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slashingdisneypasta · 2 years

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Horror Villains and: What They Would Put in the Hat

(The 7 Minutes in Heaven hat)

This was pretty much inspired by This post by @your-mxnd-is-mxne ! ^^

Warnings: Cursing and gore (As in limbs being put in the hat)

Animal the Cannibal: A potato peeler. BE CAREFUL.

Baby Firefly: A cute scrunchie. Put it in your hair!! She thinks you'll look so cute ^^ If you don't have hair/its too short, you can put it in hers! ^^ (So basically you win everything)

Billy Loomis: A folded up poster for the local cinema's horror night. They're playing Psycho, The Birds and then Psycho 2 Back-To-Back.

Bo Sinclair: Little plyers. he never leaves home without them, so you better give them back! Play nice and he may use them on you *cough*

Bubba Sawyer: A pig femur... its not clean...

Candyman: A little leather bound journal with his poetry in it. If he likes you, maybe he'll read you some!!

Captain Spaulding: A pamphlet for his shop! He'd just fucken love to show you around.

Carrie White: A pencil. She wasn't sure and she didn't have a whole lot on her! she hopes that's okay ^^

Chop Top Sawyer: His sunnies! Not his wig, that's special. But you got his glasses! He even wants to see you put them on.

Chucky Lee Ray: He put his whole damn shoe in there. I mean, he's a doll. Why not? // If he's in his human form, though, maybe... a... condom...

BONUS for @your-mxnd-is-mxne because its their idea in the first place ^^ Daddy Hall- *cough* I mean Doc Halloran!: Bullet casing. Its, oddly enough, the only thing that was in his pockets?? 😅 After all he is only here to hunt Leslie- see if you can distract him, though.

Dr Suave: A pack of tooth floss from his pocket. He's a dentist, what do you expect from him?

Drayton Sawyer: The keys to the chilly van (Its all he had on him). He's gonna want them back.

Freddy Krueger: A scrap oh his sweater and it turns to dirty brown dust as soon as you see what it is.

Granny Boone: Buckman's initialed handkerchief.

Harper Alexander: A twig that's been widdled a whole bunch. It may snap in your hand- don't you worry, he don't mind ^^

Inkubus: Ripped piece of paper with a backwards K scribbled into it. You get ink stains on your fingers.

Jack Dante: An action figure! Probably He-Man or something. You can play with it for now but you're gonna give it back when he goes home.

Jason Voorhees: A chunk of moss. Its squishy and fresh.

Jedidiah Sawyer: A tie! He's a well dressed man and always brings an extra XD

Jennifer Check: Cherry Coke Chapstick! You know she's that super cool person who had all the branded soda flavours. And she may even apply some to you~

Jerry Dandridge: His scarf. And its cold- why don't you wear it for a while?~ He's very charming. And this is the man you're gonna get stuck in a closet alone with for nearly 10 minutes! Goodluck-

Leslie Vernon: His mask. He's gotta spread the word!! Make sure people know who he is! This felt like a marketing opportunity.

Lester Sinclair: That grizzly lookin' knife of his. Listen to him chat about it and he'll love you forever.

Luda Mae Hewitt: Wooden spoon. Her logic? If she goes in there with someone iffy she can beat them with it.

Max Grief: Cassette tape out of his car. He wasnt sure what to really put in, so, *shrug*

Mayor Buckman: Boone's initialed handkerchief (Yeahhhh, they're cute like that XD).

Mental Manny: Straw twisted and bent into the shape of some satanic symbol. You feel uncomfortable holding it. But oh, he wants you to have it now~~ A gift.

Michael Myers: Someone's ear.

Mickey Altieri: A snack. Like a cookie from a vending machine or a pack of 2 minute noodles. You can have it, no worries.

Midnight Man: The page with the names on it. ... wanna play a game?

Miss Quinn: Her hand mirror. Come on now, sweetheart!!~ We'll make you look pretty.

Monty Hewitt: A screwdriver. You got anything he can fix up rela quick? He doesn't mind, if it means he can get away from Hoyt for a bit.

Otis B. Driftwood: You don't wanna know. I'm not telling you. Put it down.

Pamela Voorhees: Her drivers licence. She was looking in her wallet and thought it was logical- plus she sure as hell wasn't putting in her polaroid of Jason.

Patrick Bateman: His card, of course. Its so damn crisp- you get a paper cut.

Pennywise: A horn! Honk honk!

Rocco the Clown: Some poor bastard's kneecap. Yes. A kneecap. And I still won't tell you what Otis put in the hat.

