#and i thought the small hardcover ones would never go in stock again so i just got a close enough one

[mayordea]

got a new sketchbook. one that is small and can be carried around in a bag easily while also havin the paper to support my more involved drawings. first page filled with doodles of my oc kandy. we are so so fuckin back

(and no marker bleeds on the back!! this is gonna be so fun. its a rendr sketchbook… a hardcover version was so scarce but i finally nabbed one. gonna cherish this lots)

[mldrgrl]

His’n

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG Summary: A Hanella Twitter prompt, of sorts.  Hank introducing Stella as his wife. https://twitter.com/hole4gillian/status/1411255101990203392?s=21

The whole Zoom appearance thing was getting to be old hat, so when Hank was asked to appear live and in person at the reopening of an independent book store he frequented, he jumped at the opportunity.  He missed reading to people that actually existed and weren’t just little boxes on a screen.  He missed that instant feedback and energy that only a live audience could provide.  He missed being the center of attention.  

The appearance was on a Tuesday evening.  He asked Stella to go, but she had a late class that night.  He asked Becca to come, but Ziggy had a puppy training session.  He wasn’t terribly disappointed.  It was a rare occurrence to have any of his family at an event and he was fine with it.

Hank was greeted by the owner and manager of Read This, a man named Philip, who he considered to be a step above an acquaintance, but not quite a friend.  They had a relationship built upon reciprocity.  Hank was a regular customer, even name dropped the store a few times in interviews to give it a boost, and Philip always stocked his books and made sure signed copies were on display.

The event space in the store was just a small stage at the back, barely large enough to fit two chairs comfortably, and an assortment of mismatched folding chairs scattered in front of it.  The bookstacks were at angles, pointed towards the stage in a vee formation like an arrow down the aisle.  Hank had done a few signings there in the past and they always felt more like intimate gatherings than events.

Philip kicked off the appearance with a short speech thanking everyone for coming out and for supporting the store over the years.  He kept it short and simple and then gave Hank the floor to a round of applause.  Hank stepped up onto the stage and gave Philip a quick hug before he sat down.  All the seats out in the audience were full - all fifteen or twenty of them.  He took a passing glance at the crowd as he unfolded the pages he’d brought with him that had been tucked into his back pocket.

“Any of you motherfuckers blog about this later and call me an old man for what I’m about to do, fuck you in advance,” he said, taking out the reading glasses he had hooked to the collar of his shirt that had recently become a necessity.  

Everyone laughed.  Someone woo-hooed from the audience and Hank dropped his chin to look over the rim of his glasses.  

“Philip said I could read whatever the hell I wanted,” Hank said.  “So I’m going to read an excerpt from a new novel I’ve got coming out in a few months called Alone Together.  A couple things you should know going in, the novel follows the story of Miranda and Scott, a married couple who are on the verge of calling it quits after fifteen years when the pandemic hits and forces them hunker down together when they’d really rather be anywhere else.  This bit I’m about to read is about half-way in, when Scott is starting to reflect on what exactly went wrong and when.”

Hank paused to smooth his pages again.  When he looked up, he straightened his shoulders in surprise.  He saw Stella, leaning against one of the bookstacks with a mild smile on her face.  She was in her work clothes, a white silk blouse and fawn colored pencil skirt and tan heels.  She had a tan blazer over her arm and her briefcase in hand as well.  He took a subtle glance at his watch as he adjusted his pages.  Her night class should have only started a half an hour ago.

“Uh,” Hank started and then hid a grin behind his fist as he cleared his throat.  “Scott watched his wife at her computer from across the room.  She had her headset on and she was laughing.  He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d heard her laugh.  It occurred to him that he’d forgotten what it sounded like.”

It took about fifteen minutes for Hank to read the full excerpt.  He was momentarily distracted when he saw Becca walking down the aisle.  She went straight to Stella, gave her a hug, and then turned towards the stage with Stella’s arm across her shoulders.  The surprise of having both his wife and daughter there for him almost made him cry.

When he finished, the audience clapped, and Philip came back onto the stage to moderate audience questions.  All the questions were the same variations of questions he had been asked his entire career.  He could answer them in his sleep.  While he was droning on about his routine and writing habits, he saw Becca tip her head back, whisper something in Stella’s ear, and then duck out from under her arm and walk away.  He hoped she wasn’t leaving without saying goodbye.

“Gentleman in the green shirt,” Philip said.

“You said earlier that you were inspired by the pandemic, so I have to ask, how much is fiction and how much is reality?”

“Are you asking me if I based it off my own life?” Hank asked.  “Well, first of all, I want to make a broad statement about writing in general.  That whole ‘write what you know’ garbage that people, mainly professors, let’s be honest, try to instill into you, is bullshit.  Do you think Bram Stoker was a vampire?  Do you think Thoms Harris was a cannibal?  And believe me, I’m not saying that writers don’t cull from their real life when they’re putting words to paper, but there always seems to be this assumption that if you’re writing a modern story, set in a modern world, that somehow that must be your life and your voice.

“Unlike Scott, I am happily married to the most beautiful, intelligent, way out of my league woman and I would never forget, not even for a hot second, that I am the luckiest bastard alive.  We started off the pandemic in very close quarters and when I was trying to think about what I might be interested in writing next, it occurred to me that I could very well be in a miserable position if my life was different.  But, it’s not my life that I was imagining when I finally sat down to write.  It was two people who were at odds with each other and how would they respond to this?

“I’ll say this, though, and then I’ll get off my high horse on the subject.  There is one thing in the story that I gave to Scott that belongs to me.  I even read from that passage tonight, and I’ll read it again.”

Hank put his glasses back on and flipped through his pages until he found the paragraph he wanted.  He glanced up and out to where Stella was before he re-read the lines.

“He could recall in stunning detail the moment he knew he was in love with her.  It wasn’t a romantic moment.  They weren’t out on a date.  It wasn’t during or after sex, when he was naturally euphoric.  It was on a hot summer morning in August when the air conditioner had gone out overnight and they’d both slept poorly and were pissed off at the world.  He watched her angrily brushing her teeth with her pink cheeks and dark circles under her eyes and in his exhaustion and anger he wished for a moment that she wasn’t there, but then he had a flash of his life without her and suddenly he felt a swelling in his chest that stole his breath.  He never wanted to envision a life without her again, not for a minute.”

Hank stared at the page for a few beats before he finally took off his glasses again and looked up.  He first looked for the man that had asked the question and then he turned his gaze to Stella.  

“The fictional situation was different,” he said.  “But, the feeling was the same.”

Stella gave him a subtle smile and her lips puckered very briefly.  His own lips twitched in response and he finally cut his eyes away.  He took a few more questions and then Philip thanked him for his time and invited anyone that wanted to stay to have a book signed to wait for a few minutes as they set up the table.

As people began to talk amongst themselves, Hank left the stage to go to Stella.  She was chatting with Becca, who had returned with two cups of coffee from the cafe next door.

“Hey,” Hank said, sliding his arm around Stella’s waist and squeezing her hip.

Stella put a hand on Hank’s face and her thumb briefly circled his mouth.  She didn’t say anything, but her eyes held his in a warm gaze.  She tilted her chin up at him and he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Daughter,” he said, turning to Becca while still holding onto Stella.  He put his hand on the top of her head and kissed the part in her hair.

“Father.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“We thought we would take you to dinner,” Stella said.  “When you’re finished.”

“I would love that.”

Philip came up from behind Hank and said his name.  “We’re ready for you,” Philip said.

“Philip, this is my wife, Stella Gibson.  And my daughter, Rebecca Moody.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Philip said to Stella and then nodded to Becca.  “We sold out of the hardcover of your last book.  Please, let me know if you’d ever like to do a signing.”

“Sure,” Becca said.

“You’d have to put twice as many chairs out,” Hank said.  He could tell Becca wanted to roll her eyes at him so bad.

“Go do your thing,” Stella said, putting her hand over Hank’s on her hip.  She rubbed her thumb over his and he captured it and pinned it down for a moment.  He nodded and then kissed her cheek again.

“Love you,” he whispered into her ear.

“I see what you mean,” Philip said, walking Hank back to the stage where a folding table was set up.  “She is out of your league.”

“Right?” Hank said with a laugh.  “And she married me.  Unfuckingbelievable.”

The End

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 3

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 3

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2344

Summary: It’s Christmas in Wisconsin for Sam and the reader.

Warnings: angst (sensing a theme here), alcohol, slow burn

           Christmas Eve was a Thursday, which meant you were working. You’d predicted it would be slow, but there were big chunks of time where no one was in the bar at all. Christmas carols on the radio helped pass the time, and you drank a little more of the almost-coquito you’d thrown together in the back at the beginning of the shift than you needed to. It reminded you of your aunt and the way she’d smell of coconut through Boxing Day every year when you were growing up; welcome nostalgia you could tolerate like pressing a thumb into a bruise and distracted you from the evisceration of thinking of Dean. The day shift had left the bar understocked, so Sam spent a good amount of time going up and down the stairs refilling refrigerators and cutting fruit for drinks. Around 10 or 11 the people who didn’t want to wrap up the night when their in-laws went home straggled in, a handful of regulars that you generally liked but had a tendency to get a little rowdy when left alone together. It didn’t help that they showed up a few drinks in.

           The merriment was infectious, and it was sweet to hear grown men proud of the gifts they’d gotten their loved ones. One even brought a few bottles of homemade maple syrup to give to the others, sliding one sheepishly across the bar to you. You were pouring out a round of coquito when Sam came up from the basement with a towel tossed over his shoulder.

           “Everything should be good,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t cut it in months and the ends fell gracefully around his shoulders. A piece fell oddly across his forehead and you reflexively fixed it for him.

           “What did you two get each other?” a regular, Steve, asked with a relaxed finger pointing between you and Sam. His cheeks were ruddy with whiskey and winter air.

           “Oh. I—uh, we don’t really do gifts,” Sam offered placatingly.

           “Man, where did you find this girl? Listens to classic rock, drives a stick shift, and doesn’t ‘do gifts’?” another, Joe, added.

           “You better be buying her some presents or someone else will.” Jake, a customer you’d always felt safe around since he tossed out a rude guy for you a month back, chimed in.

           You and Sam had never explicitly said that you were together. People just assumed, and it was easier to go along with it than explain the truth, especially because you didn’t look similar enough to be siblings and you still couldn’t shake your need to cling to him from time to time. It was almost never an issue aside from periodic mild teasing. This Christmas talk was a departure from the non-explanations you and Sam usually gave and you found yourself waiting for a cue on where to go. Sam seemed to be having the same thought, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

           You spoke before the moment had a chance to become too pregnant. “You know how hard it is to buy presents for a guy who doesn’t like having stuff? If he buys me something, I’ll have to get him something too!” You hoped it sounded smooth, your lying out of practice in the months since you’d had a cover on a hunt. Sam smirked gratefully at you.  

           Joe shook his head wistfully. “Seriously, where did you find her?”

           “She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” Sam’s voice sounded sort of soft around the edges, almost like he was tired but not quite. When you looked up at him, that pebble of self-consciousness you’d felt at the hardware flipped in your stomach again and you glanced away in favor of a one-armed hug you intended to look affectionate. Sam did the same, encompassing your entire shoulder with his hand.

           When you drove home that night, warm and full of coquito, Sam played Christmas carols.

           “I think we should do gifts.”

           It was the first thing you thought when you woke up, and you said it into Sam’s chest as you laid there before you opened your eyes. You could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he wasn’t all the way asleep.

           “Hmm?”

           “I think we should do gifts. We should really do Christmas if we’re going to do it, and that means presents. What do you think?”

           You felt as much as you saw out of the corner of your drowsy eyes that Sam raised his unpinned arm to rub the sleep out of his. “Mmm, okay? I mean if that’s what you want.”

           “Thank you,” you said as you nestled deeper into him.

           “‘S already Christmas though.” Sleep pulled Sam’s words together like taffy.

           “It can be goofy stuff; I just think we should open presents under a tree and everything. Seems like the kind of thing we should do, you know? Like trying to be normal.” You couldn’t bear saying out loud what you meant, that Dean would’ve wanted presents and stockings and eggnog and Santa hats and a big roast if he could’ve, to fall asleep after watching the stars glitter off of falling snow.

           Sam heard anyway.

           “You’re right,” Sam murmured. He rubbed your upper arm absentmindedly.

           “I’ll wake you back up when the bathroom’s free,” you offered, carefully rolling over him to get out of the bed. He nodded with closed eyes and flopped over onto his stomach.

           About an hour later, a wet haired Sam slid into the Impala’s driver side and rubbed his hands together to warm them up. You could tell from the puffiness around his eyes and his overcompensating casual tone that he’d been crying. He set his phone to pipe Your Inner Fish through the stereo and backed down the driveway over snow tamped down over the last week.

           It had been years since you’d gone Christmas shopping, as much as this could be considered Christmas shopping. The town you’d settled in had exactly 7 businesses on a tiny main street, including 1 small inn, a grocery store, the hardware store, a coffee shop (the most reliable internet in town, much faster than your place) and 3 different places to get a burger. You met Sam in the grocery store after grabbing what you wanted from next door in hardware, catching him just as he came out carrying a bag with a long pipe of wrapping paper stretching far past the top. When you left, there were only two other cars in the parking lot grabbing their own last-minute things.

           You wrapped your presents on the bed. It wasn’t like riding a bike as you’d hoped it would be, and your sloppy corners started you down a mental spiral. What a completely asinine thing, wrapping hardware store presents to put under a stolen tree. This wasn’t the Rockwell painting you wanted to present as sacrifice to Dean’s memory. It was cheap and stupid, a sloppy high school production when Dean deserved Broadway. He always had. As much as the three of you had never really done Christmas, Dean knew how to make something special while maintaining the air of not caring. You remembered waking up on his made-up anniversaries: six months from the first time you kissed, three years since he realized he loved you (three years minus 53 days before he said anything), 14 months since you’d figured out how to put a gun back together in the dark. Even in the most podunk little towns he’d find gorgeous bouquets and put together great meals in tiny kitchenettes; drive miles away to pick up a cake for Sam’s birthday or pepper motel rooms with festive streamers and silly string. Two quick, hard breaths through your nose to collect yourself and you finished the wrapping. That would have to be good enough.

           Sam was crouched in front of the fireplace with a bellows, a plucky little fire kicking into gear with his help. “All yours,” you called out, grateful your voice didn’t crack.

           “Thanks. It’ll only be a second.”

           He was right, and came back to you on the couch in only a few minutes with two wrapped bundles. You shyly handed him what you’d wrapped and took his.

           “Uh, Merry Christmas I guess,” Sam said. You noticed the edge of discomfort in his voice and were sickly grateful not to be alone in your tentativeness as you popped open the scotch tape holding the paper on the rectangular package. Before you’d uncovered it, Sam had his first gift unwrapped.

           “Nice! They had these at the hardware store?” he asked, snapping open the clamshell package on the cheap purple noise-cancelling earbuds you’d picked up.

           “I’m sure they’ll sound like they were made underwater, but I figured you could hide them pretty easily if you wanted to wear them at work, listen to your podcasts while you restock or whatever.”

           “That’s a really good idea.” He looked down at the headphones considerately for a beat.

           You pulled the paper off your present to reveal a notebook and two ballpoint pens. It had a leatherette flexible plastic cover that felt smooth under your fingertips and was about the size of a standard hardcover novel. You opened it to see inside, and a few photos dropped out.

           “I just—you didn’t have any—I can take them back if you want,” Sam stammered, but you heard him as if through those checkout-aisle headphones while your eyes blurred. These were pictures you hadn’t seen for years. The one on top of the loose stack in your lap was outside Bobby’s house. It felt like a lifetime ago, leaning over the railing of the small porch to kiss Dean as he stood on the ground in a sweaty t-shirt covered in engine grease. Under that was one you remembered used to be the background of an old phone, where you, Sam, and Dean huddled together in a booth at some bar you’d forgotten the name of in Montana that had girls dressed up as mermaids swim around in big tanks, part of the same theme that explained the blue fishbowl drink partly out of frame in Dean’s hands. There was one you didn’t recall with you and Dean stretched out on a nondescript motel couch, his arm protectively covering you as you coiled up into his side, both clearly asleep from the closed eyes and slightly parted lips. The last was a picture you hadn’t seen since the last time you went to Jody’s house; it had touched you then to see it hanging up on the wall, you carrying Dean piggyback while Sam clutched his knees laughing. It was the same day Claire had turned 16 and you had no idea why you’d needed to convince Dean you could carry him, but the whole thing had ended up with everyone rolling on the ground, grabbing at laugh-opened rib pains for what felt like blissful hours.

           You weren’t surprised at the silent tears that were pouring gently down your face, but wiped at them harshly with your sleeve so they wouldn’t drip. “Sam—” you croaked. “I don’t��I didn’t—thank you. How did you find these?”

           “They had an instant photo printer at the grocery store. I’ve had a flash drive with some stuff on it for a while.”

           You passed through each picture again, studying them like the gospel. It was almost hard to match the photos to the memories, memories having been replayed and multiplied and color-saturated in your mind over and over again, too big to fit into these little pieces of cardstock. But Dean was so beautiful, and you all looked so happy.

           “It’s supposed to help to write about how you’re feeling, so I thought…” Sam trailed off.

           “It’s perfect. I—thank you, Sam.” You met his eyes, stormy blue-green and taking on an amber reflection off of the fire. He looked nervous and almost guilty, like he had miscalculated and hurt you. Carefully slipping the photos back into the notebook, you set it on the table like it was made of crystal and threw your arms around Sam to tuck into him, knowing you were crying through his shirt but unable to stop. You realized you were murmuring thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou into the crook of his neck at the same time you felt the wetness of his tears onto your shoulder. Pulling him in tighter, you slunk back into the arm of the couch behind you. Sam slotted into the curve of your body, wrapping around your torso with powerful, gentle arms. His hair was silken when you began to stroke it, feeling his wracking sobs against your chest. It was impossible to gauge the amount of time it took for both of you to stop crying, skin slick and hot against each other on the old couch as your bodies hardened together like a mold. You felt dried out and sore and wouldn’t have pulled away from Sam if you’d had a gun to your head.

