filled?”

She snorts, placing her hands over his and squeezing. “No, I mean the one I just bought, smartass.”

“Hmmm,” he mumbles, brushing his nose against her neck, “go on then.”

“Yeah, I can’t if you keep that up.”

The words come out in a whine, but he feels her shiver against him, hears the way the breath hitches in her throat and her heart beats just a little faster and loves the fact that, after two years, he still has that effect on her.

“Seriously, s’ distracting.”

He smirks, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“What, that?” He trails kisses up the column of her neck leisurely. “Or maybe, it’s this,” he gloats, hands wandering lower, to that junction of her thigh and hip.

A groan.

Shaky breaths.

“D., cut it out.”

More kisses.

“D., I’m serious,” she warns, finally managing to turn around and face him. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Says who?”

“You,” she says, clasping her hands around his waist with a coy smile. “You promised you’d take me to the Christmas market today. And I want to see Ibsen’s house. And go to the National Gallery. And try the potato pancakes.”

“Well, yes, but,” he takes the camera off her carefully and places it on the table next to him, then walks until he’s got her pinned against the wall, “we could totally do that later in case you, ya know, want to show me how grateful you are for this trip.”

She laughs then, and he swears it’s the sunniest sound he’s ever heard.

“Real smooth, Mr. Winchester.”

He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes light and bright as they flicker across her face.

“Well, not everyone can be as smooth as you, Fuzzy Socks.”

She rolls her eyes, but he still sees through her, sees the smile she’s trying to hide.

“You’re an ass, you know that?”

“Yes,” he brushes his mouth against hers, sweet and drifting, “but you love me.”

The corner of her mouth pulls up.

Her eyes lock onto his, something sincere.

“Yeah,” she whispers, hands trailing up around the back of his neck, “I do. I really do.”

And he wishes there were enough words to explain how much that little sentence means to him, what she means to him, but they never are, so he just leans in and presses his lips against hers, pours everything he feels into a kiss that’s gentler than rose petals and warmer than the first day of summer.

They pull away, breathless but sated.

“Listen, I have...” he lets his head drop on her shoulder, then swallows, hard. “I have an idea. But it’s insane.”

“Your ideas are always insane.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She kisses his jaw, fingertips grazing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Rough, calloused hands caress her cheeks.

“Wanna hear it then?”

“Hmmm.”

He lets out a soft laugh and leans in, until his mouth is inches away from her ear.

And then.

“Let’s get married,” he says.

Her jaw almost drops to the ground.

For a second, there’s nothing but silence, eerie and white silence dancing in the air between them, save from the sounds of strangers passing by the street in front the hotel, laughing and shouting and chatting.

He blinks, second-guesses himself.

“Dean, is this –do you mean this?”

“’Course I do, kid. C’mon,” a small kiss, “follow me.”

Taking her hand in his, he leads her inside the room and reaches for his duffel bag, fingers wrapping around a little velvet box.

“Here,” he waits until she snaps the box open to reveal a simple diamond ring with a platinum twisted band, “it, uh… This was my mum’s.”

“Dean-”

“No, just –I’ve been carrying this with me everywhere for months because I hoped.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I love you,” he says. “I love you so much that is scares me sometimes, and I don’t,” he sighs, and squeezes her fingers, “God, kid, I don’t want to wait anymore.”

She smiles, sparkling and rosy and real.

“Then don’t.”

A skipped heartbeat.

Brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“Does that mean that-”

“I’ll marry you? I dunno, D. Why don’t you ask me again?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

He just looks at her, at the girl he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and lets go.

“Marry me.”

“Yes,” she kisses him, “yes,” -kiss-“yes,” -kiss- “yes,” -kiss- “yes, I’ll marry you, you ass.”

It’s all heat and need and secret smiles after that, ragged breaths and lingering touches the only thing he can focus on until he lays her on the bed and makes love to her like he’s never made love to her before, whispering praises and sweet nothings and tender nonsense into her ear.

She follows him over the edge a million kisses later, then holds onto him, hides her face in the crook of his shoulder as he crashes on her and laughs, and it’s all because of him.

“Man,” he brushes sweaty locks of hair off her face, “merry Christmas to us.”

She chuckles, the sound vibrating into his lungs.

“I thought you didn’t like Christmas.”

He shifts a little then, presses his lips on her forehead.

“I do now,” he beams.

He’s the luckiest man on Earth.

Sunday, 25 December, 2016

Kentucky Street, Lawrence

Dean doesn’t deserve her.

He knows she’s too good for him, he’s always known it, but somehow has managed to bury the thought deep within the fragments of his soul.

It still hits him sometimes, though, hits him in the least expected moments, when he steals glances of her getting ready for work or when she’s asleep next to him in the mornings, hair a bird’s nest, smile soft and serene, and he swears that he’s never seen anything more perfect in his life.

It’s there then and it’s here now that her parents’ disapproval is getting to him again and her mum’s words are echoing soundlessly in his mind, a horrifying mantra.

You’re going to be her downfall.

How can she say that? How can she even think that when she knows that Dean would give everything, his job and his life, his very soul, to make her daughter happy? How can she say that when he’s spent the past year working double shifts just to give Y/N the wedding he knows she’s always dreamt of, even though she’d told him time and time again that all she wants is to marry him, pomp and circumstance be damned?

Y/N enters the kitchen, dressed in his light grey sweater, the one he bought to impress her parents the first time he met them, and even though he’d normally be unable to take his eyes off her bare legs or that soft spot on her neck that’s still bruised from his ministrations, now his eyes are locked on hers, on how puffy and swollen they look.

His heart clenches in his chest when he realizes it’s because of the fight they had the night before when he discovered that she was offered a position for a photography program in Paris and had declined it –for him, because of him- and never told him.

He’d been mad then, mad she didn’t tell him anything, mad that she’d given up on something so big for his sake without even asking him.