Roman Bridger: A very fancy pen. The kind thats like 50 dollars for one. It's for signing contracts but he likes to show off that he has it.

Sheriff Hoyt / Charlie Hewitt Jr: 'His' sheriff's badge! He wants you to comment on it, too- call him Sheriff Hoyt- stroke his ego. That's all he wants.

Stu Macher: A lollipop! You can have it, he's already sucking one. You two can have matching blue tongues!

Stuart Lloyd: Someone forced him to chuck in the USB that his little movie is on- he's terribly anxious about it and hope that you'll just give it right back and don't play it. Its not done...

DBD! The Clown: A little travel bottle with a suspicious liquid inside. He suggests that you drink it... I suggest you do not. Unless, you know, you're into it-

DBD! The Deathslinger: A wrench. He's a handy man and never leaves the house without his handy wrench!

The Djinn: ... the jewel...

DBD! The Huntress: A bunny ear from a bunny doll. She can do it herself but if you sew it back onto her dolly then you have a friend for life.

The Man (Hush): A switchblade. He's gonna want it back but (; you can keep it while you're in the closet with him if it makes you feel safer.

Taxidermist: Some kind taxidermists tool. Maybe a fleshing cone or a necker knife.

Thomas Hewitt: A pretty rock. 🪨

Vincent Sinclair: A notepad so he can talk to you if you don't know sign language ^^

Winslow Foxworth Coltrane: A crushed can of coke. He doesn't carry shit around with him and he sure as fuck is not handing over his knife.

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floatingonalowvibe · 2 years

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chapter six, part one

After reading that letter, I had just a moment to think.

I didn’t think of anything in general, but just a moment to sit.

The joint had burnt out a long while ago, but the high was still strong enough for me to feel floaty and light.

I knew Dad was coming to visit the family in a few weeks, so that would be the time I would leave.

Ever since I first visited the North Pole that one faithful night, it seemed so alluring to me, like it wanted me to stay. It was so comforting, the small snow flurries, the faint smell of something I can only describe as a Christmas smell. And the friendlier than ever elves, how they would let me watch their work, and how even sometimes they would let me help. I still know how to make a few trinkets that they taught me how to make. I will never forget the wonderful feeling of the North Pole. The feeling of belonging was always there. The human world could never compare.

I could never forget Bernard, how whenever I think of him, the smell of peppermint and cinnamon finds a way to waft into my nose and calm my mind. His tall stance of confidence, how he would loom over me when I was around him. His tight curls, lopsided hat. I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

I could imagine his voice, how smooth it was.

God, I can't get enough of him.

He's just so.....i don’t even know how to describe it.

His pointed ears, always rosey face with a slight sparkle to it.

I knew it was the drugs talking, but he was beautiful.

~one week later~

this weekend dad was coming over. I have been waiting for what feels like forever.

Charlie helped me pack up a good amount of the items I owned. in total, I had one large suitcase and two bookbags filled. I didnt own much, but a cherish what I have.

everyone was downstairs, Charlie and I were sitting in the living room, him being busy trying to figure out how to fix a CD player he got about a month ago. I on the other hand, was going through old cassettes I had, figuring out which ones I could erase and re-tape for different songs. Neil and mom were both in the kitchen, talking about some boring adult stuff. I know I'm basically an adult, but it doesn't seem right to me. being an adult sounds scary to me.

everything was silent, except the crackling fireplace charlie and I started about an hour ago.

the silence was broken by a rythmic knocking on the front door. Charlie and I immediately bolted for out seats in the living room to the door.

we were greated by none other than dad, who sported a nice red sweater this evening. he looked jolly as ever, with his rosy cheeks, big round belly, and white hair with a matching beard.

"Hiya guys!" he said, opening his arms to give us two a hug. we both have him a big bear hug, which he returned with an even bigger bear hug.

we all had huge smiles on our faces as we walked into the house, Charlie going on a rant to dad about all the interesting things that have happened since he has been gone. I just watched him.

~pretend I wrote a whole dinner scene~

I was back to my place in the living room, stuffed from the dinner.dad and Charlie were sitting next to me, dad helping Charlie figure out his CD player.

I glanced over to the clock that sat above the fireplace, it read 8:30, right on the dot.

I made an agreement with mom that I could leave at 9:00, so I have been anxiously waiting for that time to roll around. And now it was almost time.

I got up from my spot, causing dad to ask here I was going. I replied, telling him I was grabbing my stuff, getting ready to leave.