           “Man, and we were doing so well,” you hummed into Sam’s hair.

           “Were we?” Sam asked, and it was all you could do to laugh. Sam laughed too, the emotional and physical fatigue of it blending between you in the air. He adjusted his arm and you could feel the span of his hand across your lower back. The two of you sat there for a few more moments before you gathered up enough courage to let go of him.

           “Want to open the other one?”

           Sam nodded against your chest and slowly extricated himself, running a hand through his messed-up hair and rubbing his neck as he reached for the other present you’d gotten him. He tore through the paper unceremoniously and smiled down at the shoe repair glue and new boot laces. “You saw they split, didn’t you?”

           You smiled back at him. “Would’ve just gotten you a new pair of boots but, you know, late notice. Maybe this’ll buy you some time.”

           He handed you his second gift from the coffee table. Inside the foil-adorned wrapping paper were three bags of gummy worms.

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 4

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass , @anxiousbarnes , @deanwinchesterswitch , @akshi8278 , @itsjensenanddean , @flannellover67 , @weepingwillowphoenix , @tj-drinks-tea​ , @whatareyousearchingfordean , @winchestergirl2 , @winchest09​ , @samwisethegr8​ , @fawnxng​ , @nurse-sarahrn​ , @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love​ , @deanwanddamons​ , @stressedoutkitten​ , @winchestershiresauce​ , @tatted-trina6​ , @percico-heronstairs​ , @downanddirtydean​ , @mamitoqueens , @queenoftheunderdark​ , @lyarr24​ , @waywardwifey​ , @thinkinghardhardlythinking​ , @wonder-cole​ , @sergeantsea​

And as always, if you want to be on my taglist, were on the taglist and changed your handle, or I lost track of it, please let me know!

[josiecarioca]

Waiting (one-shot)

Requested by @artisticreptilequeen and @latitsoso

Summary: Soren Snape has chosen a lonely path for himself that not even his closest friend can help him walk. 

(Soren Snape x Audrey Blake, characters mentioned: Severus Snape,Evelyn Black and Eloise Snape)

Also available on Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010311

Tagging:  @snapescapades  @mafagafobebum  @marvelschriss @codename-thedoctor @zealouspickleeggdragon @green-oasis @drawnfromthedead @snapescapadesafterdark @serosvit @snapecentric @hayalee8 @oliverlandomens @sleepysnapesnake @lily-themadqueen-andpinky @paracosim @the-witches-son @aikersen @violet-knox @viper-official @be-zoar @thepomegranatejuice @alwyssnpe @siriuslysircadogan @hbprincealice

     …

“Soren, are you alive?”

Soren opened his eyes and looked around, searching for that familiar voice. He didn't know the place around him. It looked nice enough, though. A small livingroom, with teal colored walls covered in classic movie posters and a moon themed tapestry hanging next to a tall bookcase, loads of colorful cushions and, in front of him, a square coffe table with food and cooking themed hardcovers and a notebook filled with a round and small handwritting he knew all too well. He found himself laying on a soft white couch, “Golden Girls” was playning on the TV in front of him.

He sat up, feeling as if the room was moving around him like a ship in open sea. His clothes were sticking to him, tight and uncomfortable and his mouth was so dry he felt a bitter taste in his tongue. He didn´t remember drinking any water since right after curtain call.

Soren heard the sound of something frying, before the smell hit him. His stomach growled. He couldn't remember when he had last eaten anything that day.

“You´re getting glitter all over my couch.” that voice...Soren shook his head, suddenly angry at himself. How had he ended up here of all places? Idiot!

“Audrey, I...” he called out but his head felt like it just about split in two when he raised his voice. “I mean...how did I...”

“Here...” the voice approached. He looked up and there she was. Audrey, in a dusty pink turtleneck wool dress that hugged her plump figure, black leggings and boots, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, with thick bangs framing her roud, dollish face. She looked like she was either going to a date or  coming back home from one when he, at least he assumed, crashed-landed at her door.

She held a plate in front of his face and it smelled something like heaven is supposed to smell.

“This is what you eat when you're flat on your arse drunk, if I recall correctly. Rashers, eggs benedict and your mother's cheddar, chive and potato pancakes. Right?”

“You...know how to make mam´s pancakes? ” he smiled, hoping foolishly that small talk would delay the earfull he was about to get. “She never gave anybody this recipe. Not even my cousins.”

“I lived with your parents for a whole year remember? I've seen auntie Lyn make this more times than I can count.”

Even though he felt like somebody had taken an axe to his skull and split it clean in two, Soren had to smile.

“Thank you. You didn't have to.”

“I sort of did have to, though” she let out, sounding tired “I found you laying on my doorstep, looking healf dead. Trust me, I was tempted to just walk around you and leave you there, but then what would I say next time I visit your parents? Besides, my landlord and neighbours wouldn't be too happy. Here, you´re going to need this. You must be dehydrated.”

She put a gallon of water on the table in fronto of him. Soren shugged nearly half of it before he could even begin to think about eating.

“Now, pray tell...what has gotten into you?” she crossed her arms and stood before him, looking far taller than her 5 feet, maybe 5'3 including the boots. Soren looked at her, pleased to notice she had put on weight. She looked like her normal self again, he thought. Last time he'd seen her she looked gaunt, almost.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Is it a normal occurence for you to prance about town drunk off you mind and pass out in front of people´s doors dressed like Beetlejuice and Dr. Frank'n'Furter's lovechild?”

“Oh, this!” Soren looked down at himself, finally remembering...

The effin' costume. Yeah, she was right. Her neighbours wouldn't be none too pleased to see a 6´2  man in full make-up wearing a leather corset-garter combo with stockings and high heels under a stripped trenchcoat passed out drunk in the hallway.

“I was...working.”

“Working? Is this an honest-to-God opera costume, or the Ministry for Magic had you go undercover in a fetish brothel?”

“Costume. The Ministry doesn´t usually have me dress up nice and sexy  when they want to get me fucked. Hardly pay me as well as they should for it either.”

“What opera are you in this time around?”

“Orphée aux enfers...Our director decided to give the  Kosky version a run for its money, so of course genderfuck drag was the way to go. Because why the fuck not? ”

“We're just going to pretend like you didn't love the idea...” she smirked. That was good...he hoped.

“Well, yeah, we decided to have a few drinks after the performance, and Henri thought it would be hilarious to just go out partying in full costume.”

“Who?”

“Henri Fournier...he played Orpheus”

“Of course...” Audrey, sighed, no longer amused.

“He's a riot, you should meet him.” Stop digging, Soren. She´s already mad at you, no need to act like a bufoon.

“And you should shower and change.”

“I´m afraid I don't have anything to change into...Unless, what's his name, your...”

“Ethan, his name is Ethan.”

“Yeah, him, unless he doesn´t mind me borrowing his things...”

“I´ll see if he left something here...”

“Left...I thought you two were...”

“He moved out.”

“When was that? Last we talked you we...”

“Come on, finish eating go have a shower, I'll find something for you to wear.”

“Hey, Shortcake, I...” He let out without even thinking. It had been so long since he last called her that, years maybe, but somehow it just poured from his lips.

“Don't...call me that.”

“I'm sorry...I really am. About this whole thing as well, I really don't know how I ended up at your door, I would never...”

“You don't have to apologize. Just eat, take your shower and...” she sighed “...we´ll see.”

…

Soren was tripping over himself so badly Audrey had half a mind to offer help. But eventually he got himself to the bathroom. She glued her ear to the door, half expecting to hear him collapse inside. The sound of the water running reassured her enough to step away and try to find something for him to wear, hoping Ethan had forgotten at least a pair of shorts or something.

Typical Soren to put her in this situation without even thinking. He never did think, did he?  Just did whatever he wanted to do and everything else be damned. Nevermind that his parents were constantly worried sick about him, that his sister had to keep calling him to remind him he had a family and he should go see them sometime. Audrey was almost sure neither his father nor his mother knew what he was up to.

That he was spying for the. ministry.

His father would never allow it.

Audrey had been only a spectator, entirely foreign to their world of magic and wars no one of her kind was supposed to know, but she knew well enough, apparently even better than Soren, that it was a disastrous idea for the son of Severus Snape to be a spy. To collect inteligence about the very same criminals who still had a reward out for his father's head. Soren was born with a target on his back. Even as a child, Death Eaters had tried to get to him, the same with his sister, Eloise. And why wouldn't they? What better revenge on the man who brought down their leader than to harm his children? Audrey knew from hearing whispers and bits and pieces of conversations when she had lived with his parents in Glencoe, right after deciding to go no contact with her mother. She knew from what Eloise told her, in a vain, desperate attempt to get her to help knock some sense into her brother.

But Audrey also knew there was nobody on earth who could keep Soren from doing what he wanted. Sometimes she was tempted to tell Severus and Evelyn what he was doing behind their back. If they knew...They thought Soren was travelling around the world singing. A successful baritone, touring Salzburg, Paris, New York, Lord knew where else. Surely that shouldn´t prevent him from coming home now and then, however...But he would go months without showing up, so his parents, maybe, just thought that if he didn´t show up for Christmas or Easter it was because he was somewhere in a nightclub or a bar, partying. And sometimes that was true, but not always. At times, she wondered how and when they would find out, and hoped it wasn´t through some tragedy.

But...sometimes she also wondered if they didn't already know. If they were just waiting for him to finally be honest with them. Maybe neither Severus nor Evelyn could bring themselves to believe Soren would do that to them, so they acted like they didn't suspect, when in reality, they knew. Maybe they were just hoping he'd show himself worthy of their trust. Just waiting for him to come around.

So Audrey said nothing. It wasn't her place to, after all. If Eloise hadn´t, then she certainly had no right.

She finally found something. And old t-shirt and some pajama pants. Good thing Ethan was tall, she thought. This would do for Soren to at least make it back home, or wherever he was staying in London. Come to think of it...She shook her head and left the clothes on the bed where he could find once he was done showering.

“Soren?”  She called once the water stopped running and she could hear him in her bedroom.

“Yeah?” he sounded a bit more sober.

“I'll call your sister, do you have her girlfriend's number? Maybe they can pick you up.”

Soren didn't answer answer immediately. Instead he took his time to get dressed and came back to the livingroom, sat on the couch and took another swig of water from the bottle.

“So, should I call her?”

“I would literally rather you hand me over to a dementor.”

“Maybe if I knew how. Eloise is my next best choice.”

“Eloise will never let me hear the end of it.”

“She wouldn'r be wrong, now would she?”

He didn't answer. He just made that face. That face he put on when he knew he was wrong, when he knew he had no good excuse. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards in an odd, clumsy smile, and his nostril flared slightly as he breathed out, then he looked away. Thinking of the next joke, of the charming comment that would deflect questioning, the next change of subject.  Had been that way since he was a boy. Soren always knew when to leave an argument well enough alone. This way he wouldn't have to admit he was wrong.

“As soon as my head doesn´t feel like the the 1812 overture is playing on surround sound inside my skull, I can see myself out.” she shrugged with that devil may care grin that could get him whatever he wanted.

Audrey sighed. She didn´t have the energy to argue, And true to be told, if she hadn't found him passed out drunk at her door after nearly a year of no contact whatsoever, she would be happy he was there. Wasn´t this what they used to do, back when things were different? Staying up at night, huddled up on the couch, watching old TV programmes reruns till the wee hours of the night? She missed that. She missed having Soren around, she missed his stupid jokes, his impromptu performances. She missed him singing “Largo al factotum” early in the morning as he shaved, his voice filling her bathroom till the upstairs neighbours complained.

But she didn´t miss what came with it. She didn´t miss the disappearances, the weeks and months without a single phone call, the excuses, the worry, the panic...

“You already ruined my couch with all that sodding makeup” she sighed, sitting next to him “Might as well spend the night. But you´ll have to be out before noon. I´m working the lunch shift this week.”

“How's that going? Mam told me you made it to sous-chef.”

“Yeah, which sounds impressive until you realize it just means I'm the first in line to be verbally abused when Bastianinni wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“I worked with a Bastianinni once...It was for the best sharp knives are not part of our line of work, or the whole cast would have used him for target practice, down to the children's choir. When a tenor decides to be a diva, oof...”

“So, you´ve been talking to your mother?”

“Yeah, I called her and dad last week from Salzburg...to apologize for not showing up for Christmas again. She told me you were there.”

“I was. I assume that's how you got my address...”

“I...I mean...is not like she” Soren stammered like a little boy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

“Did you really think your mother would give you my address if I didn't tell her it was ok?” Audrey smiled “I´m just surprised you asked.”

“Why wouldn't I ask?”

“You tell me...For the past four years I´ve seen more of your parents and your sister than I´ve seen you. And you don't call anybody, just go off for months on end...”

“You know why that is...”

“I do. That´s why I don't wait for you anymore. It's pointless. But then when I give up waiting, you decide to show up.”

“Is not like I planned to just...”

“You never do.”

“Audrey, I...”

“I´ll get you a pillow and some covers, it's getting late.” She couldn't let him speak. If he started he'd take her in again. And before she knew it, she would be waiting again...for a phone call, a message, waiting for that moment she'd finally be fully a part of his world. A moment that would never come, no matter how long she waited. Not for her and not for anybody else. Soren had chosen a rocky path that only fit the steps of one person: himself. She couldn´t walk with him, and it would be fooolish to wait for him to come back any time soon.

“You said you were working lunch shift tomorrow.” the sweetness on his voice reached her as she got up from the couch, disarming. “Can´t you stay a little while longer?”

[kitanoko]

In which the doctor meets his match Part 4!!

Note: I haven’t updated this since Sept 2018....y’all thought you seen the last of me HAHA. Finally, things are building up ....... shinsou is also going to meet todoroki EVENTUALLY ~

Read Part 1 here

Read Part 2 here

Read Part 3 here

Warm.

That was the only thing Yaoyorozu could think of when he shook her hands and laid a gaze that lingered on her luscious, mascara-coated lashes a second too long. She unknowingly scratched little circles on the hardcover of her lacquered folder when she looked up and saw the way he’d run his hand through his hair as the two walked out of the meeting room.

It was habit that she had come to notice Todoroki would do whenever he was about to say something but hesistates. A feeling stirred inside her and her arm tensed. It was definitely Aizawa sensei’s fault for making the atmosphere so….strange now, Yaoyorozu thought. She’s going to his office straight away after to demand an explanation!

The receptionist immediately dropped whatever she was doing when the two closed the meeting door, her eyes directing at the white and red haired man. Yaoyorozu knew the receptionist was checking the doctor out and she rolled her eyes.

The elevator slid open after a short while and Todoroki waved a goodbye. He entered, hands naturally smoothing out the bottom of his suit, and pressed the door to ground floor. Yaoyorozu, catching his teeny smile the second before the door fully closed, mirrored his gesture and hugged the newly signed contract to her chest even more as if protecting it.

Yaoyorozu had agreed to conduct a site visit this Saturday (which was sort of silly since she could go to his clinic right now if she wanted to) and cradled the papers in her hand even closer to her heart.

“So he signed?” A voice rose behind her with a teasing tone and she turned to see Aizawa crossing his arms, shifting his body weight on the wall beside him. The smirk that had formed on his face wrinkled his jaw. Yaoyorozu huffed, making sure to be conspicuously annoyed.

“Yes he did sensei…but I cannot believe you! You came in and made it so awkward!”

Aizawa’s smirk did not fade. “I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t like Shinsou.”

At the mention of their rival’s name, Yaoyorozu scrunched her nose. She playfully slapped her mentor’s arm, a tint of pink highlighting her cheeks, and huffed again, earning her a light chuckle from the man.

Just three weeks ago, the aforementioned Shinsou showed up at their doorstep, asking to speak with her. Yaoyorozu was slightly weary –after all, they have never worked together before (and he’d always convince her to quit Erase) but figured if he was coming for an alleged business opportunity, she’d better hold onto the chance. The potential client was a millionaire who wanted to design a chain of malls he had just acquired. Shinsou, being the sole designer in his growing firm, decided to seek help from Erase. Yaoyorozu respected his humbleness and ambition and so had agreed to meet him.

Their discussion was great and from it she learnt a lot about Shinsou’s character. He was overall quite quiet, lips always in a thin line, and hair always disheveled (reminded her a lot of Aizawa to be frank). It was hard reading his expressions. Despite this, deep down, Yaoyorozu knew Shinsou’s passion for design shown through his work. The way he’d use his words to paint a beautiful picture of the planned end product was admirable. Yaoyorozu decided that Shinsou was no doubt a talent that she could learn from. Unfortunately, the deal busted and so they had to terminate the contract. Aizawa began to tease her about Shinsou ever since; he suspected there was something ‘blossoming’ between them but of course Yaoyorozu would scoff every time.

It had bothered her however. Recalling that every time Shinsou had come, Aizawa and the former would always politely greet each other but something about the conversations between them had displayed a familiarity between the two. Yaoyorozu never asked but she had a feeling they had known each other for a long time.

“….I knew you’d bring it up.” Yaoyorozu said, walking beside her mentor.

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s getting phone calls from that guy still.”

“Shinsou and I are STRICTLY business. ONLY.” She emphasized, raising her index finger. Yaoyorozu had met Shinsou for dinner once (on friendly terms) but she wasn’t going to let anyone know that other than her best friends. Aizawa shrugged.

“There’s no conflict of interest by the way, just looking out for my favourite student!”