“Hey,” he rasps out.

He wishes he had something better to say, but he doesn’t.

Jesus, he hates fighting with her.

“Hi.” An awkward pause. Eyes that look anywhere but him. “Uh, can we talk?”

He blinks.

“Yeah,” he runs a hand over his face, “yeah, let’s do that.”

She nods, a thankful, relieved nod, and licks her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, and it’s weak and shaky and genuine. “I should have told you about Paris. I just… God, I’m an idiot.” She wraps her arms around her middle, a self-deprecating laugh escaping her.

“Y/N-”

“I never applied for that program,” she says, like she doesn’t hear him, like she doesn’t notice how her name leaves his lips in a prayer. “One of the instructors just happened to be at that exhibition I did in Kansas last summer. He liked my work, so-”

“So, he offered you a position in it.”

“Yeah. And my mum was here the day he called, or I wouldn’t have told her, trust me.”

His forehead puckers.

“I know. But why,” he lets out a brittle chuckle and shakes his head, “why didn’t you tell me?”

And it’s just a simple question, but it’s laced with wounded pride and concern and a heart that’s been painfully scarred far too many times and he knows, the moment the words leave his lips, he knows she sees it, too.

“Because I said I wouldn’t go. And I didn’t want you to worry over something that wouldn’t happen.” She ducks her head, juts her chin a bit. “And I was wrong, and I could come up with a million excuses, but you don’t deserve that.” She doesn’t look up at him, “You deserve an apology.”

“I don’t want an apology,” he says, flinging his hands up. “I want you to trust me. I want you to not let me make the same mistakes your parents did.”

“But I don’t want to go. Not this time.” She presses her mouth into a thin line, fights with herself for a few fleeting seconds. “Dean, I love photography, but it’s not what I want to do for a living anymore. Because I love my life here. Because I love you.” She crushes the heel of her hands over her eyes. “God, D., I love you more than anything in the world and I know sometimes you –I don’t want you to think you’re not enough for me. That having you isn’t enough to make me happy. Because it is.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s just,” he runs a hand over his face, “c’mere, kid.”

She walks closer to him and reaches out to touch him, letting him lace their fingers together.

“Do you know I used to hate that ridiculous Michael Bublé song until I met you?”

“You did?”

He chuckles, just a little under his breath, and curls an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“Yeah, but then…” He takes in a deep breath and smiles, all love and longing for the memories waltzing in his mind. “Then I saw you dancing to it that night and… Now every time I listen to it, all I can think about is how it made me fall in love with the craziest woman I know.”

“Hey,” she whines, smacking his arm, and he laughs and tightens his grip around her, “m’ not crazy.”

“Yes, you are, kid.” He tilts her chin up. “And I love that about you.” A kiss that’s fleeting, soft and fragrant. “And that’s why I’m going to ask you to think about that offer again.”

“Dean-”

“Nope.” He clasps a hand at the side of her face. “Just listen to me for a sec. I know photography’s just a hobby. But you’re too good at it. And this is a pretty great opportunity.”

“But-”

“I want you to go.”

“D., we’re getting married in four months. The program starts in August.”

“Yeah, well. We can reschedule. It’s a six months program, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then we’re having a Christmas wedding. Next year.” He leans in, nuzzles her neck. “What do you think?”

She leans against him, fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt.

“How did I ever get so lucky with you?”

“I got no idea, but,” he braces his forehead against hers, lets his arms wander under the sweater she’s wearing, “you’re about to get luckier in about, uh, five maybe six minutes?”

She barks out a laugh, nose nuzzled against his.

“God, I love you.” she whispers.

“So, that’s a yes?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.” He kisses her and this time it’s all depth and desperation and need. “It is if you promise you’ll come back to me.”

It’s the only moment he allows his walls to crack, the only moment he lets his armor down and lets her see him, see through him, through his fears and worries and tears, and she smiles.

“I’ll always come back, D.”

That’s more than he could have ever asked for.

Wednesday, 11 October, 2017

Rue des Francs Bourgeois, Paris

Dean can see why she likes Paris so much.

He can see it from the moment he sets foot on the City of Lights, can see it when he feels that last ray of daylight dance across his skin and knows that it’s somehow different, somehow brighter than the ones that cast light to his own world, back at Lawrence.

And he feels it, too.

There’s a fascinating kind of frenzy strapped to every street, every boulevard and cathedral and café he passes, and he can easily picture her flowing out of the bookstalls, with a newspaper and a croissant in hand, hurrying to get to the Louvre or to Seine.

A smile plays across his lips at the thought.

He misses her. It’s only been two months since the last time he kissed her lips, only two months since he held her in his arms, solid and concrete and warm, and yet, he feels like there’s a vibrant part of him missing.

Tonight, though…

Tonight, he’s going to surprise her.

He hadn’t thought about it until she called, almost a week ago, and sounded so tired and troubled that Dean lost a night’s sleep over it. She said she’d only had a bad day, of course, but he’d been worried and so, with the first opportunity he got, he booked a last-minute flight, bought her a stuffed teddy bear and flew to Paris.

He’s just purchased a bottle of her favorite wine from a little liquor store right across the street from her apartment when he sees them.

Y/N kissing someone else.

The man’s hands digging into her hips.

And for a moment, he’s so absolutely stunned and startled, so shocked that he refuses to believe what he’s seeing is real, refuses to believe that that girl is Y/N, his Y/N, but it’s written in the smoothness of her skin, in the radiance of her presence.

His stomach churns.

He lets the stuffed animal drop to the ground, mud painting its limbs.

“Monsier,” a young man asks him softly, taking a step towards him. “Ça va bien?”

Dean blinks away the tears, eyes glancing back to where Y/N and that, that man were.

They’re gone.