I made my way up the stairs, walking into my room.I grabbed my bags, looking around at my room. I wasn't going to miss anything.

~timeskip, theyre about to leave~

hugs and kisses were being tossed around as we were standing outside by dad's sleigh. Mom had me in bone crushing hug, not wanting to let go of her son who she loved dearly. I awkwardly hugged her back, reassuring her that I would be back before she knew it. I was only staying there for a few months to see how I liked it there.

Niel was right behind her, giving me a big hug. he was telling me how much he was going to miss me, how well I'm going to do, and reassuring with me that I got everything I needed.

last but certainly not least, was Charlie. he was almost in tears as he hugged me. I hugged him tight, talking him that I would write letters. His hug lasted longer than any of the other hugs.

after yet another round of hugs, kisses, and goodbyes, dad and I were off.

the feeling of the crisp air flying through my hair was amazing. I couldn't wait to get to the north pole.

part 2 should be posted later today.

any type of interaction with this story is greatly appreciated.

go drink some water.

#bernard #bernard the elf x reader #bernard x reader #bernard the head elf #bernard the arch elf #x reader

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bellaramseysgf · 2 years

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Baby Bat (E.M)

Warning(s); none? Just fluff!!

Pairing(s); Vamp/Bat! Eddie Munson x Girlfriend! Reader.

Summary; You bring Eddie with you to work.

A/n; sooo this Is written as Eddie being able to shapeshift as a vampire into a bat! Bc otherwise it’s illegal so🫡

Also, this is short because it’s just a test to see how people like it! If you want more PLEASE tell me!! I’d love to write about it more!!

“You have until the 6th to return them” your customer nodded and thanked you leaving with their videos. Steve walked in for his shift change with Robin “hey Steve!” He was messing with a button on his vest. “Hey! How-” Steve’s eyes locked in on your head and his head tilted “you…when did you get ears?” He questioned. “What? Oh! No that’s just Eddie” you waved him off.

“You say that like it’s Normal!” Steve walked around the counter “it is, you didn’t know he turns into a bat?” Steve shook his head. “Yeah, kinda a power of his” Steve stepped around you seeing the black, furry blob attached to your head. “Awh, I wanna hold him” Steve went to pick him up “Steve I would-” but it was too late.

He woke Eddie up and Eddie immediately started to chip, high pitched almost like he was crying. “Steve!” You scolded and took Eddie back carefully moving him onto your sweater. “Shhh, Shh it’s okay. You’re back with me now” you rubbed your finger gently over his head. “What was that!” “Him cussing at you in bat language” you giggled.

“Seriously, he just doesn’t like people touching him when he’s a bat” “but you touch him!” “I’m his girlfriend, it’s different” Eddie hooked his claws into the holes of your shirt and settled back down into his slumber. “You’re allowed to bring him into work?” He asked and you nodded “he’s mostly quiet so he doesn’t bother anything” you started to label vhs tapes with prices.

“What happens if he turns back into a human?” You shrug “then he’s human?” You turned around to face him “Steve, you really are just a pretty boy” Steve scoffed and went on about his work.

You continued to work until eventually eddie woke back up flapping his wings “big stretch!” You cooed smiling as he let out a quiet chirp nuzzling your chin. He climbed down your sweater hooking himself around one of your belt loops and hanging there. “Silly boy” you booped his tiny nose and he let out another happy chirp.

Dustin walked in along with Mike and max “hey guys!” You said and Eddie perked up flying over to dustin. “Oh! Hi Eddie” Dustin smiled and he settled on his cap “what’s up?” You ask. “Do you guys have dirty dancing yet?” Max asked and Mike gagged “Michael, be nice” you turned to max “I’ve no clue let me get Steve.”

You left to find Steve dragging him back upfront “Max you know I can’t give you that movie, Billy’s rules.” “But he’s not here” max said and Steve sighed. “You’re trying to get me killed” you looked over at him “don’t you have a bat with nails in it? Use that” Steve groaned. “No, I’m not giving you the movie max” she crossed her arms.

“Hmph!” She walked off toward the cassette tapes and Mike followed behind her. Meanwhile, Dustin sat his backpack on the counter “what’ve you got?” You asked and he pulled out cut up banana. “Can I give him some?” You nodded and Eddie leaned down over the brim of his hat chirping for the fruit.