“Oh please…curl back up in your worm suit and take a nap to rewire your mind.” Yaoyorozu stuck her tongue out childishly at her mentor and took a step towards her desk. She sat down and kicked off her heels and changed to her Tory Burch flats. “Feel free to ask admin to stock up on the white chip macademia cookies in the pantry, I may need some sugar for the weekend.”

Aizawa saw the spark in her eyes. “Sure, you got it,” he said and left.

Yaoyorozu licked her bottom lip and stretched, curling her toes inside her shoes. Cracking her knuckles, she straightened herself in her ergonomic chair.

The designer was starting this project with a bang.

~~

“So?” Kendou asked. She walked over to the table next to the couch to stack the Elle magazines back into a neat pile. “The designer’s going to come in on Saturday, when?”

The sun was setting, casting shadows over Kendou’s perfect bright ponytail and the streets were beginning to fill with crowds of the after-work drinking group. There were quite a few hang out dens  around this area which was something that benefitted Todoroki. He’d often meet up with his longtime friends after his shift.

Todoroki cracked his neck and leaned over the counter with a mug in hand. He was now back in his suit which had cracked Kendou right up because of their contrast. She was wearing an Ivy Park tank with leggings while he looked like he was ready to hit up a gala.

“She’s free any time but I told her to come at 3 since we’d be done by then.”

“Okay, sounds good. Any idea what it’s gonna look like after?”

“It’ll be traditional Japanese-inspired, something I’ve thought about since before our latest renovation.”

“Which may I remind you was only a year ago.”

“Right.”

Kendou cocked a brow, strolling back the other way to grab the purse locked under the front desk. “So what made you suddenly feel like we needed a makeover again? I don’t think we ever got to that.”

The doctor took a sip of his drink, avoiding eye contact.

“There’s never a bad time to make our patients feel at home you know.”

That answer was awfully suspect but Kendou knew there was no point in interrogating the doctor about it. The clinic is his after all and no one but him would know how he wanted to envision the place.

The girl looped her arm through the handles of her canvas bag. “May I also remind you that I doubt anyone’s homes look like a ryokan except for yours?”

Todoroki gave a chuckle, lips resting to a small smile. He looked almost proud. “Yes of course. I guess I wanted to make sure the patients feel like they’re at my home, alright?”

Kendou laughed. “Making jokes now are we? You’re in a chipper mood, doctor. I’m heading out. Tetstutetsu and I are getting yakitori so I’ll see ya tomorrow!”

“See ya.”

With that the orange haired girl hopped out of the clinic with a skip in her steps.

Todoroki’s shoulders slumped a little when he turned his gaze back to the front desk. His eyes landed on a nearby medical poster and he curled his fingers around his mug once more. The office was silent except for the bustle of people’s laughter and chitter seeping through the door and he casually strolled over to switch off all the lights on his right.

The phone beside the mug began to shake and vibrate, then ‘X gon give it to ya’ started booming from it. Todoroki’s brow twitched a little seeing his screen brightening.

It was Bakugou.

“Yea?” Todoroki answered in a monotone voice, lifting his phone to his ear, “What’s up.”

“I hate hearing your voice too, half-n-half,” Bakugou grunted.

Todoroki exhaled a little, chuckling, “Need me for something?”

“No..well yes. But no, not me. Harry Potter says he’s planning a surprise party for his girlfriend uh…you know, what’s her face. Purple hair girl. He wanna check if ya can come with. I don’t wanna go but I will just because I’m feeling generous.”

“What a sacrifice,” Todoroki retorted, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder, “When is it?”

“This Saturday.”

Todoroki thought for a bit. If Yaoyorozu came around 3:30, he’d be able to make it.

“Sure.” The doctor grabbed his mug and swallowed the last drop of Milo, “Who’s going and when’d you become Kaminari’s secretary.”

Bakugou cursed into the phone. “Fcking bitch is having a panic attack about his cake or whatever that sludge he’s baking. Fcking even gave him the recipe and helped him with most of it and he can’t even squeeze icing properly.”

“You? Baking?” Todoroki said incredulously, “Never thought I’d see the day when you’d bake.”

“For your record, I can fcking C O O K.”

“Yea, I definitely know now.”

Todoroki heard a weensy bit of Kaminari’s whining at the back and Bakugou grunted again.

“Bring some peeps if you want, the dolt over there wanna fill up the apartment, though it shouldn’t be that fcking hard since it’s a two by two square.”

Todoroki gave a half-hearted hum. “I’ll think about it. But tell him I’ll be there.”

“K, bye.” And with that Bakugou hung up. Todoroki stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Walking to the bathroom, Todoroki rinsed his mug in the sink. His reflection caught his attention, seeing his Tom Ford suit reminded him of Erase.

Yaoyorozu.

He eyed the ceiling a bit and back to the mirror in front of him. Fixing his collar with a tug, a thought sprang like ripples on water.

He wondered, would it be crazy to invite her to Jirou’s party?

~~

“JIROU, IM GOING TO PLAY THE MOVIE!!” Ashido’s shrill voice startled Yaoyorozu and the latter quickly turned to her friend.

“We have ears you know.”

Ashido gave a small ‘hehe’ and Jirou snarled at her when she appeared behind the couch. “And some of us have REALLY sensitive hearing.”

“Sorry, just making sure you don’t miss anything. I love this movie!”

The three were chilling together in Yaoyorozu’s house with fuzzy pyjamas and slippers. The fleece blanket that Yaoyorozu so adored fell across Ashido’s lap and Jirou plopped a bowl of popcorn overloaded with butter between them.

“Extra extra greasy?” Ashido said as she stuffed a bunch of popcorn in her mouth and Jirou repeated after her.

“Yes, extra extra greasy. I’m scared for all our arteries.”

“Just do 3 laps tomorrow and you’ll burn it all out.”

This was the designer’s usual entertainment, her friends’ constant bickering.

“….or we could ask Dr. Todoroki for some advice.”

At his name, Yaoyorozu coughed out half-chewed kernels, eyes watering. Jirou quickly handed her water, though her hands were shaking from laughing at Yaoyorozu’s immediate reaction.

“Oh, so now we can’t even MENTION his name?” Ashido guffawed, kicking her legs up and down as the movie’s opening song began to fill the air.

Yaoyorozu squinted her eyes. “I’m going to kick you guys out if you keep at it.”

“Ashido started it!”

“No I didn’t! WAIT SHH the movie!”

Jirou tottered her legs on the couch for a bit as Shrek 2 began and stood up, “Wait can you pause, I have to go washroom.”

The pink-haired girl flicked a popcorn at her and licked her fingers before reaching for the remote. “Ugh why didn’t you go earlier. Fine, we’ll wait.”

When they heard Jirou slide the door to a close, Ashido quickly leaned over to the designer who was leisurely skimming through ASOS.

“Ohh! That top’s really cute Yaomomo! But wait I need to tell you something.”

Yaoyorozu reeled over at her friend who was acting suspicious as if she had a secret and put down her phone.

“What is it?” She asked confounded.

“Kaminari and I are planning Jirou’s surprise Birthday, it’s going to be Saturday.”

“Oh sounds fun! Where?”

“It’ll be at his place, can you bring some snacks?”

Yaoyorozu grinned, “Of course I can. Anything else you guys need help with?”

Ashido twirled at lock of hair playfully. “Nope I think we’re all good. Show up at 7, we’ll all hide and wait for Kami to bring her in.“

“I have a client to see right before but I should be there on time.”

Seeing the way her friends’ eyes glistened, Yaoyorozu could tell she knew who ‘the client’ was.

“Oh…come on, bring the doctor.”

“What! I’ve only talked to him twice. That’s absurd. He would think I’m interested in him.”

“Hey, all relationships starts off with friendship of some degree. Fine, bring Shinsou then.”

Yaoyorozu rolled her eyes, “No and no.”

“Aww…come on…we need some hotties in the room, well other than us of course.” Ashido burst out giggling at her own humour, “I did hear that Kaminari’s bringing a bunch of his friends over so it’ll be sooo much fun, I can’t ---“

“WAIT..she’s back!” Yaoyorozu whispered and the two girls quickly retrograded to their previous positions. Jirou walked in, not suspecting a thing.

“So ready for some Shrek?” Ashido asked, reaching out for the glass of lemonade slicked with condensation. It was a good thing Yaoyorozu and her had fast reflexes.

Jirou jumped back onto the couch, “Yup, ya betcha!”

~~

Watching her work so precisely and meticulously, he found himself feeling as though he was intruding. Yaoyorozu was prisoned in focus – perhaps in her own world where nothing mattered except to make her designs come to life.

The doctor was curious, careful eyes admiring how she’d measure every obscure thing in his office. Every angle should direct the audience to a certain highlight, Yaoyorozu had explained. He just nodded as if he understood.

Todoroki made sure to give her enough space so she can do her work.

“Mm, maybe if I put that over here…” The designer muttered to herself, tapping her chin. Forming dialogues in her head while working was a habit of hers.

Todoroki noticed Kendou mindlessly wiping her computer monitor, but the receptionist’s gaze was towards the designer.

“If you keep that up, your monitor’s going to break.”

Kendou snapped out of it and smiled sheepishly.

“It’s after hours, you can go you know.”

“Oh I know,” Kendou said, now directing her gaze at him. She walked closer and whispered, hand cupping her mouth slightly. “I remember her now. She’s gorgeous, I can’t believe she’s so talented as well. Ugh, look at her dress, I want that sense of fashion.”

Todoroki shifted his attention to the designer. Yaoyorozu was donning a tight crew neck black top with an A-line skirt painted with bright patterns. Her hair was up in her usual pony tail though it looked curlier than usual. Large round hoops hung on her ears, glinting gold, while the watch she had on was one with classic black leather straps.

“Hm.” Was all Todoroki said.

Kendou huffed. “Oh you boys don’t know what fashion is.”

The doctor ignored her snarky comment, hands shoved back into his pockets and began to walk over to the woman who was now packing up her materials.

“So, I assume everything’s done?”

Yaoyorozu swiveled around, finding herself staring into gunmetal and cyan. His minty breath too close.

“Um---“She ended up stuttering, taking a step back, “Yes, almost! I’ve got what I need for the most part, I will be coming back quite often however. What’s your schedule? I’d suggest 2 months of closure so by mid-October at the latest?”

“That sounds good.”

The clock on the wall read exactly 5 p.m. and the designer found herself feeling relieved. Plenty of time for her to go back home and freshen up before the party. Kendou was now waving her goodbyes and heading out, leaving the two lost for words at each other’s company.

Todoroki rested a hand on his neck, scratching the area right around the nape and exhaled.

“Are you busy tonight?”

The woman puckered her lip.

“Tonight? I have plans with my friends.”

“…I see.” His chest sank, though keeping his voice light. Nonetheless the woman could sense the disappointment.

“Is there something you wanted to do? If you want to talk about the project, I’d be happy to discuss.”

Todoroki shook his head, the little pieces of white hair hanging right between his brows. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh.”

Things went quiet between them again. The rustle of Yaoyorozu’s purse that squished between her arm was the only distraction before the designer decided to head off.

“Thanks, I’ll see you—“

“Soon.” He finished for her in haste and meekly smiled at his outward response. Yaoyorozu reciprocated the gesture before the phone in her purse began to vibrate.

“Sorry I have to take this.” The woman said, pushing open the door. She added cheerily, “Bye doctor!” With a wink she left, the last sound of her heels’ clicking echoing away.

Though he was slightly disgruntled at his failed attempt to invite her to Jirou’s party, Todoroki’s heart skipped a beat. Not that it was his first time hearing anyone call him doctor. But what was it that made her saying it so….enticing?

[honeybeesintheimpala]

Title: An Angel's Lullaby

Pairing: DeanCas, Destiel

Rating: Explicit

Words: 93,662

Status: Complete

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984306/chapters/18268822

Chapter One - The Man with the Ocean Eyes

"Excuse me," a gravelly voice suddenly fills the room and Dean's pen nearly goes flying, heart pumping. It's been at least two days since anyone's even walked through those doors and being alone with his thoughts isn't exactly a new thing but for that long, it gets to be a surprise when someone says something. He keeps it under control though, doesn't look up except a quick glance at a nice pair of khakis and a deep purple jumper.

He goes back to scribbling on the piece of paper where he's supposed to be filling out a request for another truck to come and take away a few boxes of older books, bring them to a charity or a foster house somewhere. 

"What can I help you with," he says, surprised that his own voice is bored considering his heart is pounding out a Jamaican beat and he's pretty sure he almost pissed his pants.

"I was just wondering if there are any books that you might recommend? I'm in the mood for reading, but not really sure what to look for," the man speaks at a low volume, as if there's anyone here to be disturbed.

Dean's intrigue is piqued though, so he pauses his doodles, knits his eyebrows together and looks up.

His eyes trace up the outline of his jumper, which wraps nicely around a narrow waist and a great chest, then leads into a white collared shirt, tan neck, a scruffy jaw that can't decide between chiseled and soft, some full lips that look like they might be chapped bit also look incredibly kissable, a straight-edge nose, and finally, two unfathomable blue eyes, shining bright as the Caribbean ocean that Dean is entirely too sure they are made of. His hair is a messy looking, bed-head-esque mop of dark chocolate brown and he smiles down at Dean as if he isn't the most attractive person Dean's ever encountered.

He's actually blown away by the fact that this man is inside a nearly failing library right now instead of out modeling a white pinstripe suit and blue tie from Men's Warehouse somewhere.

This time, Dean thinks he may actually piss his pants, but he refrains from any sort of urination onto cloth, as a mind-blowingly handsome man with some captivating blue eyes that seem to have stolen the sea is standing in front of his desk, asking about books.

He also refrains from exhibiting all of these passing thoughts on his face, because it feels like it's been a few minutes since he asked the question and the guy's probably starting to think Dean's some weirdo who can't speak under pressure.

"Library's a dying business, sir," he sits back in his chair and sets the pen down slowly. "Yeah, all the kids got their...electronic readers and...there are bookstores that sell books. Never out of stock of a specific book. Sometimes we get that; not having a specific book because all the copies got checked out...or we used to have that..."

The man stares down at him with such focus and intent, nodding along and knitting his brows together. Who is this guy?

"Nah, I mean, it's amazing that...someone wants a book so badly and loves it so much that they gotta buy it and have it forever," Dean continues, then leans forward again, grabbing a book to his left and wiggling it in the air. "Not so awesome for the library."

"That's so...intriguing...that you respect those other industries so much..." He replies, squinting, head tilting in a puppy dog manner.

Dean chuckles, setting the book down. Stares at the black cover as his smile slowly fades.

"Not much else I can do," he shrugs, shuffling through several books to find the one with the light yellow-beige cover, red outline and text reading Oliver Twist glaring up at him, and a small, square, painted picture of a boy in a hat playing at the edge of a wood sitting just above the title. "Once these places shut down, I'll inevitably drift into a bookstore, sign up to be a clerk or a stocker. 'Cause I mean," he flips the book over and opens the back page. Pulls out the name card from the pocket glued to the inside of the cover and examines it. "Yeah, a book ain't been checked out from here in three months."

He laughs and throws the book to his right, watches it skid across the table and come to a stop beside the red canvas hardcover with shiny blue letters indenting the words Of Mice and Men.

"Wow...so...I mean, how do you guys stay in business?" The guy is leaning ever forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk and arms stick straight as he balances himself over the books.

Dean smirks up at him.

"Ah," he scrubs at the back of his neck, cheeks hot, and looks away into the corner of the main entrance. "Well, charities? Mostly...and, uh, you know, school fundraisers, donations from the coffee shop down the street." He squints up at the giant skylight making up about ninety percent of the roof, thinking. "Oh, uh...this one guy. Some sorta bookwrite. Author of...damn, what are those things called...gaaahh...oh! An Angel's Lullaby!" Recognition passes over the man's face in clear abundance. "Guy's name, I'm still drawin' a blank on--"

"Chuck Shurley," the guy cuts him off but Dean is impressed. It's such an obscure book but he obviously knows it well.

"Yeah!" He points at the guy. "Yeah, yeah. You know him? I mean, his work?"

"Yeah...too well...why?"

"Ah, no...I'm just...just surprised, you know? Not a real popular selection," Dean thinks for a moment and it falls silent once more. Then: "You met him? He did a book signing here once. Not many people came, but..."

"Oh, yeah I've met him..." He doesn't elaborate, but Dean suspects it's because he just explained it for the guy, and it seems like it's making him a little uncomfortable anyway.

"Uh," he looks for something that might change the subject. "Well, to answer your first question..." He opens his mouth to continue but ends up chuckling and shaking his head. "Look, man, there's just too many books and not enough time. I've been coming to this library my entire life, probably read every single book by now. I mean, I can point you to some of my favourites, I guess, but really the only one off the top of my head and without me getting up is An Angel's Lullaby."

"Are you religious?" He asks suddenly and Dean's bewildered by the inquiry until he realises how obsessed he must seem with the book.

"Oh..." He breathes out a laugh. "Nah, that's...I'm an atheist, actually. I'm just...really into angels. Religions and...gods and deities are my thing. To be honest, I could probably list thirty Christian angels off the top of my head."

"Really," he seems impressed and Dean blushes harder. "How about...the three main archangels and...the Angel of Thursday."

Specific...and strange. But okay, he'll play along. For the sake of flirting.

"Okay...well there's Michael, the eldest son of God who was set to the task of casting Lucifer, second oldest, into hell because he claimed he could not love humanity as he loved his father. Gabriel, protector of humanity, present at the birth of Jesus Christ and the deliverer of the Holy news. And then...actually, my favourite, if I'm honest-" he looks up and watches the man's lips part, a blush crawling up his neck too, and he briefly wonders why, "-Castiel. Angel of Thursday, keeper of prayers said on that day." He smirks for a second before adding, "Always heard he was a real looker."

The man seems flustered, tugging at his jumper, pulling the v-neck away from his chest and adjusting his collar.