And Dean wants to do so many things, wants to punch a wall and smash every single bottle in that cellar, wants to go upstairs and beat the crap out of that punk that’s kissing his fiancée, wants to take her in his arms and yell at her and kiss her and ask her why, to run and scream and cry, he wants to know why she’d do that to him, and wants to ask someone, anyone, why he’s not enough, why he’s never enough, but there’s no life, no fight in him left.

“Monsier,” the man asks again, brown eyes gazing upon him with concern.

Dean lets out a ragged breath and shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, running a hand over his face. And then again, if only so he can fool himself. “I’m fine.”

She tries to skype with him a few hours later.

He doesn’t answer.

Wednesday, 18 October, 2017

Sunnyside Avenue, Lawrence

Dean hasn’t talked to her in a week.

She’s called and texted and tried to skype more times than he can count, but he just keeps ignoring her, keeps pretending that it doesn’t break his heart every time he sees her smile on his screen and has to let it ring, let it go to voicemail like her effort means nothing to him.

Like she means nothing to him.

But that’s not the case. Because Y/N is still everything to him, no matter what she did, no matter how much he wants to hate her.

He can’t.

He can’t because for every second that kiss lasted there’s a good memory of her, a smile she smiled just for him, a laugh shared over spilled coffee, a soft whisper pulled out of her lips in the moments he spent plugged deep into her, an inside joke, a loving glance.

And then he doubts himself and he doubts her and everything he saw because he’s felt her love so deeply, felt her love interweaving itself so thoroughly into his existence, into the strings of his life that he can’t understand how she could do that to him.

“Benny,” Dean chokes out, waggling his fingers, “I want another round.”

“Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen, brother. M’ tired of dragging your drunk ass home every night,” Benny says, tossing the rag on the counter. He lets one, two, three seconds pass and then. “Have you talked to her?”

“C’mon, man, don’t-”

“Have you talked to her?”

Dean clenches his jaw.

His fingers wrap tighter around the pint glass.

“No.”

“Go talk to your fiancée, Chief.”

“She’s not,” his voice breaks, “don’t call her that.”

“How much of an idiot can you be?” Sam’s gruff voice startles him, and he turns around to find his brother walking towards him with long strides, fury dancing in his features.

“Sam, what the-”

“Y/N called me,” he states, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “She was crying. Said you haven’t called her in a week.”

Dean swallows, hard.

His eyes drift to the floor.

“We, uh… We’re dealing with some stuff.”

“Some stuff?” Sam repeats, incredulous. “Some stuff? Jesus Christ, Dean, she thinks you’ve been in an accident.”

And he knows it doesn’t make any sense, but his heart breaks all over again when he realizes she’s hurting.

“Sam.”

“She’s been calling every hospital in Lawrence, you ass.”

“Sam.”

“Why would you-”

“She’s seeing someone else!” He shouts, a shout that’s all bitterness and anger and heartache.

A few heads turn his way.

He can’t bring himself to care.

“She’s seeing someone else,” he says again, and this time the words are laced with unshed tears and wordless whys.

He expects Sam to apologize then, to stumble over his words, but instead.

“She’s not.”

Dean huffs out air through his nose, not quite a laugh.

“Sam, I saw them. They were kissing and-”

“If you had bothered to pick up your phone when she called, you’d know that the guy kissed her. He was drunk. She punched him and called his friend to take him home.”

“She --that guy-”

“The guy had been flirting with her for weeks. She told him she was engaged. He obviously couldn’t take no for an answer.”

Each word his brother speaks is like a slap in the face, leaving nothing but bruises and cuts and wounds as it pierces through his skin.

“I don’t understand…”

“She gave me the guy’s number. She gave me his friend’s number. Apparently, Eileen knew about this, but didn’t say anything because Y/N didn’t want you to worry.” He pauses, lets his words sink in. “She’s telling the truth, Dean.”

Dean’s bottom lip trembles.

The lump in his throat tastes like hope and guilt and shame.

He calls her thirty minutes later, and when she doesn’t answer he does it again and again and again.

She never picks up.

Monday, 25 December, 2017

Kentucky Street, Lawrence

Dean keeps a picture of her in his wallet.

It’s one of those photographs that never made it into their scrapbooks because she absolutely hates the way she looks in it, nose red and hair wild and unruly from the wind. He’d taken it in Norway, a day after he proposed, while she’d been staring at some kids that were playing next to them in the snow, and every time he looks at it he’s reminded of brilliant smiles and frozen kisses and whispered promises in the darkness of their room.

It’s been two months since the last time he saw her, two months since they broke up, and he still can’t believe he’s lost her.

Part of him thinks he’s going to open the door one day and find her there, asleep on the couch, or that he’ll walk into the kitchen and she’ll wrap his arms around his middle and step on her toes to kiss him and ruffle his hair like he’s a little kid. 

He still turns around every time he hears a camera flash, still thinks it’s her trying to steal pictures of him like she used to do, and on the nights he’s had too much to drink he believes she’ll crawl into bed with him and he’ll get to touch her again, get to feel her sleep next to him.

But that never happens, so, he drinks a bit more and smiles a bit less and tries to get by.

And he loathes himself. He loathes his own stupidity and his fear and his pride because he did the one thing he swore he’d never do, because he let his scars define him, let Lisa and what she did to him ruin the one good thing in his life.

And then there’s a knock on the door one day.

With a sigh, he heads for the entrance of his house and swings the door open, ready to tell Sam that yes, he is sure he doesn’t want to have dinner with him and no, he doesn’t need a baby sitter because he’s a grown ass man, but-

“Hi,” an all too familiar voice says. 

He freezes, then blinks.

She’s still there.

“Y/N,” he says, “hey.”

She smiles, something nervous and awkward, and every atom, every cell in his body screams at him to kiss her.

He doesn’t.

“You, uh… You look beautiful,” he whispers. “I mean, you always do but Paris… Paris looks good on you.”