“It’s so much easier to get him to eat fruit in this form” Dustin agreed and you smiled watching Eddie continue to munch on the fruit Dustin would hand him. “How’s the dnd figures coming?” You asked and Dustin shrugged “they’re coming good, messed up on Kas but Otherwise it’s fine.” You nodded “well good! I got that paint you wanted by the way it’s in the back” Dustin perked up “oh! Thanks” you smiled at him.

“Eddie, come” you tapped the front of your collarbone and he flapped over allowing Dustin to go get his paint. Eddie crawled down your sweater and clung you your jeans chirping loudly at you. “Okay, okay calm down” you tugged open your jean pocket and he crawled inside. “Such a sweet boy” you rubbed his head with your finger and cleaned up the banana.

#eddie munson #tori writes #bat!eddie #bat eddie #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #stranger things fic

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years

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Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?��

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

#pannacotta fugo x reader #fugo x reader #pannacotta fugo #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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thiqskull · 3 years

Text

Steve doesn’t understand it at first.

A loud cacophony of guitar riffs his brain is too slow to catch on. Screeching and screaming, it makes the hair on the back of his neck stick out. He tries to follow the drums' pace, but even that is too fast for him. He ends up tapping with his foot completely missing the cue everytime. He hopes Billy doesn’t notice.

Until one day he’s sitting in the passenger seat of the Camaro and it all makes sense.

Knuckles worn by anger that grip on the steering wheel, a busted lip, an ugly blue splashing the sides of Billy’s body. He drives like it’s nothing, like Steve didn’t find him punching a whole into a tree with his bare hands.

And there’s nothing to stop his feelings from spilling over and coming to the surface. It’s a vortex that’s making him lose control, the only thing he wants to do is make him stop the car and take his hands and tell him it’s okay and I got you. That or bust Neil’s face in. He’ll take either.

But he does none. Instead something clicks in his mind and suddenly he’s flooded with the urge of turning the volume up of whatever Metallica’s record has been playing in the background for the last half hour.

It gets him a side eyed glance, but they roll the windows down and Billy bobs his head more vigorously, taps with his fingers on the steering wheel, and Steve follows. He gets it.

Once that gets uncovered -the reason Steve’s head spins whenever Billy crowds his space- he stops being a bystander, enjoys the fingers sliding so smoothly down the necks of several guitars. Everytime Billy takes out a new cassette he’s excited to discover it, dissect it, read into the violent comfort of losing control to those sounds. Even though he probably made fun of it like, two months ago. Dude, are you capable of feeling anything besides anger? And he knows it now, that in fact, he does. Most of the time it’s hurt that shuts him off, makes his fire die out.

But heavy metal and rock and roll kind of make sense when you lose control. He’s awestruck by it just as much as the fact that he has a crush on Billy fucking Hargrove.

When he hands him Love at First Sting it becomes painfully ironic. Rock You Like a Hurricane comes on and it gives him whiplash.

He’s back in his BMW, early fall, Nancy’s going through one of his shitty attempts at an essay for college applications and then there’s this roar, the very same that’s humming under him right now. Things seemed so obvious then. He had his whole future already laid out in his mind: college or not, the only thing he cared about was making sure he’d make her happy. He’d imagined a small house, nothing fancy or over the top, by the lake in northern Indiana he visited a few times, a dog maybe. He’d fall asleep thinking about them dancing in the dim kitchen light. It was nice, believing something like that could have been possible.

The things he looks forward to now are much less ordinary. It doesn’t even seem to be an option.

After a whole lot of ruminating, Steve makes Billy a tape.

He chooses his favourite tracks, records them in a precise order making sure there’s a nice build up throughout.

He hopes Billy will listen to it on his walkman, when he’s home, trying to escape his reality. Hopes he reads into it what he’s trying to say.

I get you now.

It’s a way of saying thank you, for making him discover so much of himself.

Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it out loud.

But Billy manages to sweep him off his feet once again, plants his lips right on his the very next day.

“How-How did you know?”

And Billy smiles at him, all smug and attitude to hide the way his cheeks turn pink, “Steve, no one puts Without You by Motley Crue on a tape if they don’t want to get into your pants”

And there’s that.

Steve likes metal and Billy Hargrove now.

----------------------------------------

Heavy metal

Rock-n-roll

It makes sense when you loose control

When I met you well it felt like that

Heart of gold and a heart attack

I hope you play this on your Walkman baby

Sun in your eyes and your hair long baby

There are some things that you do not see

Love is a place when you're next to me

yes, it's a song fic no one asked for but apparently I can't stop making up scenarios when hearing music so here you go.