"Me too," he chokes out and Dean thinks it's entirely unfair how cute this man looks with a scarlet flush painting his cheeks and his hands not able to find a resting placing.

"I..." Dean starts, gazing down at his hand fiddling with the edge of a hardcover, nail scraping against the canvas. "I think I remember a few more books. Not real sure what you would like, but, uh..." He tears a corner off of the paper he was drawing on and scribbles down the titles and respective authors, then continues as he hands the list to the man. "Most of 'em are...classics...Little Women, Gone With the Wind, A Wrinkle in Time, Wuthering Heights...the original and best...version of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."

The man smiles down at the list and then down at Dean, and Dean's heart leaps into his throat.

"Thank you," he says quietly and Dean's eyes flit down, small smile of modest pride lifting his lips.

"Don't mention it," he whispers back, gaze meeting the man's once more. Then he leans forward and takes up the pen again, waggling it between two fingers. He leans on his bent arm and says, "So, you plannin' on checkin' anything out today, sir?"

And, without blinking or missing a beat, the man replies with the most unexpected answer, letting the words drip from his lips like fuckin' honey when he replies, "Just you."

Dean is astonished at this guy's guts, but a brazen vocabulary and a cocky attitude is exactly the kind of thing that gets him going.

He opens his mouth in a shocked kind of smile, and shakes his head as if he's offended at the nerve of those words.

"I...don't even know your name," Dean says slowly, eyes twitching from the man's leg to his chest to his mouth to his eyes. When they meet, the man tilts his head with another squint, this one more challenging than curious. Amazing how he can squint in the same manner with just the slightest differences and change the entire composure of the movement.

But Dean doesn't let himself get too distracted by this ability, and soon encounters a moment of realisation.

The blushing, fidgeting, stumbling words when he talked about Castiel...

"Your name is Castiel," he whispers, astounded. "And you have three brothers." Then more realisation. "And you haven't met Chuck Shurley, you used to live with him."

Castiel pushes his lips out and looks down, scratches through the stubble on the edge of his jaw, nods.

"And I assume," Castiel says, squinting at the wooden triangle at the corner of Dean's desk and smiling, then continuing, "your name is Dean Winchester and you work as a librarian."

"Hey, I am not...a librarian," he protests playfully, grin growing on his teeth. "I am...a book obsessed...checker...outer."

Castiel laughs and Dean gives him a look for a moment before bursting out into his own fit of laughter at how utterly ridiculous that title sounds.

"I'm guessing that sounded better in your head?"

"It did," Dean nods and chucks the pen at one of the books, sitting back in his chair again and kicking his legs up onto his desk. He cranes his neck and reaches behind him, grips the back of another rolling chair, and rolls it over so it's facing him. Pats the seat and jerks his head. "Come on around." Castiel looks uncertain, sliding the torn paper into his pocket and pursing his lips, slight squint of his eyes. Dean chuckles. "Come on. I don't bite."

"Isn't that against the rules or something?" Castiel asks as he makes his way around the right side of the desk and through the opening in the side, in spite of his words.

"'Eah, mostly," Dean shrugs and pushes his lips out, then smiles. "But no one else is around, don't have any cameras, and-" he holds out a hand, "-I'm a rebel."

Castiel laughs wholeheartedly at this, grin huge and gummy - the most enchanting thing Dean's ever seen - and his head tilted back, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Dean notices a slight dimple in his left cheek and stores that information in the back of his mind for later, when he's having a rough day.

"What," he says, though he knows Castiel is laughing at his insanely stupid joking around.

"Nothing, you're just...really...interesting--"

"Interesting meaning...lame?" He squints and adds, "Dumbass, weirdo, bad amusement--"

"Hey, I genuinely laughed at that," Castiel points a finger at him, not hiding his grin.

Dean shakes his head, looks away, licks his lips. Things settle for a moment.

Dean plays with the hem of his black t-shirt, scratches his nails over the faded denim of his jeans, examines the familiar dark splotch of oil on the knee. He would dress nicer for work, but the last time anyone even walked through the doors was 48 hours ago, and he wasn't expecting any company today, either.

"Can't believe I'm flirting with the son of my favourite author," he mutters, reaching back over the back of his chair to snatch up another pen.

Castiel scoffs playfully, and Dean catches the smirk on his face when he turns back around.

"You call that flirting," Castiel quips, unbuttoning the wrists if his collared shirt and rolling the sleeves of both the shirt and jumper up.

Dean lets his brows drop and pushes his lips out in confusion. "Well...yeah..." Dean watches Castiel stifle a smile and glance down and away. "Why, what do you call it."

Castiel peeks up through mischievous, dark lashes and swimming eyes, lips parting in a secretive smirk.

"Honestly?" He starts, shifting in his seat and sitting back, settling his hands together in his lap. "A sad but sweet attempt to impress me."

"Oh, is that so?"

Castiel nods, grin growing across his cheeks. 

"And what would you consider flirting, mr. big-shot-I-know-exactly-how-to-woo-the-ladies?"

"Well, first of all," Castiel leans forward, rests an elbow against his knee, uses the armrest to balance himself, and points at Dean with raised brows, as if he's about to teach a lesson. "Sir. There's a difference between being laid back and being downright cocky. And you-" the corner of his lips twitches up very briefly, and his cyan blue eyes turn dark "-are neither."

"So what, exactly," Dean whispers, fingers a bit too loosely woven around the pen, teeth digging into his lip. "Do you propose I do about it?"

Castiel's gummy smile is printed into his teeth again and he shrugs a shoulder, bringing his lips down in an impressed bow.

"Well, that's the first step. Ask what you are instead of asking what to change. When you know, even if it's not true, even if it's only what another person sees, you can accept it."

Dean squints, leaning further back into his chair, pressing his index finger into the ballpoint, black ink tip of the pen and the other to the textured top of the cap wrapped around the end, pushing his tongue into his cheek and pursing his lips.

"Alright, fine. What am I?" Dean imposes, then grips the tip of the pen between his thumb and finger and adds, "To you. Smartass."

This earns him a short chuckle and an approving nod.

"Well...I think...you're reserved. You act like you're king shit and like you know exactly who you are, like you don't give two flying fucks about where you're headed in life, or maybe like you've already accepted it. You act comfortable with yourself, but what nerd is ever actually satisfied with their existence?" He's leaning ever-forward and Dean's cocksure smile is ever-fading, eyes becoming wide with marvel as the man-who-knows-too-much continues. "I think you're unsure. You're scared and you...you hide things that you think no one cares about. You're upset and self-deprecating. Eyes of a guilty conscience."

Dean drops his gaze, first to the floor, then to the pen, still grasped tightly by his fingers which have fallen into his lap and which fiddle vapidly with the object, nail scraping at the black polycarbonate and over the white indents that spell out the company name.

"But," Castiel starts up again, voice soft and lilting. Dean swallows hard. "I think you have a lot to give. I think you have...maybe too much to give. Too much forgiveness, too much love, too much doubt, too much strength and care. I think you are the embodiment of generosity, but you don't take what you really need in return. And I think that can get dangerous, but I also think that nothing is ever really too much." Dean's eyes flit back up in time to catch Castiel's angling downward, past Dean's chair, through the desk, through the floor, staring wistfully at something intangible. "People are greedy. And you're too willing to give."

Dean searches the man's face for any sign that this is all some sort of joke, that he's being filmed or some shit, but all he finds is truth and wisdom and knowledge, and possibly a glimmer, just a glimpse in those blue eyes, of a bittersweet past, an origin for where these words came from.

"I was right!" He exclaims as he sits back in the chair, shoulders trembling with a silent laugh. "You like to cover up your pain with gay jokes and stupid references."

"Now, that, I can't deny," Dean nods and everything falls silent. He rocks his chair gently, side to side, left to right, fingers still fidgeting with the tips of the pen, his head tilted in thought. Castiel's mouth is pulled up into a ginger smile, his eyes faraway and swimming in themselves, in the past, in glistening memories and soft-edged, slow-motion, sunny-fielded dreams. "What about you?" He asks suddenly, voice crackling and ripping through the still air as a quiet question. Castiel eyes don't move but his smile grows slightly. "I mean...what do you think of yourself."

"Not much," he replies, head lolling to the side and back, eyes catching on the impotent, pathetic little piles of books scattered about Dean's desk. "I like books. Reading. Writing. Time-consuming, arbitrary activities which include my eyes scanning words on a piece of pressed wood?" He furrows his brows and Dean throws his head back in a genuine, full laughter that he hasn't experienced in a long time.

"I can tell you write. What do you write about? Like, schmoopy romance novels? Sci-fi thrillers? Action adventure futurism?"

"And I can tell you do a lot of librarian...ing..." Castiel squints and presses his lips together in the contrite afterthought but continues, nevertheless. "I write what my dad would call 'a bunch of gay shit'." Dean cocks a brow. "Get your head out of the gutter, it's not as sexy as it sounds. For the most part. Bottom line, I'm gay, I hang out with gay people, and I wanted to dedicate my life to writing about it, about that experience. But my dad has never approved much."

"You don't say."

"Yeah...he's...more into theology. I think the one book he's ever written that really ventures into the realm of fiction, or at least dips it's toes past the line, is An Angel's Lullaby."

"Which parts are real?" Dean scratches the pen across the bumpy plastic chair arm and watches the black ink run in splotches over the grey of the polyvinyl.

"Our names, obviously," Castiel shifts again, bringing his leg down from across his knee and kicking off from the floor so he spins in a circle. Dean watches with a strangely adoring smile. "It's funny that that's the part most people think is fiction. But, no. Mom was a Jesus nut and Dad is too passive to care, so we ended up with angelic names and weird looks from sane people. The only parts that aren't completely true are the things like our address, the colours they painted our rooms, some of the dialogue that he added or got rid of in order to make the conversations more interesting or sensible - you know, just these really inane things..."

He trails off and he's staring at Dean with expectant brows, and Dean realises he's staring too, realises Castiel probably stopped because it's weird how attentive he is.

"Sorry. You're fun to listen to."

Castiel's cheeks paint themselves a thick fuchsia and his eyes drop to his empty palms resting uselessly in his lap, the lines becoming suddenly very interesting. Then they catch on his watch and widen and his head whips up.

"Well, if I'm so interesting to listen to," he leans forward, snatches the pen from Dean's hand, then takes the other hand and begins a careful scrawl across the back of it as he continues, "why don't you call me. And we can figure out a time to meet at the-" he recaps the pen and gently replaces it in Dean's hand "-coffee place down the street. But, right now, I have to go. College...and shit. Studying for a major in English takes a lot of time away from socialising."

"Sorry to keep you, I didn't--"

"No no no! It was..." His blush deepens and he stands, head down. "It was incredible to meet you. I really hope I can see you again."

"O-Of course," Dean's voice comes out stammered and soft, crackling with hope and fear and adoration, and Castiel smiles broadly.

"Great," he whispers back, then he's rushing around the side of the desk and out the front door and Dean is left to wonder if the entire exchange was even real or if his lonely, empty mind is just playing games. 

When he looks at the neat, black little numbers on his hand, he realises just how real right now is.

[le-petitmort]

Part I – P.S. I’m not a stalker

I’ve seen her hundreds of memorable times before and always wondered if she’d noticed me from afar. In that same sideways glancing, trying to be secretive sort of way I did with her. Which raised the question, was I everywhere like she seemed to be?

Always. In the café window sipping on a latte. The patio of the cute little bistro down the block with the white stringed lights flagging in the cool night air. That corner bookstore with a hardcover open. Not so far that she bent the spine, enough to crack it open and let her mind get lost in words.

I didn’t know a thing about this girl. This ethereal woman always meandering about the neighborhood. Was she an apparition or were those lace topped black stocking that peeked from her stylish dress as she sat alone at a table for two just a figment of my imagination? That is my quandary. So, let me get down to the important facts.

This is Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, United States of America. She’s a woman, I’m a man and neither of us know each other. That is a large part of my quandary. My imagination has gone rampant regarding her.

The basics: gorgeous, prone to Parisian style, fond of heels which accent her calves…immaculately I must note, slightly sullen, seemingly forlorn, out of place (for a hipster’s paradise neighborhood), sexy as fuck, did I mention fond of lattes? Always stalking the neighborhood as if she owns it and never seeming to leave.

I’m the guy who could be confused for a hipster. Beard…check. Hair that flops when the humidity hits…check. Unemployed dreamer? Nah…it only seems that way. I have a “job”. One of my own making. One which I’ve worked hard to make profitable. One which I’ll explain later because the details will bore the fuck out of you.

Lately though, it’s seemed this girl…this woman…has become my full-time job. If it appears that I’m obsessive about her, you may be right. Obsessive and compulsive but, not in a bad way, in my mind. More so, an “I think I can mold near perfection to perfection, like wet clay in my hands” kind of way.

With that foremost in mind, I went to work. Not being so daft that I didn’t understand I needed to meet her first. At the very least, speak to her. Which is why this morning was something special, because I knew what time she gets her coffee. P.S. I am not a stalker. I’m smitten, but too shy or maybe too fearful of rejection. Which, come to think of it, is not at all like me. Except this is her, the nameless beautiful woman I’ve passed by a thousand times, and never once took my shot. Too afraid to choke.

Then here we were on a sunny, spring Friday morning, inches apart and waiting to order our coffee. Close enough that I could, as subtly as possible, inhale the floral notes of her perfume and let my imagine run wild about the taste from running my tongue along the length of her clavicle. P.S. I am not a stalker. I just seem like one and even I’m starting to be concerned about my infatuation. Maybe I should pull out on this chance at kismet? Maybe I’m just a big ol’ fucking fraidy cat.

Nope, no backing down. Today is the day.

I listened as she ordered her skinny latte in the sweet and low, purring voice. “Iona.” This was the first time I’d ever heard it. Always having wondered how she sounded. Not exactly the voice of an angel. A little resonant. Sexy as fuck though. A smoky voice. Not like a haggy old lady who’s choked down a lifetime of too many heaters. More youthful, vibrant, somewhat mesmerizing and melodic. Which almost made me forget the task at hand. To finally take my shot.

A plan which at the outset seemed easily accomplished, and now, seemed to be hastily thought out and not at all conceivable. Or it could be I was chickening out. Sack up, man. Fucking A. The plan is the plan, go for it. Which I did.

As she went to the corner to immerse herself in her phone, I took up space in front of the barista. Smiling, small talking, watching as a braided, red faced blonde furiously made drinks behind the counter. Nonchalant and desperately trying to not mess up my chance. Waiting for the drink that was getting skim milk, watching it being poured. Seeing it set on the oak rail before me. Reaching for it as blondie hollered, “Iona”. Making a casual eye turn to see dream girl not moving in my direction. Casually pulling a well prepared note complete with scotch tape from my shirt pocket. Attaching it to Iona’s drink. Grabbing my freshly prepared straight black coffee to rush out the door.

Seriously people, if you thought I was taking the risk of stuttering my way into an introduction with this woman you are sadly mistaken. I needed her to make the first move, with some gentle prodding. After that, all would be good. Quirky, I know.

I’m also certain that you are wondering what the note said. It was simplicity, “I’ve marveled at you from afar” and my phone number. That’s it. No name. No “call me”. Let her take control, just for this one shining moment in the game. If she took the ball and ran with it. If, curiosity got the best of her. If, she called. The biggest if in play.

I hurried home and went to work on my computer. Not even thinking about what I had just done. Out of sight, out of mind, I have work to do and money to make. I somehow have the ability to turn it on and off like that. Only once did I pause to wonder if she would call. So much so, that as I watched the Brooklyn Nets with only the light from the television illuminating the room, I became almost perturbed that my phone began to chime with 3:02 remaining in a three point game. Unknown caller. Fuck it.

At two minutes remaining and a one point game, there was the phone again. I sent it to voicemail. During the next timeout, just as I was about to get up to pace of the closeness of the game, there was the phone again. Unknown caller part three. Goddamnit , I gotta ditch whoever…shit. I hit receive call.

“Hello?”

“I was just wondering what kind of man leaves odd notes on women’s drinks in coffee shops.”

“Oh. That would be me.”

“Marvel at me from afar, huh?” She questioned. “Like a stalker?”

“No. Not like a stalker.” I retorted quickly. “Something different.”

“Something different? What?”

“Let me explain.”

“It better be a doozy of an explanation, mister whatever your name is.”

“It’s Stephen…with a p.”

Ok, Stephen with a P. Explain the note and why I shouldn’t be hanging up.”

“Alright. Here it is. The whole story.”

“Make it quick, I don’t have all night.”

“I’m not normally a loser that leaves notes.”

“What are you, Stephen with a P?”

In a moment of clarity I let it flow. “I’m just a guy. A guy who normally gets what he wants. But, for some reason…if I didn’t get your attention. Well, that would be soul crushing. I’ve seen you nearly daily. Just being you. Maybe I’ve built you up in my head. Put you on a pedestal. Something like that. I’ve come close to approaching so many times. I don’t know. Fear of failure. Whatever.”

“So you’ve seen me and never bothered. Because you might not sweep me off my feet?”

“mhm.”

“So…you figured I’d be intrigued by a note? That I wouldn’t resist curiosity?”

“mhm. Exactly.”

“What made you so sure I’d respond?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Do I know you Stephen with a P?”

“No.”

“What do you look like? Would I know you if I saw you?”

“I don’t know. Tall…beard…”

That’s every guy in this neighborhood Stephen with a P.”

Yeah, I know. Pretty much.”

“So give me a little more something. It’s obvious that if you’ve seen me. If you’ve noticed me. I’ve noticed you. Right?”

“Maybe. Well...I was standing behind you at the coffee shop this morning. There is that.”

It was a stunning moment of clarity. A seemingly interminable pause on the other end of the line. Then a rushed response.