Her cheeks flush a light shade of pink. “Thank you.”

One, two, three long minutes pass.

They just stare at each other.

And then.

“So, Sam,” he scratches the back of his neck, lets his eyes drift to the door, “he said you’d spend the holidays in Paris.”

“I was going to, but…” She shakes her head a little, gnaws on her bottom lip. “We were supposed to get married today.”

“I know,” he says, hoping she can’t taste his heartache on her tongue.

She laughs and God, it’s so broken.

“We really screwed this up, didn’t we?”

“Y/N-”

“No, I was… I was at that little café in Paris yesterday and Baby, It’s Cold Outside started playing and I remembered,” she sucks in a breath, but the words that leave her mouth are still wrecked and choked and fragile like porcelain, “I remembered how it made an amazing man fall in love with me. And I know it’s too late, that I’m too late, but… I miss you.”

Dean’s breath hitches in his throat.

She misses him.

It’s that simple.

It’s that complicated.

It’s everything he needed to hear.

“And I know I should have called. And I still can’t believe you think I’d cheat on you but-”

“You miss me,” he breathes out, and he can’t even remember the last time three little words had meant so much to him.

“I do.” The wind blows cold on her face then and prompts her scarf to sway, revealing the diamond ring that’s hanging from a chain around her neck. “I always do.” 

And there are a million things he wants to say then, a million things he needs to say, but he doesn’t, because for the first time in two months, he knows he still has time, knows it’s still not over.

So, he settles for the first words that come into mind.

“It’s cold out here, isn’t it?”

She shoots him a bemused look.

Her brow furrows in a frown.

“It’s...cold?”

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand over his face, “you should come inside. I just finished lighting up the fireplace and everything.”

And this time, she understands.

This time, she smiles, and it’s a smile that takes him back to the start, back to the first time they locked eyes and he realized she was it for him.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he reaches out for her, lets his calloused hand slide against her own and grips.

And when she beams, he knows.

They’ll always find their way back to each other.

Tags: @ravengirl94 @jpadjackles @supernatural-jackles @thevioletthourr @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @torn-and-frayed @trexrambling @percywinchester27 @hannahindie @escabell @emilywritesaboutdean @atwistoffate @atari-writes @kathaswings @atc74 @becominglionhearted @becs-bunker @impala-dreamer @imagining-supernatural @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @dancingalone21 @polina-93 @pickupthatamulet @tiny-friggin-human @juanitadiann @wordstothewisereaders @sgarrett49 @ruprecht0420 @there-must-be-a-lock @myrabbitholetoneverland @iwriteaboutdean @spngeronimo @captainemwinchester @mogaruke @imissyoualittlemoreeveryday @wellthatsrandomkek @winchestersnco @winchesters-flannels @jayankles @akshi8278 @keepcalmandcarryondean @castianityislife02 @mandilion76 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @a-glass-of-orange juice @tardis-full-of-fallen-angels @ravenangel33 @easelweasel @holahellohialoha @blushingdean @sinistersaltqueen @ultrafandomcat @carryonmyswansong @emoryhemsworth @superapplepie @princess-of-erebor1992 @bebravekeeponfighting @carryonmywaywardcaptain @sebastianshoe kleinkariertebetrachter @stellaa33 @pillow223 @samisimportant @jessiliam-caronday

Crossed out tags don’t work, I’m sorry. 

[blondrichclosetwitch]

The ride played twice today. Reminding me of the post I started when I left the house this morning.

See I had some bizarre dreams this morning. My mother was holding a leg that was found in a garden, deeply upset because it was evidence about my niece’s death. By the way......maniac just started to play on the past lives list.

Then I was holding a smartphone that was flashing “IRELAND” with sacred geometry traced over a satanic hipster with big sunglasses holding a girl. I answered the call and he said he was going to kill my daughter if I didn’t get him 1.4 million dollars. And that he also had my son and that he would chop off his hands.

(Now “betamax “ by big black delta is playing : Sometimes I lie to get what I want

Oh no, it's tearing me apart

This time I will drive)

There was also sex in the dream, and yet not, with me insisting to hold on to my celibacy.

When I woke up i was super groggy. I couldn’t move for several minutes which is very odd for me. And then the music started.

Witness 4 the persecutiob was the first song; I know this because I put it on the “first song” list. Some strange angel by car seat headrest followed, and then “have to drive “.

Reference to the accident. Haven’t heard it in a while. I made my

Coffee grumpily. The dream about my niece’s death and children being threatened to be killed had fucked me up. And then the farmers daughter played. That’s a referenceto me and Jakk and ireland in the 1700’s, and the daughter we lost then. (Btw, love rescue me by u2 is playing: it’s 8:08. ) Then it was 10:10, the Beatles and the stones.

“Sucking the marrow out of bones”

I thought of the leg.

Oh. Right.

When I was hit by the car, It was my leg they hit.

That took a minute.

10:24, pray you catch me: Keeping my head to the curb

as I look at my photos for the next song, In my head I heard “it’s all there”. Btw, Thom e yorke’s “last I heard (he was circling the drain) “ plays.

10:26 am, the ride. This is a special song and if you know, you know. I think about writing my brother a letter about this song: how when amanda played it live, with me in the back row clutching my

Niece’s framed Picture, I tried to sob as quietly as I could, but when you’re losing your shit, regulating your breath is unlikely. Was it too close to home? Maybe. I just know that it’s the one song from that album the spirits had me memorize.

Now they’re playing sober to death twice in less than 2 hours: 7:17 & 8:50 Jakk, i fee like I should tell you I sang/shouted the end of this song to the geese earlier. I think they really appreciated it. I saw myself at a microphone in front of a large crowd, even though it was just a human-less street by the water. And yeah I’m starting

To feel like getting high is a waste of time.