“I’ve marveled at you from afar, as well.” Click. The phone went dead, right as the final buzzer of the Nets game blared from my tv. It was a comeback win and my smile was bigger than ever.

-bart 4.13.2019

Photo: Aaron Crossman

[agl03]

For a fluffy prompt. Fitzsimmons and Deke’s first Christmas?!

Hi Anon!

Thanks for this one too!

It was late when the team returned to the base.  Fitz bidding goodbye to the other agents before shuffling down the hall leading to what had affectionately been nicknamed Fitzsimmons Lane, the hallway home to his and Jemma’s shared bunk and Dekes.  

Mack had allowed he and Jemma to take out a wall and combine two of the bunks to create a small home for themselves. Fitz had gotten creative with space and blueprints to give his wife her beloved breakfast nook.  Deke was across the hall, home from his adventures seeing the world, now spending his days in the lab with his grandparents.  His knack for electronics becoming a vital part of the team.

Before heading into his bunk Fitz stopped at Deke’s and knocked softly at the door.  Despite the late hour, he knew his Grandson would still be up.  Now that he’d seen the world Deke’s newest fascination came from his Grandmother, reading.  He would read anything and everything he could get his hands on.  It had become a bit of a tradition that each time Fitz or Jemma was out of the base on a mission they would bring him home something new.  

Sure enough, Deke appeared at the door, “You’re home, late Gramps,” he said with a small smile.  “Jemma will be up, I tried to keep her mind off it, but she was monitoring you the whole time.  Nearly took a techs head off they tried to take the tablet that had your tracker on it.”

“Thank you,” Fitz said sincerely.  They had vowed to never leave each other side once they’d found him.  This had been the first mission he’d gone on without her, her condition making it impossible for her to do so.   And it was only after repeated assurances from Mack, the promise of constant monitoring, and that the lab there were going to was and had been abandoned for years.  

“Anytime,” Deke said his eyes looking at the bundle in Fitz’s hands.

Fitz followed his gaze and smiled handing it over.  Deke eagerly ripping the wrapping off to reveal a worn hardcover book.  

“A Christmas Carol,” Deke said running his hands over the cover.  “Oh, I like this Charles Dickens guy!  You guys have brought me his stuff before.”  

“There was an antique bookstore,” Fitz said, “And its an illustrated edition, something different than we’ve brought before and pretty appropriate given the season.”  

“Thank you,” Deke said sincerely giving Fitz a quick hug.  “I’ve been wondering what this Christmas thing was all about.  Mom used to tell me about it and Virgil had this thing in his bunk of some bearded guy that came out at Christmas, but I’ve never seen it.”  Even as they talked Deke had already opened the book to start reading as he ran his fingers reverently over the first illustrations.  

Fitz could tell their conversation was done and bid Deke farewell.  The wheels in his head already turning as he entered his own bunk content to hold Jemma for the rest of the night.

———————

“Can I look now?” Deke asked from the back of the SUV, his eyes covered with a blindfold.  

“Not yet,” Fitz and Jemma said in unison from the front seat.  

“We’re almost there,” Jemma said looking out the window at the snow-covered pine trees.   And while she knew where they were going that was it, Fitz was keeping everything else a secret from both of them. 

And ten minutes later they came around a bend to reveal a beautiful cabin nestled in a grove of trees.  Brightly colored lists already lining the eaves and smoke puffing from the chimney with the promise of a welcoming fire in the fireplace.  

“Oh Fitz,” Jemma said as they pulled up and she reached over to squeeze his hand.  “It’s beautiful.”

Fitz kissed her knuckle as Deke poked his head up front.  Making both of them laugh as he was still blindfolded.  “Can I look now?  Jemma made that Fitz did something good voice.  I want to see!”

“Not quite yet,” Fitz said.  “You two just give me a few ticks and I’ll be right back.”  

Jemma watched fondly as he ran into the cabin running her hand over her slightly swollen stomach as she did.  Their first Christmas as a family in more ways than one.

“Think he’d know if I peeked?” Deke asked impatiently.

“Just a few more minutes,” Jemma said eager to get inside herself.  She’d tried multiple times to get a look at Fitz’s tablet but he’d spirit it away every time she reached for it.

Deke made a noise of discontent but sat back.  “He could have at least let me read one of my books, I need to see what happens with the Ghost of Christmas Future.”   

Jemma wasn’t able to respond as the front door opened again and Fitz bounded out.  First, he opened the door for Jemma helping her out, his own hand resting briefly on her stomach in a gentle caress before he let Deke out as well.  A grandparent on each arm to keep him steady in the snow.

Deke gasped in the cold and the smell of pine.  The last time he’d been in a forest he’d ended up shot trying to protect Daisy.  

Mind the step Fitz said leading them inside where the winter chill was instantly chased away by the warmth of the fire.   

“Now,” Fitz said pulling of Deke’s blindfold just in time for he and Jemma to get a look at the room together.  Each one gasping at the sight.  

The Cabin had a massive great room, decorated from top to bottom.  It was two stories high.  The stone fireplace home to a roaring fire and the mantle sporting four stockings.  Fitz, Jemma, Deke, and Baby.  A fully trimmed tree sat in front of the windows while piles of presents spilled out from under it.   Christmas carols floated over the speakers.  And the dining room table was overloaded with plate after plate of Cookies and other Christmas Treats.  

“Happy Christmas Deke,” Fitz said.  Jemma snuggled into his arms and they watched Deke wander into the room and take it all in.  Eyes full of wonder.  

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered in awe.  

“You said you’d never had one and I can’t remember the last time Jemma and I celebrated properly so I felt this was long overdue,” Fitz said leading them both over to the couch and pulling two boxes from under the tree.

Jemma smiled knowing exactly what would be inside, a tradition that carried on from both of their childhoods and they’d privately continued even once they were in Shield.  Deke tore into the wrapping eagerly and pulled out a pair of festive plaid pajamas that were the same style just different color than the ones Jemma had opened.  

“Pajamas were something we both got every year growing up,” Jemma explained.  “We continued the tradition with each other at the academy and beyond.”   

Deke ran his hands over the fabric and smiled brightly.  “Do we open all the boxes tonight?”

“No,” Jemma said “The rest we open tomorrow.  Tonight we will eat, watch a movie,  and simply enjoy each others company as a family.” 

“Sounds wonderful,” Deke said pulling his pajamas out of the box when something else fell from it.

For the first time, Fitz looked unsure of himself and he rubbed the back of his neck.  “Don’t take it the wrong way,” He started as Deke picked up the book.  “It’s a children’s book my Mum used to read to me at Christmas when I was little.  I know you are not a child but I thought since it was your first real Christmas you could have one too.”

Deke held up the copy of The Night Before Christmas.  And like he did with every new book he received he opened the first few pages.  “No its great!” he said earnestly.  “Would you mind maybe if we read it tonight then?  As a family?”

Tears welled in Jemmas eyes as the thought Fitz had put into it and Deke’s response.  “Of course we can,” she said.

 Deke lit up again and he carefully put the book on the table before he ran from the room with his pajamas.  “I’m going to go change!”

————————————-

They had stayed up for hours watching Christmas specials and talking.  Making it to bed well after midnight.   

Only a few hours had passed before the door to the master bedroom slowly opened and Deke peeked inside the room.   He’d been too excited to sleep.  The promise of opening the rest of the presents, food, and the Dr. Who Christmas special had him waiting impatiently in his room until the sun began to rise over the snow-covered mountain before heading down the hall.

HIs grandparents were snuggled in the bed in their matching pajamas.  Jemma curled up on Fitz’s chest and his arms wrapped securely around her.  His mother had told him so many stories about how much her parents had loved each other but it was another thing to see that love in action each and every day.  In both grand and simple gestures.  

The looked so relaxed and peaceful knowing the other was there.  For Deke, it was a relief to see the worry lines gone from Jemma’s face.  She’d born those in the months they’d spent trying to bring Fitz home.

Deke couldn’t help himself and snapped a picture of the pair using the phone Fitz had modified for him.  The click of the camera enough to get Jemma to stir.  

“Good morning Deke,” she said and earned a groan from Fitz.

Fitz grumbled something intelligible and pulled Jemma tighter to him.  Jemma giggled and swatted him on the chest.  “Come on love, I’ll get the hot chocolate going.  Deke why don’t you go sort out the presents.”

Fitz groaned again as Jemma slipped from the bed but reluctantly followed.  Deke eagerly bounding ahead.

Fitz and Jemma took their time making their way down the staircase but an excited shout at the bottom of the stairs told them Deke had already made it to the tree.  

————————-

It had been a week since Christmas and the Fitzsimmons Family had returned to the Lighthouse and resumed their duties.  The holiday had been one the small family would never forget.  Full of love, laughter, and new memories.   

Fitz and Jemma has vowed to make it their new tradition and already secured the cabin for next year and assured Deke he would be in on the planning next time.  Deke had grown quiet during the presents and lamented he hadn’t gotten them anything.  Jemma swiftly assuring him that he’d helped bring Fitz back to her and she couldn’t have asked for anything more.

That didn’t stop Deke from trying.

One night Fitz and Jemma returned to their bunk after a long day in the lab to find a carefully but messily wrapped bundle on their bed.  Jemma pulled off the wrapping and felt Fitz wrap his arms around her from behind as he studied the gift.

“Oh Deke,” Jemma said fondly holding the framed picture of the three of them, a selfie they’d taken in their pajamas in the middle of opening the gifts.  All three smiling with bows on their heads and surrounded by mounds of colored paper.  What made it better was the frame Deke had put it in, “My First Christmas” in glittering red letters.   

Jemma turned it over to find a message.  

Best first Christmas ever, 

Love Deke.  

[calacavera-blog]

i closed my eyes. (tw: shock, violence, blood)

“It’s a very typical romance series. An angel falls in love with a human and starts trying to be like a human. I think only the tragic ending makes it stand out,” I explained, my eyes closed as I felt a hand playing with my short hair.

“Is that really it? I thought that scenario would be interesting. The concept could be explored to figure what it means to emulate humanity, or what it means to be human,” he replied, once again on the same philosophical bent he approached all works with. 

I sigh into his lap. “It’s a generic romance anime. Of course it won’t go that deep.”

“But I can agree with it. An angel trying to emulate a human makes sense to me,” he countered.

“Who would want to emulate humans, anyway. Is it even worth trying to emulate humans? They’re all terrible, terrible people. Scary. Awful. All of them can be so bad to each other...” I trail off, turning my head to look up at his face.

“I think it’s worth it!” he said with some emphasis. I freeze up at the determination in his face.

“I think humans are worth emulating, no matter how hypocritical or illogical they can be,” he continued, “Just like some humans want to be angels, I’m certain some angels want to be human. It’s only natural.”

“...Why...?” I ask, watching him stroke my hair even as he spoke so passionately.

“Being an angel must be lonely. Following orders all the time, never having desire or life of their own. Are you really free just by having wings? How many times should an angel fall?”

His questions lingered in the air, two of his fingers gently tugging along a lock of my hair. After looking at him for such a long time, I suddenly turned my gaze away. He was too pretty when he looked so pensive.

But...why did he sound so empathetic when he talked about angels?

“It’s just a generic romance anime,” I finally responded.

I could feel him smile that gentle smile, adorned by his messy blue hair.

As he continued to play with my hair, I sank my head further into his lap, absorbed by the feeling. I closed my eyes and relaxed.

I don’t know when he started coming to this bookstore, or when it was I started talking to him, but one day I found myself carrying conversations with him.

Back then, I was majoring in communications, hoping to get a job as a copywriter after graduation. I had a fascination with short, punchy lines that stuck with you. Leitmotifs were my motivation, I guess you could say.

In my time away from classes and during the weekends, I took up a part time job in a small bookstore in town. The owner was this gentle old man, his arms always shook as he handled the cash register. You could hear his joints pop with every movement.

I was in charge of putting books back on their shelves, offering advice on what to read, working the register when the old man was unable to (which was often as he had carpal tunnel, I think he was a failed writer before). I was basically customer relations, in a sense. I helped promote his bookstore by setting up an online page, even.

Anyway, I can’t remember when he first started coming to this bookstore. I remember one time asking him why he chose this specific bookstore to frequent, and he replied that it was because it was so off the beaten path and secluded, which I replied with saying those two meant the exact same thing. 

He laughed. I looked at him funny. He then told me that the real reason was because this bookstore was the only one in this town that had the obscure books that he had been looking for: some old reference books about the migrations of northern barn owls, a few books cataloging the folklore of this region, poetry from deceased and forgotten poets, and a cooking book which barely sold enough for a second print edition and nothing more.

I smiled awkwardly and said that yeah, those books were strange. The old man owner would always say that every book deserved its place to be displayed and bought and loved. He laughed again and agreed with the mentality of the old man.

When I asked him why he was looking for such strange books, he said that he had just gotten an interest in them. I asked, isn’t that just trivial and useless knowledge? and he said no, that there was someone with enough interest and passion in the subjects to write and publish an entire book on them, so that they deserved at least a read. They were not trivial.

I guess he is the same type of eccentric as the old man.

Nevertheless, the more he came by, the more I talked with him. We would spend an hour at most talking to each other. Every time, he would recommend me strange books (which the store was selling) and even let me borrow a few of his; in essence, he was doing my job at me.

At some point, I started having a crush on him. He was beautiful, even as much of a weirdo as he was (but one could say that bizarre nature of his was charming in its own way?). Tan skin, just an exact arch to the bridge of his nose, brown eyes that shone just so when the sunlight hit, eyebrows that arched and positioned with an expressive flair, full lips that had this cute little way of twitching into a half-cocked smile when he found something amusing... Well, wasn’t it easy to develop a crush?

Of course, he spoke with such strange words and broached so many eclectic topics that I began to wonder what was wrong with his brain; yet it felt like he knew exactly what he was doing. It was like he knew the things he said were ridiculous and he was teasing the listener. At some point, my frustration grew and I would call it out.

“That’s ridiculous!” I’d say. “This makes no sense!” would be my remark. He’d only laugh and finally own up to entertaining a ludicrous idea. He was annoying to talk to for long periods of time. His presence could drive someone nuts. He was almost childish in how he handled interpersonal relationships. But...it was fun talking to him. I found it fun. I looked forward to our conversations.

At some point, I finally asked for his name. “Comte Bellamarre,” he answered. I scoffed, “So you’re the Marquis of St. Germain?” I asked. He laughed again and admitted to lying, then said, “I’m Mercutio.”

Mercutio... A Shakespearean character. I got mad and threatened to punch him if he didn’t quit lying, so he laughed awkwardly and waved his hands out in front of him, saying that he was honest. He even showed me his identification. Those can be forged, I said. Yeah, but these aren’t, he said.

I took it for the truth. One time, he came into the bookstore sporting blue hair. I stood there, my eyes wide. Of all the ridiculous things he would say and do, why would he dye his hair blue?

I asked him, “Why would you dye your hair blue?”

“It’s not dyed,” he answered, “I actually stopped dying it.”

I sighed.

“...It suits you,” I said.

He made this face at that. I remember that face vividly. He had this...earnest embarrassment to it, a face a pure schoolgirl made at being complimented--a flattered face, with this slight blush and looking down at something with focused eyes and an unsure, open mouth smile. Just from an offhanded compliment about his blue hair?

I’ll admit, my heart skipped a beat. I laughed it off awkwardly and went back to sorting the books in front of me. Damned people always leaving books on the wrong shelf after browsing.

“Thank you,” he finally said after a long silence. I looked up to him and caught his eyes, staring at me with gratitude. I looked back to the pile of books I needed to sort with a quiet yeah.

When I got back home after my shift, I had to sit down on the corner of my room. I was holding a book of his in my hand. I would think about that face he made for an entire week after. That cute face of his, innocent and endearing. I closed my eyes and daydreamed.

There was a book he gave me to keep, some little hardcover full with the works of some dead poet who went away with obscurity. He said it was rare, so he wanted me to take extra good care of it. I said, maybe it wasn’t rare but more like people didn’t want it. He laughed, but I felt my words were harsh. I promised that I would.

I’m holding it in my hand right now, staring at the plain hardcover. It just had the poet’s name and the title, weltschmerz. It was so unassuming and vague. It held barely any presence even when it was held. I guess that’s why he liked it?

“Have you been eating well?” he asks, his voice a few feet away in the small kitchen of my tiny apartment.

“Ye--Absolutely,” I answer.

“Healthy, fresh food, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You made your way to the grocery store and not just stopped by the corner store right next to your apartment to buy junk food?”

“Yeah, I’m making progress!”

“Then what’s with these bags of instant ramen bowls?”

I pause. Dammit, how did he find those? I had them hidden in the cupb--oh, right.

“I, uh... Sorry,” I fess up. There’s no point hiding the truth.

“You know you need to eat better,” he says as he walks into the living area with two plates of curry. He knows that I love the dish, but if he found out that I only tried it because it appeared so much in anime...

We settle into our meal. As always, it’s delicious. I don’t understand how he’s able to cook so well. I know he’s rich, so why does he cook when he could hire someone to cook for him? I remember asking him this once, and he said that he had enough experience so he didn’t need anyone to do what he could do for free. I don’t think he understands the appeal of someone cooking for you. At least I do.

“Have you been able to go outside this week?” he asks me while I take another spoonful of curry into my mouth. I swallow hard.

“Well... No...” Not last week, either. I stocked up on a bunch of instant and microwavable food at the corner store and have stayed locked inside this whole time.

“Hey...” Mercutio looks at me with this fixed stare. I duck my head and whisper out an apology.

“It’s okay,” he says with reassurance.

We finish our meal as I talk about the latest manga I read. I carry most of the conversation and end up recommending many new anime and manga to watch when he began to ask questions about what I referenced.

He tells me that he heard about this term in some anime, ‘doujin-shi’. I almost spit out the tea he brewed for me and assure him that it’s really nothing important. He didn’t need to go down that road.

He tells me that my hair was becoming unkempt and that I need a haircut, which he then proceeds to do by pulling up a chair in front of the couch and cutting my hair with a pair of scissors I keep to cut upon macaroni dinner boxes. He cuts my hair short enough that it could grow a few weeks without needing another and even sweeps the hair off the floor.

It’s been about three years since I’ve basically become a NEET and he’s kept up doing things like this the entire time. He cleans my apartment, restocks my fridge, and lets me rest my head on his lap while he pets my hair when I’m feeling touch-starved. Every week, he comes by. I’ve been looking forward to it more than the weekly anime I watch.

I’ve been thinking. He really does go out of his way for me. He even pays my bills. I’ve been...feeling guilty lately. Guilty, because...

Isn’t this exactly every NEET’s dream?! Having a handsome guy in a suit come by every week to provide for them and cater to them so intimately?! And he talks with me about my strange interests without even judging!! Wouldn’t all the NEETs in the world hate me?! I feel so guilty!!! Hee, hee~ Feel jealous all NEETs of the world!

Wait, no. No. No. That’s a bad train of thought. It’s unhealthy. Ahhhh, I used to never think like this!! He’s trying to help me recover little by little so I could learn to live a normal life in society again!

But why, I always asked him. He always responded with, “Because you’re a dear friend.” Which, I guess is nice if a bit disappointing of an answer, though it’s pretty clear there’s something more to it. 

I think he feels responsible for me ending up like this.

When he waved goodbye and closed the door to my apartment, I immediately began to feel lonely. I closed my eyes and pondered.

I don’t remember what had happened during that day.

All I remember was how Mercutio and I were alone in the bookstore together, talking to each other in one of those rare days where my shift was practically deserted and he was there to keep me some company.

Then I remember some guy walking into the bookstore and didn’t say hi back to me, going into the nonfiction section to peruse through the binds.

Mercutio kept talking to me, but something in the way he talked showed some unease. I felt this strange knot in my stomach. I thought nothing of it (maybe it was the bad sub I had for lunch) and kept talking about the different classifications of breeds of dog.

There was an explosion.

I could hear Mercutio yelling my name and pushing me away before a loud boom echoed through the bookstore and broke all the windows and rocked vibrations through my body that made my heart feel like it stopped and then nothing but ringing in my ears.

I felt disoriented. The ringing continued. I was on the floor with glass around me and drops of blood.

I tried standing up, but my legs didn’t want to work right. I was in a state of shock, basically.

I peered up over the store counter to see a group of people swarm the place with guns. I looked at the dead body on the floor next to where Mercutio was standing. That body didn’t seem like it died from the explosion but from a slash to the throat.

I shuddered. That was the first time I saw a dead body. In those eternal seconds that I stared at that cadaver, I felt a body hug me and a strong piercing sting on my shoulder. Then that body got off me.

Soon, I would discover that Mercutio had covered me and tackled me to drop me on the ground again, and that piercing sting was a bullet that had shot through my shoulder.

I laid on the ground there, bleeding from a bullet wound, for what felt like years. I felt numb. My mind wasn’t processing what has happening. The ringing in my ears continued, muting the sounds of screams and guns firing. Then muting the sounds of nothing.

I laid there. A century later, it was as if everything that had happened finally broke me. I felt a rush of panic, fear, pain. My body started shaking and I curled into myself. I kept staring at nothing.

Finally, I screamed.

I screamed and cried and cried in the silence.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. My body spasmed trying to shake it off, but the hand stayed firm and I felt another hand patting my head.

I reached for those comforting hands and wrapped one arm around whoever it was (the other arm wasn’t moving, and I was panicking not knowing why). 

I could finally hear myself screaming and crying.

I could finally hear Mercutio, rubbing my back and whispering that I was okay and that he was sorry.

Four minutes.

It was four minutes the amount of time this took to transpire.

Four minutes, and it changed me absolutely.

Three minutes later, the ambulance sirens could be heard.

I couldn’t think of anything for so long after this, only responsive to what was asked of me and to the pain of my wound being treated. I only remember squeezing the same person’s hand the entire time.

I don’t think it was Mercutio.

I developed a fear of going outside. I stopped going to the university and stopped talking to my parents and friends. I shut myself off from the world and shut myself down.

I closed my eyes.

It took months for me to even talk to anyone again. In those months, it was Mercutio that was there with me.

It wasn’t just him, it was mostly the numerous speech therapy sessions, but he was there. My family would drop by and say hey, but we had already become estranged years before, so at some point they stopped coming. Mercutio was a constant.

Pretty soon, he became my caretaker. Once I was stable enough to take my first step into the real world, he was the one who set me up with an apartment.

He said he paid for the repairs for that old man’s bookstore, too.

In those first months, he looked at me with complete regret and guilt in his eyes. I hated those eyes. I wanted those soft eyes of him--the ones that were so cute and innocent back.

I vowed to get better so I could see those eyes again. At least just for that reason.

Well, then I got into anime. Then my recovery kinda plateaued.

Still, Mercutio even went so far as to set up a weekly allowance where he wired money to me even with paying for my bills and food.

I opened my eyes, realizing I had dozed off in his lap. I blinked twice and yawned, rubbing my eyelids of the sleep. I then opened my eyes again to notice Mercutio watching tv. Once he noticed me rousing from my nap, he glanced down and smiled gently.

“You awake?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly.

“Well, then... Can you...”

“Ah?” I wondered what he meant by that.

“Well...” he said with one finger scratching his cheek, “my legs have been asleep for the last half hour...”

“Oh!” I shout and sit up straight beside him. Forgive me! I looked at the tv, wondering what it was he was watching and realized it was that romance anime with the angel I was telling him about earlier.

“It’s interesting, conceptually...” he said absentmindedly.

“Yeah...?” I ask, wondering what he thought of it now that he was watching it.

“I mean, it certainly is. An angel wanting to be human to be with another human. Something that can’t belong wanting to belong. I can relate...” he admitted, and my heart seemed to drop at the painful honesty he seemed to speak with.

“So...?” I ask.

“It certainly is just a generic romance anime,” he responded so blunt.

I closed my eyes and laughed. He laughed along.

[were-cheetah-stiles]

The Recruit (Chapter 17) - Mitch Rapp

Author: @were-cheetah-stiles

Title: “Day 78, Part I”

Characters: Mitch Rapp & Reader/OFC

Warnings: SMUT. IT’S A LOT OF FUCKING SMUT. like, blowjobs, light choking, vaginal sex, orgasms.. so much smut and cursing. IT’S SMUTAPALOOZA!

Author’s Note: yo... morning head is fun tho. im posting this for @mf-despair-queen who literally JUST begged me for Mitch smut. bless that fucking shirtless picture for making all of us collectively lose our shit. stay thirsty, my friends. 

Summary: Mitch gets a smut filled morning with Y/n.

Chapter Sixteen - Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen

You woke wrapped in nothing but his limbs and the bedsheets. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up towards the sun coming through the curtains, softly bit your bottom lip and sighed. You were so happy. You turned slowly and quietly, and looked at Mitch sleeping, gently pushing some of the hair from his eyes. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man you had ever actually seen in person, and his peaceful resting face made your heart skip beats. 

Mitch's legs moved under the sheets and he rolled onto his back, turning his head away from you. You smirked. He wasn't hard, but there was a small bulge that perked up under the thin white sheets on the bed. You rubbed your tongue along the bottom of your left canine and cracked a simple plot: you knew how you wanted to wake him up that morning.

You carefully climbed under the thin white sheet covering Mitch. He almost never slept with more than just the sheet when he slept with you because your body ran so hot at night, that if he slept with blankets, the two of you would wake up in a pool of sweat. You positioned yourself on your stomach, your feet hanging out from under the sheet on the side of the bed. You leaned against your left forearm as you licked your lips and picked up his penis with your right hand. It was big even when it was flaccid. 

You popped the head into your mouth and lightly sucked. Mitch stirred gently and you grinned. You lifted his member and dragged your tongue on the underside, from the very base back up to the head, popping the tip back into your mouth for a quick suck. Mitch stirred more definitively, and he began to slowly grow in your hand.

You licked back up the side closest to you, base to tip, pushing your tongue a little bit firmer against him this time, and you heard him moan; a sound that he made when he woke up but a bit more breathy than usual. You wrapped your lips around his head and managed to get all of his semi-erect cock in your mouth. You moaned and the vibrations in your throat and mouth caused Mitch to rip the sheet off of him, revealing a sight that he wasn't sure until then was a dream or real.

"Holy shit." He mumbled as you bobbed up and down on him, your lips suctioned tight around his shaft. You let go with a popping noise. You maintained an intense and arrogant eye contact with him, as you moved in between his legs and rested on your knees in front of him. You looked like you were worshipping his cock, and you basically were.

He watched as you licked your lips and leaned your head down, still staring teasingly up at him. He bit his lip as you placed your delicate fingers under his balls, holding them up to your mouth like a snack that you had to have. You wet your lips and sucked his balls into your mouth, gently massaging them as they rotated over your tongue.

"Oh fuck." Mitch broke your eye contact and threw his head back, his fingers both digging into the sheets around him and pushing the hair away from his face. You were pleased with all the fuss he was making. You let his balls drop, lightly sucking on one side, then moving over to the other. You caught his attention again when you dragged the tip of your tongue from above his balls, across the underside of his base, up the shaft and then took him into your mouth again. He had grown substantially since you last had his long and thick length against your lips. You worked the shaft in tandem with your mouth, picking up your pace and barely blinking. Mitch's breathing became heavy as you went and he tucked hairs that were falling in your face, behind your ear.

"Please keep doing that." He begged, but you had other thoughts. You removed your hand from his shaft, pulling all of your hair to one side to drape over your shoulder, and began playing with his balls in your hand, as you then took as much of him as you could down your throat. Mitch jolted forward over the duel sensations. "Fuck... That works too." He mumbled in between pants.

He gathered your long y/h/c locks in his fist, close to your head and began creating the rhythm and timing that he wanted as he forced your head up and down on him. You gagged as Mitch pushed you farther than you had been going and his tip hit the back of your throat. You didn't stop him though. The sound of him moaning as you choked turned you on. You moaned and the vibrations in your throat set him loose.

"Oh fuck, Y/n. God damnit. Do you want me to cum in your mouth?" It was a cross between a threat and a question, and you just kept sucking and gagging, your hand no longer playing with his balls, but instead jerking off the little bit of shaft that he couldn't fit in your mouth. You smiled with your eyes as he looked down at you. It made him crazy with lust whenever you did that... It made him aggressive. He pushed your head down and you choked harder than you had before. Mitch backed off a little, but you pushed yourself back down as hard as he had pushed you before, choking again on his big, thick cock.

Mitch pulled your head up slightly and began thrusting himself up into your mouth with some speed. He was close and he just wanted to see your tongue painted white. You took every forceful thrust in stride and enjoyed yourself, bracing yourself against the bed, both arms on either side of his hips. Mitch pulled your head up, and pushed you back onto your knees in an upright position. He got on his knees and began stroking himself in front of your face. You opened your mouth, your cheekbones turned up in a grin. You playfully left your tongue flat in front of him. You glanced between his dark, lustful eyes and his red and wet tip. He gripped the back of your neck and pressed his cock against your tongue. You felt his load shoot into your mouth. He kept stroking and it shot out in strings against your tongue, cheeks, lips. You let him fill you up and you waited, mouth open until he was done.

He kept his left hand on the back of your neck and watched as you swallowed and then ran your tongue against your lips. He reached his thumb on his right hand against the corner of your mouth and wiped cum off of your face. You reached up for his hand and popped his thumb into your mouth, sucking against it until you had every last drop of him. The breath hitched in the back of his throat as he watched you swallow the last bits of his seed. He dropped to the mattress and watched as you climbed off of the bed.

He held his tender cock in his hand, and closed his eyes, a happy smirk resting on his lips. You grabbed your underwear from the night before off the floor and his black, long-sleeved crew neck shirt and got dressed. You tip-toed over to him and smiled. He looked peaceful and pleased. You leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'm going to make breakfast. Sleep a little longer." He nodded slightly and sighed, drifting back to sleep.

Mitch woke up, swung his muscular legs over the side of the bed and stretched. He felt great. He grabbed his blue plaid pajama pants off the floor and secured them around his hips. He didn't want to bother with the rest of his clothes if he was just going to shower after breakfast. He heard you moving around in the kitchen downstairs, and he inhaled the aroma of Belgian waffles being baked. He walked down the spiral staircase and saw your back turned, paying attention to whatever it was that you were making on the stove. The two of you had stopped by the grocery store on the way back from Steven's the night before to pick up some essentials to stock the kitchen with for the rest of your time there.

Mitch hadn't really looked around the house the day before. He slipped into the room that he had found you in the day before, on the first floor, and quickly realized that it was probably your father's old office and library. It was the only room in the house that still had pictures of the Hurley's. You had purged every other room of those personal mementos. Mitch wasn't sure if that was because the memories were too painful or if it was the spy in you that wanted to be able to make a quick get away if you ever needed to. He saw a duplicate of the picture that you had in your bedroom back at The Barn, and he traced his fingers along the top of the frame. Not a speck of dust came off and Mitch realized that you definitely had your cleaning crew take extra special care of this room.

He walked over to the bookshelf that took up an entire wall and saw a row of hardcover books with the same author's name. He pulled one out that made him smile, and carefully flipped through the pages, before putting it back on the shelf. A picture of you on a swing set with another little girl that looked a lot like Beth sat on the shelf above the old books and Mitch found himself thinking how he hoped his children had your eyes. He caught himself in his daydream, contorted his face with shock, and then felt the corner of his mouth turn up. It was not the most absurd thing he had ever thought about. He grinned, looking down at the floor and shook his head.

"What are you grinning about?" Mitch heard you whisper, as you leaned half your body against the other side of the door frame, holding onto the wood around your face.

Mitch walked up to you and kissed you lightly on the lips. "Just looking at how cute you were as a kid... breakfast ready?" You nodded, and turned. You laughed out loud when Mitch came up behind you and gripped his hands against your hips, walking in step with your stride towards the kitchen.

You sat down at the counter together and began eating your waffles and bacon and sausage and hash browns. Mitch swallowed some orange juice and watched as you poured more maple syrup on your plate. He laughed to himself and leaned back in the stool. "Do you want some waffles with your maple syrup, Y/n/n?"

You took the strawberry off of your plate and placed it in between your lips, then looked up at Mitch with the strangest look on your face. "........I hate waffles." You tried to stifle a grin.

Mitch burst out laughing. "So why the hell did you make them?"

"YOU LOVE WAFFLES!" You yelled back, laughing into your arms on the counter.

Mitch settled down, his cheeks hurt from smiling. "Oh god, I love..... that you are willing to eat something you hate just because you know I love it." He recovered quickly, but he realized that he almost said what had been on the tip of his tongue for days. You heard it too but you didn't react and you didn't want to presume. Mitch changed the subject. "So, was that a first edition copy of The Great Gatsby?" He asked, referencing the books that put a smile on his face in your Dad's library earlier.

You nodded as you ate everything on the plate that wasn't a waffle. "Those are all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novels in their first edition. My dad was definitely a collector."

"Is that why that book is your favorite?" Mitch asked you, a smile not having left his face since he got out of bed that morning.

"Yes, he used to read it to me when I was growing up, like twice a year at least. He loved that book because he grew up in a town called Sands Point, which is at the very tip of East Egg in the book... that collection of books are probably my most prized possessions."

"So there is a fire and you save me or the books?" Mitch proposed the absurd hypothetical.

"Oh, you're toast." You said with a grin, getting up from the stool to clear your plates.

He got up to clear his own and help you with the dishes when he saw you reach up on your tip-toes to put the waffle mix back in the cabinet above the fridge. Your taut but plump ass peeking out from under the hem of his favorite black shirt, and he stepped up behind you, pressing his body against yours as he easily placed the box away. He snaked his hands around your front, pulling the shirt up from the bottom until his hands rested on your hips. You exhaled heavily and leaned against him. Mitch slid one of his big, veiny hands down the front of your white cotton underwear and felt how wet you were. He began gently rubbing your clit, pulling you against him with his other hand, as you reached up behind you and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He breathed in your sweet scent and closed his eyes as you moved your arm around his, and began rubbing your palm against his cock, growing quickly inside of his pants.

You had cupped your hand around his shaft and were rubbing it through his soft cotton pants, leaving him so turned on that he literally stopped rubbing your clit and leaned into your touch. Mitch took a deep breath and came to. You had taken care of him, it was time for him to take care of you. 

He grabbed your hand from his cock and used his body to push you up against the marble countertop, pushing the dishes and bowls to the side, and bending you over against the cool surface. Mitch pulled his shirt off of you, pulling you up against him, and dragging his hand down your chest. You moaned at his roaming touch.

Mitch bent you back against the countertop again, your cheek pressed against the cool surface, as he gently pulled all of your hair to one side. He pressed his bare chest against your back, running his hands from your shoulders down your arms to intertwine his fingers with yours, spreading your arms out next to you. He had you completely pinned down as he nibbled on your earlobe and heard you moan softly. 

He released your hands and moved his lips towards the back of your neck. He swept the hair out of the way again and left long, wet and warm kisses on the back of your neck. You moaned a little louder. He pulled back slightly and softly blew cool air against the wet kisses he had left on you and you shivered. All of your nerves were standing on edge waiting to see what he would do next.

Mitch leaned back over, his hot skin pressed against your hot skin, and he began to leave long, wet, warm kisses on your shoulder blades, leaving equal amounts on both sides and then meeting back at your spine. You were breathing heavily underneath him. Mitch took the tip of his tongue and dragged it down the length of your spine, his hands running down your sides as he went. You let out your loudest moan yet and arched your back away from him, pressing your body against the counter harder. It was a part of your body that was woefully neglected by Mitch's mouth and you went wild over the rare sensations. Mitch stayed focused on your reaction and blew cool air back over the wet trail on your back. He then left long, sucking kisses back down your spine, taking care to go slowly.