No offense, guys. But now rise by public image ltd is playing which starts “I could be wrong,

I could be right.”

May the road rise with you.

Moving on.

Around the time of the ride I was starting to notice all the references to car accidents.

Next song was telephone by Gaga.

Doesn’t play often. Reflecting as I wrote/write this, I was stumped, so I do what I do sometimes and I put it on repeat. And I walked. With the thing swinging in

My hand. Niecey was walking me

Through it. I asked her a couple questions, and she pushed me to go farther, the way they do sometimes. And then as a Beyoncé verse came on, I got it.

I shoulda left my phone at home

'Cause this is a disaster

Because if truth be told, that phone in my hand that was always trying to write the perfect ode to Jakk, was what I was thinking about as I went from south to the park to west across the street, never quite making it. I was so concerned with being a poet that I perhaps wasn’t the most aware of bright lights, big city.

Point being, a lot of these songs seemed to point to the accident (like right now the living end by Jesus & mary chain “I get so high on my motor bike “ or

Truckin by the Grateful Dead...what a long strange trip it’s been...now it’s playing transfiguration #2...and it’s been nothing if not that)

I’m still thinking about those haunting dreams.

[icefrozendeadlyqueen]

Deadly Sisters: (y/n)’s Prologue.

Title: Deadly Sisters

Family: Reader comes from a family involve in the unknown. The world normal people have no clue about. They can theorize, but they can never be completely sure. Their family prefers to work on their own, "better work alone than with a crowd, right?".

Summary: Two killers rely on each others... What could possibly go wrong???

Ships: (y/n) x Ubbe, (y/n) x Sigurd, Ashla x Hvitserk. Reader insert words use

Favorite Coffee: (f/c) Your name: (y/n) Last name: (l/n)  (Your tagged id)

Warning: There are huge topics in here. I’m sorry if it offends anyone, but I couldn’t stop once I started writing.

Story: On going. It's text/scenes. I hope you enjoy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My name is (y/n) (L/n), I am a hacker Hitman.

I thought life was simple in most terms speaking my simple is other's dismay or death. It all depends on my mood. I have a set of skills well learned throughout my life; it's a family legacy to know how to align with people at a level is certainly scary. I am always learning everything I can get my hands on from truth, rumors, lies and overall the darkest information known to men. Example, people's lives are a new chapter of a story, why did Gregory kill his wife? huh.

The cops said his wife was cheating on him. The first cop to come at the cries of the neighbors threw up in the scene of the crime. Revolting. It's all he manage to muster to the news. His family wants to believe he was posses by the devil. Only reasonable explanation for a gentleman that burn his wife and kids alive, right? Her family believes he was paranoid. They demand him to be given the highest type of punishment, Capital Punishment. The neighbors can't believe what has occur. Its such an atrocious act. They retell that night like a replying nightmare every time they close their eyes. "I woke up to the screams of Tiffany. She was a nice gal used to bring me pie whenever she had some extra". "In all my 80 years of living in this neighborhood something like this has never happen. They had family issues as any couple would". "Gregory and Tiffany were an exceptional matrimony. They would come to my families Saturday cooks out! Tiffany would bring her famous pie! Gregory bring some of the whiskey I like. We have a good time. My kids like their kids. We didn't notice anything wrong". His colleague detail how good he was at his job. He took a good length of time to manage his work to perfection. It became Gregory's signature. Her colleague say she was diligent. She never once made a mistake. Those people that envy her believed she was a witch how could she had a response for everything. Always being right neither wrong on anything. What a load of bullshit

A conservative small town what could possible go wrong with such a murder? it's the center of the epicenter.

Whats hot in news right now? I will let you know in more than one occasion. Hypothetically speaking a woman by the tag name Veronica_Ink join my chatroom long ago. I have always explained to them the chat rules here in the dark web.

(Private Message between (your tagged Id) & Veronica_Ink)

Veronica_Ink: "I have joined through a secure server on my husband's computer".

(Your tagged Id): "I don't particularly give a shit how you join. I am telling you not to come here looking for trouble, ma'am. I am fed up of saving damsels in distress".

Veronica_Ink: "My dad is a rapist, and I sleep with a pistol under my pillow".

(Your tagged Id): "Okay. You have experience to be here at least. It took an escalating turn"

Veronica_Ink: "It's alright. I had gone as far as too change my name and any trace of that from my present. Now, I have beautiful children and a treasure of a husband".

(Your tagged Id): "Cute then why are you here?"

Veronica_Ink: "Not all fairy tales are true...."

(Your tagged Id): "Enough said". I didn't ask what she meant in any way or form I don't care. It's how this new century works. The less you care the less probability of getting caught. A rule the (L/n) family has lived by for centuries, and we have manage to avoid detection. It's a sweet taste in your mouth like drinking the nectar of gods, A.K.A. (F/c), knowing that we haven't gotten caught yet. It's the best part of a thrill being known like any other millennial

Veronica_Ink: "We are the picture perfect couple since middle school. We grew up in a small town high school sweethearts, you know?".

(Your tagged id): "I have never understood the necessity of high school sweethearts".

Veronica_Ink: "It's like finding your other half for high school".

(Your tagged id): "I get that part, but I don't see the point. The expectations of happy ever after until is not possible".

Veronica_Ink: "It's picture perfect".

(Your tagged id): "Outside until people decide to look close enough".

We agreed it was just going to be a quick chat or did I just agreed to that? We never talk about it to be precise so I just don't understand the tugging I feel re-reading this none existence conversations lost in deep thoughts. I have single handle all of my problems without relying on my family much. We take on jobs that we have no emotional attachment what so ever... I guess I didn't comprehend why would that be. I have never taken a job with another family member for actual good reasons.

Jobs. Tasks. It's all the same in terms, isn't it? I am already 10 steps to close to this.

Veronica_Ink: "You don't like high school sweethearts, do you?"

(Your tagged id): "It seems all fake to me for some it works. I have no problem with it, but I have never understood the term high school sweethearts. The concept itself seems to be playing with fate, and fate is laughing at it".

Veronica_Ink: "Ahhhhh. You had a high school sweetheart?"

(Your tagged id): "No, I have never stay in a high school long enough. It was particularly entertaining".

Veronica_Ink: "Awh.. that's awful"

(Your tagged id): "It really isn't. You are probably thinking of an orphan or movng a lot type of deal. I am neither".

Veronica_Ink: "Yeah... you don't seem like the person to give a shit either. It was nice to talk to you, (y/n). I have to go attend to some things."

(Your tagged id): "Yeah, don't mention it. Have a good day Tiff".

Veronica_Ink: "Tomorrow same time?"

(Your tagged id): "Same place".

Who knew I would have gotten a friend from this illegal dump? Hell would laugh at my stupitity. I got attached. She knew before I knew. Well know... I did some bringing up to the light. I have uncover her life not like somthing can be hidden from me. There is nothing in this world that I can't crack with enough practice and hard work as long as you don't get caught. I don't need to be recognize on anything what's the point of doing something if people acknowledge it.

Just fucking do it and let the repercussions come later. I have many completely sign for me as we speak. My father always said, "Time will only tell, pop. We either keep doing things right protecting the family or we fail all together screwing the family". He has a point that there is no in between. I look at it the way anyone would have I don't regret my choices or the fact I am obviously blinded by emotions at this point. What the fuck was I thinking??

That's right I wasnt fucking thinking. I keep hearing my father's advice through out all my bad decisions a reminder that I am making a shitty hole for myself. I may as well make it even more big than it should be. I call myself a hitman, but I am here trying to solve marital problems? Jesus Christ. I am trying to blame somebody where there is nobody to blame. I am trying to find an excuse where there is none. I always will be a step ahead of everyone unless I let my heart lead.

(Your tagged id): "How are the kids?"

Veronica_Ink: "They are doing amazing! Little josh won fourth place on his spelling bee tornament, "Mom, I'll work hard to get #1 next year", he is the most cutest thing. Gregory offer to help him train up, and I almost forgot about last night beating. I have to thank you with helping jessica yesterday, you know? her paper got an A+. The university loved it. I don't know how you do it all the thoughts she wanted to express you had it on paper".

(Your tagged id): "Don't mention it, Tiffany. I am glad I could help even in the slightest. What about little jimmy? Is he better from the flu?"

Veronica_Ink: "We just got home from his check up. Gregory bought him a baseball bat, so they can plan on that trip. Jimmy wants to become a baseball player".

(Your tagged id): "The kid has a bright imagination... isn't this his 17th switch so far? How much energy does he has... you wouldn't fucking believe he has an illness damn".

Veronica_Ink: "haahahahah. Actually his 26th so far, "Mommy! I love them all! Fire fighter, super hero and baseball player! I want to be all", he said that on our way back and Gregory told him the sky is the limit.

(Your tagged id): "I pity his babysitter".

Veronica_Ink: "That's me”.

(Your tagged id): "I digress".

Veronica_Ink: "Ah come on! He is the cutest!".

(Your tagged id): "You can't decided which of your children is the cutest. On that note, who's the favorite?".

Veronica_Ink: "You know is getting late.. I should be going."

(Your tagged id): "I rest my case".

Veronica_Ink: "hahahahahaha. All jokes aside little lady. How are you today? You don't particularly like pen names, but I can't seem to resist"

(Your tagged id): "I ignored them. I am doing pretty good and you? I have had a pretty good week. Thank you for asking Tiff".

Veronica_Ink: "Doing as well as a viking burning boat. Jessica got into USCF, little jimmy says he will become a baseball player, and lil josh says he'll be the next spelling bee champion".

(Your tagged id): "So an honorable death? Well, this took a turn. It's UCF btw. I am guessing excitement took a turn".

Veronica_Ink: "Yeah, I started watching this discovering channel with Jessica.. you know mother and daughter quality time?! I am so happy! She ask me to watch it with her. I thought she would ask her best friend and not her boring mother."

(Your tagged id): "That's sweet you two are spending time together. I have to take a big dump on that 'boring mother' do I have to remind you that you are in a dark web chatroom. I don't think thats boring".

Veronica_Ink: "I can't really bragged about it though. That's like one of your main rules of the page or did you forgot? You say you'll ban people or ruin their life".

(Your tagged id): "Touché. Let me think... brag about your life? You won a hot dog competition in middle school? You punch that slutty math teacher in high school that's in prison now? I am going on a limb here but your life is not boring. It might not be celebrity worthy, but that doesnt matter".

Veronica_Ink: "Good point. My daughter is showing interest in my life! I feel so happy right now. Don't you think punching a teacher was a little too much?"

(Your tagged id): "It depends on what happen. Normally teachers are respecting human beings that deserve the world offer to them. Ashley was a racist little shit".

Veronica_Ink: "Look, (y/n) not everyone name Ashley is a bully or a racist or a pedophile. It was just a huge coincidence. My sister's name is Ashley".

(Your tagged id): "And? Lets not even get on the topic of your sister... she isn't a good example to begin with.

Veronica_Ink: "Touché. On good terms, what can I bragged about? Jessica is my star. I want her to look up to me. I want her to think I am like a super mom?".

(Your tagged id): "She already thinks that. Jessica knows you put a lot of work on feeding her, so she can get all her vitamins and minerals. She bought you flowers last friday after you stood by her when that douch broke her heart. She may not see much of your cool right now because she is a teenager that's basically their definition. Don't over think it much, Tiff. You are an amazing mother. You are doing just fine".

Veronica_Ink: "You are probably right. I am going to go right now. I want to give them all my undying attention".

(Your tagged id): "Good night, Tiffany".