"Oh god, Mitch. That feels so good." You whined, not wanting him to stop.

Mitch dropped to his knees behind you, slowly pulling your white cotton panties, with a growing wet spot by your pussy, down your legs. He grabbed fistfuls of your ass, pushing you up on the counter further. He kissed the backs of your thighs, leaving long, warm kisses down to the backs of your knees. You squirmed with each new touch as he kissed all the way down to your ankles. He worshipped every inch of your body and he wanted to make sure you knew that.

Mitch glanced up at your swollen pink lips, barely sticking out between your thighs, and he recalled the sweet taste in his mouth. He got on his knees and spread your ass cheeks apart; you wiggled your body slightly as he ran his thumbs just barely over your inner lips; just grazing the surface. He felt the warmth radiating off of you. He leaned up and dragged his mouth over your opening, down to your clit; a messy and somewhat toothy interaction that left you screaming.

"Aghhh.. FUCK, MITCH. oh my god." You had been aching for him to touch you there.

He nibbled more softly against your clit and sucked at it, pulling it away from you with the very tips of his teeth. You writhed on the counter with each new thing he did. Mitch sucked and sucked for a few more moments, flicking your nub with the tip of his tongue, driving you wild. 

Finally, he rose from his knees, pulling his pants down to his ankles, and he pulled you back towards the edge of the counter. You were panting against the white marble as you felt him press his hard cock up against you. He had grown to prefer not just shoving it in, but inching his length in slowly; getting to feel every bump and curve of your walls, but that was not going to work for him today. He was entirely too riled up.

"Please." You whispered right before he pushed himself inside of you in one swift motion. He moaned over how tight you were in that position and how deep he immediately went inside of you. You yelped out the moment he entered you. 

He began thrusting hard against you, pulling your hair back so he could see your face. He picked you up by the throat and then let go, slowing down and remembering how he found you and Dan the night you were assaulted. You looked behind you, reached for his hand, and wrapped it back around your throat. Mitch was not Dan.

Mitch inhaled deeply through his nose as he felt your heart beat against the veins in your soft and slender neck. He pulled you close to him, picking up his pace, his hand still around your neck, his other hand fastened around your hip, and he messily pressed his lips against yours. You dug your nails into his forearm as you hungrily bit at his lower lip. He continued his deep thrusts into your pussy and pushed you back against the cold countertop. He reached his arm around your front, pulling you slightly away from the marble, and began rubbing your clit vigorously. The muscles in his forearm strained as he picked up speed and pressure on your swollen nub, as you told him you were close and begged him for release.

"Oh... ohh...." You moaned loudly as you came undone, and Mitch felt your walls collapse around him. This was the tightest your sweet little cunt had ever been and he came undone as well. One more rough thrust deep into you was all he needed. You screamed at the intense pressure that his depth caused you to feel, and then you cooed as you felt his chest press up against your back, his fingers intertwine with yours, and warm cum begin to fill your insides. You would kill for the feeling, both emotional and physical, that you got when he came inside of you. You knew that there was nothing better.

Your breathing synced up as you both came down from your climaxes. Mitch rubbed his cheek against the back of your neck and closed his eyes. "That was the best sex I've ever had." He whispered into your skin.

"I'm going to have to agree with you." You echoed his sentiments, enjoying the feeling of his fat, softening cock still lightly throbbing inside of you. You sighed. "What time is it?"

Mitch glanced behind him and saw that the clock on the stove said 10:45AM. "It's almost 11." He said as he reluctantly pulled out of you, watching his seed drip down your thigh.

You turned around to face Mitch, standing for the first time in at least forty minutes. You held yourself up with the edge of the counter. "We need to go, my love. You have lunch with Steven and I have lunch with Katie and Jeannette."

"I know." He leaned down and kissed you. A smile coming across his face at your new pet name for him. 'My love'. It made his heart skip a beat because of how organically it came off your lips. He watched as you began walking for the staircase, and he smirked. "You know, if we ever lived here, the first thing I would do is install a shower down here, because I cannot have you constantly dripping my cum all over these hardwood floors." Mitch teased you, who had grabbed a paper towel before you left the kitchen and was reaching down every few steps to wipe up your thighs.

"Shut the fuck up. How about that?" You said with a grin that made your cheeks hurt, as you made your way up the stairs.

bless. 

@chivesoup @confidentrose @alexhmak @dontstopxx @iloveteenwolf24 @surpeme-bean @snek-shit @kalista-rankins @parislight @cleverassbutt @damndaphneoh @mgpizza2001 @chionophilic-nefelibata @ninja-stiles @sarcasticallystilinski @teenage-dirtbagbaby @mrs-mitch-rapp93 @alizaobrien @twsmuts @rrrennerrr @sorrynotsorrylovesome @lovelydob @iknowisoundcrazy @5secsxofamnesia @vogue-sweetie @dylrider @ivette29 @therealmrshale @twentyone-souls @sunshineystilinski @snicketyssnake @xsnak-3x @eccentricxem @inkedaztec @awkwarddly @lightbreaksthrough @maddie110201 @hattyohatt @rhyxn @amethystmerm4id @completebandgeek @red-wine-mendes @katieevans371 @girlwiththerubyslippers @theneverendingracetrack @snipsnsnailsnwerewolftales

[illbefinealonereads]

Blog tour! Let’s talk a bit about The Last Story of Mina Lee by Nancy Jooyoun Kim

THE LAST STORY OF MINA LEE Author: Nancy Jooyoun Kim ISBN: 9780778310174 Publication Date: September 1, 2020 Publisher: Park Row Books

THE LAST STORY OF MINA LEE (on sale: September 1, 2020; Park Row Books; Hardcover; $27.99 US/ $34.99 CAN). opens when Margot Lee’s mother, Mina, doesn’t return her calls. It’s a mystery to twenty-six-year-old Margot, until she visits her childhood apartment in Koreatown, Los Angeles, and finds that her mother has suspiciously died. The discovery sends Margot digging through the past, unraveling the tenuous and invisible strings that held together her single mother’s life as a Korean War orphan and an undocumented immigrant, only to realize how little she truly knew about her mother.

Interwoven with Margot's present-day search is Mina's story of her first year in Los Angeles as she navigates the promises and perils of the American myth of reinvention. While she's barely earning a living by stocking shelves at a Korean grocery store, the last thing Mina ever expects is to fall in love. But that love story sets in motion a series of events that have consequences for years to come, leading up to the truth of what happened the night of her death.

Buy Links: Harlequin Barnes & Noble Amazon Books-A-Million Powell’s

Born and raised in Los Angeles, Nancy Jooyoun Kim is a graduate of UCLA and the MFA Creative Writing Program at the University of Washington, Seattle. Her work has appeared in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Guernica, The Rumpus, Electric Literature, Asian American Writers’ Workshop’s The Margins, The Offing, the blogs of Prairie Schooner and Kenyon Review, and elsewhere. Her essay, “Love (or Live Cargo),” was performed for NPR/PRI’s Selected Shorts in 2017 with stories by Viet Thanh Nguyen, Phil Klay, and Etgar Keret. THE LAST STORY OF MINA LEE is her first novel. 

Excerpt:

Margot

2014

Margot's final conversation with her mother had seemed so uneventful, so ordinary—another choppy bilingual plod. Half-understandable. 

Business was slow again today. Even all the Korean businesses downtown are closing. 

What did you eat for dinner?

Everyone is going to Target now, the big stores. It costs the same and it's cleaner.   

Margot imagined her brain like a fishing net with the loosest of weaves as she watched the Korean words swim through. She had tried to tighten the net before, but learning another language, especially her mother's tongue, frustrated her. Why didn't her mother learn to speak English?

But that last conversation was two weeks ago. And for the past few days, Margot had only one question on her mind: Why didn't her mother pick up the phone?

****

Since Margot and Miguel had left Portland, the rain had been relentless and wild. Through the windshield wipers and fogged glass, they only caught glimpses of fast food and gas stations, motels and billboards, premium outlets and "family fun centers." Margot’s hands were stiff from clenching the steering wheel. The rain had started an hour ago, right after they had made a pit stop in north Portland to see the famous 31-foot-tall Paul Bunyan sculpture with his cartoonish smile, red-and-white checkered shirt on his barrel chest, his hands resting on top of an upright axe.

Earlier that morning, Margot had stuffed a backpack and a duffel with a week's worth of clothes, picked up Miguel from his apartment with two large suitcases and three houseplants, and merged onto the freeway away from Seattle, driving Miguel down for his big move to Los Angeles. They'd stop in Daly City to spend the night at Miguel's family's house, which would take about ten hours to get to. At the start of the drive, Miguel had been lively, singing along to "Don't Stop Believing" and joking about all the men he would meet in LA. But now, almost four hours into the road trip, Miguel was silent with his forehead in his palm, taking deep breaths as if trying hard not to think about anything at all.

"Everything okay?" Margot asked.

"I'm just thinking about my parents."

"What about your parents?" Margot lowered her foot on the gas.

"Lying to them," he said.

"About why you're really moving down to LA?" The rain splashed down like a waterfall. Miguel had taken a job offer at an accounting firm in a location more conducive to his dreams of working in theatre. For the last two years, they had worked together at a nonprofit for people with disabilities. She was as an administrative assistant; he crunched numbers in finance. She would miss him, but she was happy for him, too. He would finally finish writing his play while honing his acting skills with classes at night. "The theatre classes? The plays that you write? The Grindr account?"

"About it all."

"Do you ever think about telling them?"

"All the time." He sighed. "But it's easier this way."

"Do you think they know?"

"Of course, they do. But..." He brushed his hand through his hair. "Sometimes, agreeing to the same lie is what makes a family family, Margot."

"Ha. Then what do you call people who agree to the same truth?"

"Uh, scientists?"

She laughed, having expected him to say friends. Gripping the wheel, she caught the sign for Salem.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?" she asked.

"I'm okay. We're gonna stop in Eugene, right?"

"Yeah, should be another hour or so."

"I'm kinda hungry." Rustling in his pack on the floor of the backseat, he found an apple, which he rubbed clean with the edge of his shirt. "Want a bite?"

"Not now, thanks."

His teeth crunched into the flesh, the scent cracking through the odor of wet floor mats and warm vents. Margot was struck by a memory of her mother's serene face—the downcast eyes above the high cheekbones, the relaxed mouth—as she peeled an apple with a paring knife, conjuring a continuous ribbon of skin. The resulting spiral held the shape of its former life. As a child, Margot would delicately hold this peel like a small animal in the palm of her hand, this proof that her mother could be a kind of magician, an artist who told an origin story through scraps—this is the skin of a fruit, this is its smell, this is its color.

"I hope the weather clears up soon," Miguel said, interrupting the memory. "It gets pretty narrow and windy for a while. There's a scary point right at the top of California where the road is just zigzagging while you're looking down cliffs. It's like a test to see if you can stay on the road."

"Oh, God,” Margot said. “Let's not talk about it anymore."

As she refocused on the rain-slicked road, the blurred lights, the yellow and white lines like yarn unspooling, Margot thought about her mother who hated driving on the freeway, her mother who no longer answered the phone. Where was her mother?

The windshield wipers squeaked, clearing sheets of rain.

"What about you?" Miguel asked. "Looking forward to seeing your mom? When did you see her last?"

Margot's stomach dropped. "Last Christmas," she said. "Actually, I've been trying to call her for the past few days to let her know, to let her know that we would be coming down." Gripping the wheel, she sighed. "I didn't really want to tell her because I wanted this to be a fun trip, but then I felt bad, so..."

"Is everything okay?"

"She hasn't been answering the phone."

"Hmm." He shifted in his seat. "Maybe her phone battery died?"

"It's a landline. Both landlines—at work and at home."

"Maybe she's on vacation?"

"She never goes on vacation." The windshield fogged, revealing smudges and streaks, past attempts to wipe it clean. She cranked up the air inside.

"Hasn't she ever wanted to go somewhere?"

"Yosemite and the Grand Canyon. I don't know why, but she's always wanted to go there."

"It's a big ol' crack in the ground, Margot. Why wouldn't she want to see it? It's God's crack."

"It's some kind of Korean immigrant rite of passage. National Parks, reasons to wear hats and khaki, stuff like that. It's like America America."

"I bet she's okay,” Miguel said. “Maybe she's just been busier than usual, right? We'll be there soon enough."

"You're probably right. I'll call her again when we stop."

A heaviness expanded inside her chest. She fidgeted with the radio dial but caught only static with an occasional glimpse of a commercial or radio announcer's voice.

Her mother was fine. They would all be fine.

With Miguel in LA, she'd have more reasons to visit now.

The road lay before them like a peel of fruit. The windshield wipers hacked away the rivers that fell from the sky.

Excerpted from The Last Story of Mina Lee by Nancy Jooyoun Kim, Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Jooyoun Kim Published by Park Row Books

[wulfprints]

Photobook Design

I chose to use the tried and tested Blurb to design and order my photobook for a few reasons; they have a wide range of photo papers at affordable prices; their book designing software, ‘Bookwright’, is the best I had used, and allowed me to design my book the way I wanted it; I had researched and found that they had a variety of high-tech scanners that could give very good results.

I chose to use their ‘standard landscape’ size of 10x8″ because I felt like it would have the ideal balance between photo size and versatility. It would make no sense to have a huge photobook because it would not have one of the main advantages of a book, its portability.

I selected ‘lustre’ as the paper stock because it is an ideal balance between gloss and matte. I did not want my images to come out glossy, because I do not feel this would have been appropriate for many, if any, of them. Matte, on the other hand, would have been better than gloss, but could have come across a little dull on many of the images. Therefore, after some research, I decided upon lustre for a compromise between the two.

Finally, I chose a hardcover image wrap, mainly due to personal preference. I do not feel that any of the other options would have been ‘better’ for the application, however I have never liked dust jackets, and I feel a softcover book wouldn’t have felt very substantial, and could have felt cheap.

The cover of the book is kept simple. It is worth noting that I decided not to use the image of the birds from Ham House. I chose instead to use my second favourite image from the batch, the image of the cloister at Lacock Abbey. I feel that this image is more symbolic and representative of the ethos behind the book. It symbolises the ‘rusticness’ and historical importance of many of the properties depicted in the book.

I wanted there to be very little on the cover, with the contents being the main focus of the book.

On the rear is a small portrait of myself along with my brand name, Wulf Prints.

I kept the inside pages similiarly minimalistic. On the left hand page there is an introduction to the project, and on the right is the title and my name.

The following pages are the images themselves. I wanted, again, to keep these pages as simple as possible, placing the emphasis on the images. The images are as big as they could be without looking like they’d been ‘crammed’ in to the pages. I feel there is ample white space around each image to act as a neutral ‘buffer zone’

Finally, on the inside pages at the back of the book, there is a location and equipment list. I think the locations were important to include for transparency, and so that any viewer who likes the look of a particular image can go and see it for themselves. The equipment could very easily have been left out, but I included it because equipment is a very important part of photography to me. In addition, “What did you shoot this on?” is a very common first question I receive about any and all images, and so I thought it would be very appropriate to include this list.

[kadtherine]

inspired by that @pansexualriphunter post :  “at some point after rip is rip again but before he’s actually allowed out of the medbay (they gotta make sure he’s healthy or whatever) someone takes the jumpship back to 2017 and raids a local party city (see: pays for the goods provided, thank you very much) and so when rip goes to the bridge for the first time in a while he’s greeted by cake and a banner that says “congrats on not being dead!” and there are balloons and its a pure moment.”

Rip found comfort in knowing that, despite his absence, his team was still as confusing and exasperating as ever. 

Obviously, things hadn’t gone back to the way it was before New York – seeing as there were two new members that he didn’t know. Amaya, he knew from the short time he had spent with the JSA and the few History courses that he remembered.  Nate Heywood was another story, though. He had recognized his name and had made the connection to Henry, but Rip had no recollection of his grandson gaining powers. Which was something he intended to discuss about with Sara as soon as he was allowed of the medbay. To say he wasn’t surprised when Ray cornered him on his way out would be an understatement. His too-wide grin alarmed him, though.

 “Can I do something for you, Mr Palmer?”

“Oh no, no. I just came to see if you’re okay,” Ray answered, rocking back and forth on his heels.

His eyes narrowed, Rip crossed his arms and gave him a nod.

“Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine,” At the other man’s unimpressed look, he rolled his eyes and tilted his head to the side, “Well, as fine as I can be considering. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Barely registering the way Ray’s eyes widened in a panic, Rip walked around him and made his way toward the bridge.

“Hey! Did you know we had rats on the ship?”

That managed to catch his attention. Stopping in his stride, he slowly turned around, his eyes wide opened as he stared at Ray, the latter stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m sorry. What?” Rip choked out, his hand clenching into a fist by his side.

“We’ve got rats. Well, actually we’ve got one rat – by we, I mean Mick  - but you know how it is with rodents: where there is one, another hides elsewhere and-”

Rip wasn’t sure he had processed everything Ray had been rambling about. Seeing as it concerned rodents on his ship, he knew that he should probably paying attention to the subject of conversation. The random and sudden change of subject caught him by surprise, Ray’s blabber confusing him further more. Martin walking into the medbay stopped him cutting into the other man’s rodents’ rant. Rip watched with a frown as the older man took a look around the room before his gaze fell on him.

“Oh good, you’re still here,” Martin sighed in relief, making his way to him.

“Actually, I was on my way out-” Rip started.

“About that,” he interrupted, rubbing his hands together; “I was thinking that it would be better for you to stay put for a few more days.”