Veronica_Ink: "Good night, (y/n)".

I have a weak point on some extent. I'll accept it. Other than my sister nobody has broken through my hard core firewall. I guess the first instict to change is to fight it or just be crazy for a little bit. I am friends with Tiffany. This is just incredible. This is a healthy friendship, right? You care for something. It's natural right? It's an excuse isn't it? I guess. I am not sure anymore. Ashla would have laugh at my weakness. She would have put a bullet on Tiffany and walk away. I wish I could just let go, but I care too much to walk away. I love her to much to let go.. is that what friendships are? You care for another person more than yourself. I thought families fall into that category...

I have never let anyone in. Tiffany knowing my real name makes her a target, but there is no way she'll become one right? No. I am just being paranoid. Yeah.. that's it. Paranoia.

Veronica_Ink: "It was a weird old man. I lost little josh at the amusement park, and he said an old man guide him to a van. He bought him an ice cream and told him to stay inside. I am terrified and scared about it. He said a woman came before the smelly old man could hurt him. She took his hand, knew his name and even play some games with him. He said the woman got him that teddy bear he wanted, but I told him I didn't had enough change for".

(Your tagged id): "Huh why are you telling me all of this?"

Veronica_Ink: "It was you, wasn't it? Don't deny it, (y/n). Josh secretly told me the woman knew my name. He told the police the description of the man. I was relieved when the cops found the old man, and it wasn't one of josh made up stories. He was brutally murder, (y/n). Execution style. The police told Gregory and I that there was a woman, but there is no camera that caught the woman's face. We could only see little josh talking to someone.. we recognize it was a woman because of the voice... just please. Thank you".

(Your tagged id): "Execution style? Sheez. Veronica. I don't do Execution Style. I am a hacker for fuck sake how would I know how to kill people?"

Veronica_Ink: "You said so yourself. Anything can be accomplish with enough anger built up".

(Your tagged id): "When the heck did I said that?"

Veronica_Ink: "The day before the amusement park. We talk. You said to watch my kids because there was news reports of kids disappearing and found dead a week later".

(Your tagged id): "Me and my big mouth."

Veronica_Ink: "I know it was you. I want to believe it was you".

(Your tagged id): "It wasn't me. I had been at home all day. I was working on a job"

Veronica_Ink: "Computer related? I know you can't do remote jobs.. Hmm.. Well.."

(Your tagged id): "Do you have any prove anyways?"

Veronica_Ink: "No.. I had a feeling. Josh had a bubble gum package and a chocolate bar in his jetted pocket. The only person I know that loves coffee more than life is you plus you are the only person that knows josh favorite bubble gum. He is a hard kid to follow strangers. He knows better than to do that, but he told me that the woman was my friend. No, his exact words were "My Guardian angel"".

(Your tagged id): "Can you just accept your kid is safe? He is away from harm. You are all a big family again, right? Be happy idk"

Veronica_Ink: "Thank you, (y/n)".

(Your tagged id): "It was my sister, okay?".

Veronica_Ink: "The deemed one?"

(Your tagged id): "We are all deemed, but yes"

Nah, bitch. It was me. Fuck. You see my point. I am attached to a level that can become deadly. I knew that old faggot wouldn't resist a lost kid. I knew that. I had to do some extra remote work to make up for it, but it was worth it. It was. It is worth it. Why wouldn't it be? Tiffany is save and the jumping troll thats her kid is doing good. I got attach to her and her kids.. I am a fool.

Execution Style seem the fair go to for all his fucking crimes. He had all the kids outfits. The ones he hurt. I got emotionally involve so what? like its a fucking crime. I couldn't live with myself if I let it happen. I couldn't live with my conscience. I feel... fuck.. so predictable right? (y/n) stares at her diary letting go of another sigh. (y/n)'s eyes scroll through the images in her computer of an old chat conversation with vivid notes she wrote daily to keep up with her changing or Tiffany growing into her. (y/n) lips tremble in little weeps tears that she doesnt bother to clean, "It's done sweet, Dove. I have avenge you... it has been a long time old friend". (y/n) words leave a sore taste in her lips though a sweet feeling inside her even if its been old to come. The words don't make her feel any better nothing seem to do fix the broken shell of a woman she was anymore, "I have a flight to catc-". The words lost within a train of tears coming furiously from her eyes as her heart opens accepting what she was pushing back all this years.

Yeah I can't believe that either. Dear old friend. You can rest in peace now, okay? The bitch is dead along with your ex-husband.

[possessedcoast]

the life and times of ryan ross pt 8

.2015/2016

welcome all! make sure to thank @jen--ne--sais--quoi for the existence of these posts because the poor thing asked to know about ryan and now she probably knows more than she ever wanted to!

here in our final chapter, we shall see what ryan has been up to from where we left off in 2015 to as current as we can be as of today (feb 26, 2017) this is mostly links and pictures because he didn’t actually do a whole lot

alright, early 2015. pretty much all ryan ross does is spend time with friends, mostly dan keyes and ryland blackinton. he goes to coachella and looks lovely in his hawaiian shirt. 

he also posted some teasers about making music on instagram, but we saw no new music. 

the most important thing about 2015 is ryan’s beard. 

look at it. it’s glorious. 

in february/march of 2015 zayn has left one direction (this is a ryan ross post, why is she talking about one direction??? it’s relevant, i promise.) someone thought it would be funny to edit the 1d wikipedia page to day that ryan ross had joined the band. 1d fangirls lost their minds. ryan tweeted “ You guys got it all wrong, the four remaining members of One Direction are joining MY band” 

if you look at his twitter throughout 2015, some of the tweets are vastly different than others. it could’ve been him on drugs, it could’ve been shane morris. personally, i think it was more shane, but the other is a possibility. also in june 2015, he got super fucked up and crashed a PHASES show. there are pictures of it out there, but i don’t think it’s really appropriate to share them. i also vaguely remember someone (z maybe?) asking for them to not be shared because ryan was really embarrassed and upset about it. about the incident he said “Def was having too much fun at the Phases show tonight, I promise I'll never do it again  again” so there’s that.

then in july ryro got a girlfriend! he began dating model helena vestergaard and it seemed really good for him. it was certainly good for all of us fans because he posted so much while they were together. she also posted a lot about him. there were so many ryan pictures. it was glorious. here are some pics

then the next most important thing of 2015 happened. 

dorothy ross. 

ryan and helena got the cutest puppy in the world

from then on his instagram is pretty much dottie, but none of us mind because she’s precious. 

we also got this monstrosity

that’s all i’m gonna say about that. more helena and dottie pictures. then we get a picture where ryan tells us he’s taking vocal lessons!! and then he posted a teeny clip of a new song!!! more dottie & helena. a video of him learning to box?

don’t forget that this era of ryan likes hockey and baseball. he watches both and plays hockey too. 

halloween 2015. the fucking party. so. you thought we were done talking about brendon urie. we’re not. by 2015, he and ryan are not talking, at all. brendon usually avoids talking about ryan at all. then adam levine (yes, that one) has a halloween party. ryan’s invited because he’s best friends with mickey madden. he goes as a gremlin. well, a mogwai because he’s fuzzy and not scaly, but yeah. 

brendon, dressed as a skeleton and with sarah, was also there. as far as i’m aware, they basically didn’t even talk. brendon goes on to mention it a million times.

btw, by this point ryan doesn’t use his twitter anymore, it’s all just instagram links. there were some tweets earlier in the year that i’ll be talking about in my shane morris companion piece, but basically, shane likes to troll ryan’s fans by tweeting things or posting things on facebook then quickly deleting them.

also in 2015, ryan posts a picture of what seem to be song titles along with promises for making new music (the “shut the fuck up” was in response to someone telling him to go to bed btw) 

we’re now at the end of 2015. it seems like this is when ryan finally disconnects his twitter from his instagram because (except for one) his tweets stop and his instagram continues. he has also dropped shane morris as his manager (thank god)

near the beginning of 2016, ryan tells us that he has written a song for a band called agelast (sadly, that is pronounced ah-gel-ist, not age-last) he posted on both twitter and facebook about this. i’m inclined to believe both posts were actually him, not shane, but who knows. there was this comment on the facebook page that would be nice if it was from him. 

then, also early 2016, he and helena broke up. he was all set to fly to visit her in australia on a long term modeling job, and maybe he did, but that was that on helena vestergaard. she deleted all traces of him from her social media. he continued to play hockey and post pictures of dottie. 

he also bought 5 pounds of sour patch kids, causing all of us to fear for his health. then he starts to become a bit of a recluse. he posts a lot less frequently and it’s usually dottie pictures. 

then he goes to a renaissance fair and saves lives with his look 

easily the most important part of 2016 was when ryan did a surprise performance with dan keyes’ band cologne at emo nite la. it’s everything. EVERYTHING. watch it now. it felt like a nice comeback and he looked GOOD

we also got another tiny song clip. more pictures and videos of dottie. he also modeled some new PHASES merch with Z and Langley 

he went to the beach and we were blessed with this glorious image 

then he turned 30! and jeremy burke & alison harvard threw him a mini party at midnight with pizza! 

also sometime in august, his demo ep was deleted from soundcloud (his whole soundcloud was deleted) along with his site going down and his facebook page being deleted. the only thing we know is actually ryan is his instagram. 

then came halloween. with costumes in the past like et, a sloth, and a gremlin, we knew he would not disappoint. he was link from legend of zelda and he spent a good amount of the party (adam levine’s again, bden was not there) with victoria asher and gabe saporta from cobra starship. have some pics. 

(that’s gabe beside him)

then he “drank some blood” in this adorable video with his vocal coach

throughout 2016, a director named dan adams (glitterworldinc on insta) had been tagging ryan in a lot of pictures. i’m going to make a companion piece for him as well, but i’ll mention him here. he posts pictures of ryan, sometimes with strange captions, sometimes with rude captions. many pictures didn’t have ryan in them, but he was tagged. some pictures were of ryan’s house or around echo park. see more about that in the companion piece. lots of speculation went on about what he was doing with ryan. we’ll get to that in a minute. something more exciting now. the longest clip of new music that makes me cry every single time i listen to it, that callback line. (fun fact, z commented on it and called him space boi which is where i get one of my tags for him)

he looked beautifully goth for new years 

now we’re in 2017!

we found out this year that all the things glitterworldinc had been posting are because ryan’s going to be in his new movie!! he’s playing a character named Dewey Parsons in daniel adams’ new movie starmaker

the newest picture we have from ryan himself is this

and dan adams (glitterworldinc) has recently posted two! one was posted today! 

and that is basically everything i know about ryan ross’ life from the earliest facts i know to today! thank you for coming along on this crazy long ride with me and reading this giant mess. i’ll make those companion pieces here soon, so look out for those! EDIT: Update!!!!! ryan posted this mere hours after i finished this because he likes to make my life harder (i’m mostly kidding, i love him so much)

his caption: “On all twos Makin tunes on toons”

EDIT NUMBER 2: i should have made an outline for these posts, jesus christ. i told you all in another post that the guitar ryan burned alive would be important later and then i never told you why. the why is because brendon still has it. yep, he has the guitar that ryan burned all the way back in the cabin/pretty. odd. era. how do we know this? oh, just because brendon put it in his literal house of memories. it’s fine, i’m not crying. (it’s not fine, i am crying) the house of memories is a vip thing for this tour where fans can go in and take pictures with a bunch of old panic! things, from the masks from fever era to stuff from the victorious video. i would kill to go.