“I don’t really think that’s necessary-“ he started again, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Rip understood the logic behind him staying at the medbay, under constant surveillance. He really did, seeing as the last time he had been left on his own, he had succeeded in deliberately crashing the Waverider in the Stone Age. While he hadn’t been in complete control of his actions when doing so, Rip had been getting better since then – thanks to Jax and Sara travelling into his mind.

“With all due respect, Captain,” Martin spoke up, breaking Rip’s train of thoughts, “You’ve been through quite the ordeal and while I’d like to take your word for it, it wouldn’t be the first time you’d downplay the gravity of your health-“

“Martin,” Rip said, putting an end to the older man’s tirade, “I appreciate the concern and understand your wariness about my current state and my abilities,” he ignored the muttered ‘none of us are wary’ and put a hand on the professor’s shoulder, “But as I was telling Mr Palmer before you came in, I am fine. Beside, I’m aware that things have changed during my absence. I’m planning on taking things slow for now on.”

He watched, slightly puzzled, as Martin and Ray exchanged a look, the latter shrugging in response. With a loud and long sigh, Martin looked back at Rip and gave a small nod.

“Very well, then.”

Giving him a small smile, he patted his shoulder and walked out, making his way to the bridge. He hadn’t even taken two steps into the hallway before having his path blocked by Nate, the latter too busy reading some book to notice his presence. Restraining a groan of frustration, Rip crossed his arms and loudly cleared his throat, stiffening a smirk when he jumped, a yelp coming out of his mouth.

“Heeeeeeeey, Captain Hunter-” Nate drawled out with a sheepish grin before he sobered up and tilted his head to the side, frowning in contemplation,  “Cap-captain Rip Hunter. Mr Hunter. What am I supposed to call you?”

“Rip’s fine, Mr Heywood,” he replied, slightly amused by the other man’s nervous blabber.

“Nate,” he retorted with a finger pointed to himself, earning a snort from Rip, “Which you already knew. But what I meant is, just Nate is fine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, then,” Rip nodded.

Nate returned the nod, a pleased spreading on his face and his fingers drumming against the hardcover of his book. As an awkward silence began to stretch between them, Rip narrowed his eyes at the other man’s nervous behaviour, the latter bouncing on his toes while clicking his tongue. Tilting his head to the side, he opened his mouth to ask if something was wrong, before thinking better of it and closing it. Nate’s nerves were probably due to him being alone with Rip. At least that what was the Captain thought, his jaw clenched. With another nod and clear of throat, Rip went to move around him, only to have Nate block his way again. 

“It’s really great to meet you in person, you know,” Nate said loudly, ignoring the confused look Rip was sending him, “It’s great to see you live up the stories Amaya and I have been told.”

“Do I really?” Rip deadpanned, an eyebrow lifted in doubt.

He wasn’t too sure that, during his absence, his team had been singing his praises to the two newcomers. Oblivious to his scepticism, Nate nodded frantically, his smile widening.

“Well,” he sighed, “I better go and catch on what I’ve missed if I want to uphold my reputation.

“And just out of curiosity, where are you going?” Nate asked, his tone hesitant as he stepped to the side, once again blocking the Captain’s path.

“My office, if that’s fine with you?” Rip retorted, his confusion turning into irritation.

“Ah,” he grimaced, tilting his head to the side, “Actually, you can’t go there.”

“And why’s that?” he shot back, his stance defensive.

Rip felt a bit of pride at the way Nate’s eyes widened, unconsciously taking a couple of steps back. His pride was short-lived, though, and was replaced by guilt as he noticed his hands clench into fists by his side, as if readying him to attack. 

“You can’t go to your office because all of the reports concerning the latest missions have been stocked in the library,” the new arrival suddenly intervened, not even letting Rip the time to think about an apology.

Turning around, he found Amaya standing by his side, her arms crossed and staring at Nate with intent. He watched, with a frown, as Nate returned the look before he snapped his fingers and pointed at her.

“Right, that’s why,” he confirmed, though his tone sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Rip, “I’ll be going now.” 

Amaya let out a snort as she watched Nate beat a hasty retreat, muttering under his breath, Rip lifted an eyebrow at her in question, to which she responded with a shake of head. With a sigh, he ran a hand over his face, the other stuffed in his pocket as he began to make his way to the library. To his surprise, Amaya didn’t follow Nate on his way back to the bridge but walked by his side. Noticing his stare, she stopped and frowned.

“Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit?” she inquired.

“Oh no, it’s fine,” he reassured.

Amaya shot him a small smile and wrapped her arms around herself. Both of them fell into a comfortable silence as they made their way to the library. Rip was aware of the constant glances that she threw his way every ten seconds. He couldn’t tell if she was looking at him with suspicion or if she was just curious. They hadn’t spent d that much time together, if you were to ignore the time he had spent trying to kill the entire crew.

“Can I ask you something?” Amaya spoke up, putting an end to the silence and breaking his train of thoughts.

“Uh – sure,” Rip stopped walking, his hands stuffed in his pockets, “what is it?”

He watched, with a frown, as she tucked her hair behind her ear, nibbling nervously on her bottom lip.

“About the JSA,” she started, clenching and unclenching her fists, “Were they mad-”

“About you leaving?” he finished, an eyebrow cocked. With a sigh of relief, Amaya nodded, “I don’t think so. Not that I would know, I haven’t spent that much time with them. They did spoke very highly of you, though,” Rip added after noticing her frustration, “I guess if they were angry at you at some point, they understood the reasoning between your departure.”

She shot him a small smile at the assurance.

“The same thing can be said about you, you know,” her smile widened at his perplexed tilt of head, “what I meant is that this group of people speaks very highly of you, too. They’ve never lost faith in you or the mission you’ve trusted them with. And after meeting you, I can see why.”

Rip gave her a crooked smile and bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck in humility. He knew he hadn’t been the greatest Captain or team leader, endangering members of his crew without a second thought and keeping secrets from them. He had tried to redeem himself in the months following the destructing of the Oculus. Apparently, he had managed to get through them, somehow.

“Well, it seems that it took me turning to the Dark Side for them to do what they’re being told,” Rip retorted, smirking.

Huffing out a laugh, Amaya gave his arm a squeeze, oblivious to the other’s surprised reaction at the comforting touch.

“You should give them more credit. Same thing goes for you, Captain.”

With another squeeze and smile, she let go of him and began to make her way back to the bridge. He watched her leave, a contemplative look on his face before he continued his trek to the library. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised when he found Mick sprawled on the desk chair, his feet crossed on the table and a bottle he didn’t recognize as one of his own in his hands. With a sigh, Rip walked in and made his way to the desk, where he could see an even pile of folders in its corner. Mick barely spared him a glance as he got closer and, without a word, grabbed an extra glass from the cupboard behind him. Grabbing a file from the pile, Rip watched with a frown as he poured an amber liquid to the rim of the glass.

“I don’t think that I should be drinking at the moment,” he remarked.

“What makes you think the second glass is for you?” Mick retorted, pushing it toward him with the butt of the bottle, “Beside if you’re planning on reading these, alcohol is going to help.”

With a grimace, Rip dropped the folder back onto the desk and sat down in front of him, watching as Mick emptied half of his glass in one go without wincing. Leaning back into his chair, he took the glass, the liquid swirling in it as he did so.

“All good in the head, now?” Mick grumbled, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

“I suppose,” he snorted, looking up at the pyro. Trust Mick to tactlessly inquire about his mental health. Mimicking the other man’s smirk, Rip lifted his glass in a silent toast, “And I hear that I have you to thank for.”

Grunting, Mick briefly looked up at him before looking down at his lap, where he was trying to balance his glass without having the liquid overflow from it.

“Don’t thank me yet, English. I didn’t do it for you anyway,” at Rip’s cocked eyebrow, he lifted a shoulder, “Most of the crew was going crazy with you on the dark side, especially Captain Blondie and the kid.”

“Still, you did it for the team,” Rip retorted, stiffening an amused smile at Mick’s reluctance at admitting that he actually cared.

“I did it for myself,” he corrected, glaring at him, “I got tired of everyone whining about you.”

Undeterred by his glare, Rip gave him a nod and raised his glass to him. With an eye roll, Mick clinked his glass with his before downing his drink in one go. Rip gave his drink a cautious sniff before taking a gulp. His eyes scrunched in disgust, he was barely aware of Mick snickering as he struggled to swallow what he thought was whiskey, coughing. 

“What the bloody hell is that?” Rip croaked out, eyeing his glass with distaste.

“No idea,” Mick admitted as he got up from his chair, slamming his empty glass on the desk, “Snatched it from Al Capone’s.”

 His eyes widened at the nonchalant confession, his head tilted to the side as if he had misheard the words that had left the thief’s mouth. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Do I really want to know how you came across Al Capone’s possession?”

“Probably not,” Mick retorted, slamming the bottle in front of him with a smirk, “Take it as a ‘welcome back’ gift, Captain.”

“You shouldn’t have, really,” Rip deadpanned.

Snorting, Mick patted his back and made his way out of the library, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Sighing, he pushed back the drink with a scowl on his face and grabbed a couple of folders. He was half way through reading about their mission in Feudal Japan, when he heard a soft knock. Rip looked up to find Sara leaning against the threshold, a small smile on her face.

“Barely out of the medbay and already back at work,” she clicked her tongue in fake disapproval, “You’ve got a problem, Hunter.” 

Rolling his eyes, he let out a scoff and closed off the file, throwing it back onto the pile of read file he had made.

“I’ve been out of the loop for a while, just trying to catch up,” Rip crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair as Sara hopped onto the desk, “I haven’t seen much of you, today.”

“Well, being Captain is a lot harder that it seems. Everyone wants a piece of me,” she retorted, flipping her hair behind her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he smiled at her, “Well, you’ve done a remarkable job from what I can see.”

Snorting, Sara grabbed his discarded glass and downed it in one go, wincing as the alcohol burned down her throat. Judging by the disgusted look on her face, she was wincing at the taste.

“This is nasty,” she muttered, putting it back onto the desk, “I’m glad you’re back, though. Takes some of the weight off my shoulders.

“I don’t know about that,” Rip began, his tone teasing and light, “Like I’ve said, you’ve been handling it very well. I could leave, retire or take a break.”

He saw her expression darken and her fist going for his shoulder, but he didn’t stop it. He gritted his teeth in pain when her punch landed on his shoulder, scowling at her as he rubbed his arm.

“Don’t say that. You’re not going anywhere, Hunter. Got it?”  Sara warned, shaking a finger in his face.

With a nod, he grabbed her finger and before she could take it back, Rip intertwined their fingers, giving her hand a small squeeze. He watched, with a fond smile, as the tips of her ears redden.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Gideon intervened, “Your presences are requested on the bridge, Captains.”

“Roger that, Gideon,” Sara replied, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand.

Clearing her throat, she pulled Rip to his feet and let go of his hand, plastering a smile on her face as she stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“Come on, you’ve heard the A.I,” Sara nodded to the ‘gifted’ bottle on the desk, “You should bring that with you.”

Rip frowned at her before his gaze fell onto the offending bottle of alcohol. By the time he looked back to the doorway, Sara had already disappeared. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed the bottle and made his way out. His frown deepened as he noticed the obscurity in the hallway leading to the bridge. His hand automatically went to his side, only to remember a second too late that he didn’t have his gun holster or any kind of weaponry by his side

Swearing, Rip held out a hand as he slowly trudged through the hall. Letting out a breath, he stopped at the bridge’s entrance, squinting his eyes as he tried to discern silhouettes in the dark.

“Gideon, lights,” Rip whispered.

His eyes fluttering shut as the room was enlightened, he barely had to register anything before he was assaulted with noise. 

“SURPRISE!”

“Jesus Fucking-” Rip jumped back, a hand coming to rest on his racing heart.

Letting out a breath, he reopened his eyes to find the entire crew grinning back at him, apparently amused by his predicament. Their behaviours weren’t the weirdest thing, though, nor were the party hats that they each were wearing. No, what caught his attention was the fact that the bridge had been completely decorated with party ornaments. Balloons filled the room, the floor was covered with confetti and banners hung from the ceiling. Tilting his head to the side, Rip narrowed his eyes as he tried to read what was written on it.

“What the hell -” Rip started.

“Do you like it?” Ray made his way to him, his party hat crooked and a garland wrapped around his neck, “Sara and Jax didn’t find any ‘Congratulations on not being dead’ at Party City, obviously. So I made it – Nate helped,” he added, rolling his eyes at Nate’s loud, oblivious cough.

Rip wasn’t sure he had understood any of the words that had left Ray’s mouth, but still he nodded as the other man wrapped around his shoulders and led him onto the bridge. He barely blinked at Mick walking to him, a smirk on his face and pried the bottle out of his grasp.

“Would you look at that? The good Captain brought booze at his own party,” he unscrewed the bottle and raised it in a toast, “How thoughtful.”

He frowned as Mick walked away, bringing the bottle to his mouth before turning back to Ray.

“Wait- when did any of you had the time to go to Party City? And how did I not notice it?” Rip muttered to himself. 

Amaya snorted at his slow processing, shoving an opened bottle of beer out in his hand.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time unconscious lately,” she shrugged, taking a sip of her own drink, “Jax and Sara might have borrowed the drop ship and flown to 2017 for some shopping.”

Again, Rip could do nothing but nod. Bringing his beer to his mouth, he replayed the last few days in his mind, trying to understand how could he have missed it. Hell, he hadn’t even noticed their strange behaviours until today. With him spending most of his time in the medbay and drifting from sleeping to awake every five hours, it was not as if he had the occasion to notice they were hiding something from him. Rip had noticed the constant absence of Jax and Sara, but he had attributed to them being busy.

He spotted Jax and Martin discussing over a cart of food while Sara was leaning against the threshold of his study, laughing about something Amaya said. A clear of throat made him look up to find the superhero duo he had been observing a moment ago in front, in front with their cart of food.

“Hey guys,” Jax breathed out, handing each of them a cupcake. Rip couldn’t help but smirk as he noticed the hourglass drawn on it. He cocked an eyebrow at the younger man, to which the latter responded with a shrug, “I was going for a theme.”

“Yeah, a really weird theme,” Sara remarked, appearing at Jax’s side, “You should have seen the baker’s face when we asked when we told her the message we wanted written on the cake: ‘congrats on not being dead and not a mindless drone anymore.”

“I don’t see the other half of that message,” Rip remarked, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Eh, the first half was already weird enough,” she shrugged her shoulder, dragging her finger through the icing before spreading it on Rip’s cheek.

Grimacing in disgust, he wiped his cheek on his shoulder and threw her a glare, the latter ignoring it as Sara sipped on her beer, a smirk on her face. Humming in realization, she handed him her bottle, which he took with a suspicious look, and stormed into his study. Rip threw a look at Jax, to which he responded with a clueless shrug. Sara reappeared with a wrapped in her hands, which did nothing to ease his suspicion. She stopped in front of him, a satisfied and eager smile on her face.

“Let’s do a trade,” she said, nodding to the beers and cupcake he had in his hands.

Knowing better than arguing with her about it, Rip put the bottles and pastry on top of the box before carefully grabbing the package from under. Sara grabbed the bottles by the neck and put the cupcake into her mouth, waggling her eyebrows at Rip’s unimpressed expression.

“You didn’t need to get me a present, y’know,” he sighed, pulling on the bow on top of it.

Rolling her eyes, Sara took the cake out of her mouth.

“Open it before you start whining. And then, you’ll thank me,” she added, biting into the pastry.

With a sigh, he slowly took of the lid of the box, leaning back as if preparing himself for something to blow in his face. Nothing happened, though. Cocking an eyebrow, he let the lid fall onto the floor and peered into the package, his heart skipping a beat out the familiar pocket watch resting on top of a neatly brown trench coat. His mouth dry, Rip looked up to see Sara’s smug expression. Huffing out a laugh, he shook his head and took the watch out of the box, slowly opening it and letting out a sigh of relief at the untouched photograph.

“Where did you find this?” he breathed out, finding it impossible to tear his eyes from the picture. 

“In the inside pocket of your coat, the latter i found in your study” Sara grinned, satisfied, “I thought that I should hold on to it. As for the coat, well, I don’t think I could imagine our Captain wearing anything else that the coat he stole from his cowboy boyfriend. Am I right, fellas?” she finished, raising her beer.

Jax and Ray replied with an ‘Aye’, each raising their drinks while Martin gave a small nod and Mick grunted. Sara turned back to him, raising an eyebrow as if saying ‘see?’. Rip responded with an eye roll, closing the pocket watch and slipping it into the box.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her with a smile, which she returned with a nod, “To all of you, actually,” Rip added, his gaze darting from one person to another, “I’m very grateful for all that each of you have done and I’ll forever be in your-”                                      

“Urgh,” Mick groaned, his head falling backward, “he’s getting sappy.”

“He’s right,” Sara intervened before Rip could even think about protesting, “Don’t ruin my party mood, Hunter. Gideon, play my jam!”

Cheers filled the bridge as the Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction began blaring through the speakers. Rip watched with a fond smile as Jax made both Amaya and Sara twirl under his arms while Ray and Nate stayed to the side, the former singing out of tune and the latter playing air-guitar. Detaching himself from Jax, Amaya succeeded in convincing Mick to join her, which Rip found pretty incredible and funny. He had to stiffen a smirk when the pyro turned to glare at him, as if sensing his amusement, and raised his beer in greeting. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sara leave Martin’s side and moved toward him. 

He cocked an eyebrow at her as she sang the words under her breath, a hand outstretched for him to take. With an eye roll, he took her hand and let himself being pulled in the middle of the bridge. He let out a small chuckle, bending at an awkward angle as she made him turn under her arm before doing the same, her arms, then, going to wrap around his shoulders. Rip’s hands went down to her waist as they began to sway from side to side, Satisfaction changing to Prodigal Son. And if his hold around Sara tightened as the songs changed, no one seemed to care. Rip didn’t care. He was home and that was all that mattered.