#it didn't translate at all as i wanted to #I'm hella tired and I will probably hate it and delete it tomorrow #still I think this is a prefect Harringrove song #and yes i know withou you didn't come out until 1989 but it fits so i don't care #i love my boys #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #steve harrington x billy hargrove

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blissfulalchemist · 3 years

Text

OC Inventory

Tagged by @faithchel @commandobarnes and @scungilliwoman Thank you all for the tag!

Tagging: @honeysides @heroofpenamstan @belorage @strafethesesinners @chyrstis @amistrio @adelaidedrubman @shallow-gravy @foofygoldfish @shellibisshe and anyone else that wants to! Apologies for any double tags and missing anyone.

We’re only doing Lance, Cat, and Chance this time around since it is very FC5 based.

BAG

WEAPONS

throwing knife | butterfly knife | hunting knife | combat knife | machete

.44 Magnum | P08 | P226 | 1911 | A-99 | SMG-11 | D2 | M-79 | SBS | 1887 | M133 | MP40 | MP5 | MP34 | BZ19 | 45/70 | MS16 | M-16 | AK-47 | AR-C | BP-2 | .308 Carbine | MBP .50 | AR-CL | SA-50 | SVD MG42 | M249 | M60

slingshot | recurve bow | compound bow

GUN ATTACHMENTS

scope | suppressor | extended magazine

Look he’s not the brightest. You’re lucky he was able to figure out the amount of guns he uses.

APPAREL

*Pfft who needs protection? We die like men! **Look he loves her okay

HEALTH + CONSUMABLES

TOOLS

*I can’t justify this other than he’s kinda stupid

COLLECTIBLES

FOOD

Look it should be noted anything that is smashable/can be broken will have a 95% chance of being just that when he pulls it out from his bag.

MISC

ANYTHING ELSE? (sentimental items, religious paraphernalia etc.)

A science textbook, one of his father’s journals, bits and pieces of cars and planes that he believes were John’s just to fuck with him, mp3 player, cell phone, maybe a cool rock or two.

BAG

WEAPONS

throwing knife | butterfly knife | hunting knife | combat knife | machete

.44 Magnum | P08 | P226 | 1911 | A-99 | SMG-11 | D2* | M-79 | SBS | 1887 | M133 | MP40 | MP5 | MP34 | BZ19 | 45/70 | MS16 | M-16 | AK-47 | AR-C | BP-2 | .308 Carbine | MBP .50 | AR-CL | SA-50 | SVD MG42 | M249 | M60

*The Sin Eater Specifically

slingshot | recurve bow | compound bow

GUN ATTACHMENTS

scope | suppressor | extended magazine

APPAREL

HEALTH + CONSUMABLES

*More so when Cat was around

TOOLS

*Unlike Chance, Lance is taking much less risks

COLLECTIBLES

FOOD

MISC

*He got tired of watching Cat suffer from not having one

ANYTHING ELSE? (sentimental items, religious paraphernalia etc.)

He does on occasion wear his dog tags. A walkman, rain poncho, swiss army knife, wire stripers are also on him. The bracelet he wears is one from his daughter Sage and he refuses to take it off.

BAG

WEAPONS

throwing knife | butterfly knife | hunting knife | combat knife | machete

slingshot | recurve bow | compound bow

GUN ATTACHMENTS

scope | suppressor | extended magazine

APPAREL

HEALTH + CONSUMABLES

TOOLS

COLLECTIBLES

FOOD

MISC

ANYTHING ELSE? (sentimental items, religious paraphernalia etc.)

The ring and two bracelets that Cat wears the most are the most sentimental items to her, one leather bracelet thinner as Lance made it for her to keep Theo’s ring on her and the other one that John gave her for her birthday, while the ring she wears is the one for her and John’s marriage that he later keeps. Woman wears skirts and dresses so there really isn’t much room to carry things and its not like she really needs to when you think about it.

#catlina rojas oc #chance ruicknar oc #lance powell oc #tag games #Look Chance has his priorities straight in his head alone

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theobligatedklutz · 4 years

Note

Would you write some Willie hcs plz 💕

Willie Headcanons: Family Centric (I had so much fun writing these).

Willie was born to part-time struggling artist and full-time bakery owner Nil and writer Sylvia Red in 1967 in California, Los Angeles.

His mother wrote books under the alias Bishop Hop (a man’s name —selling books was difficult for any author but especially hard for a female writer in a very much male dominated occupation at the time) and had numerous best-selling novellas under the pen name.

Willie was always a happy child, always in for an adventure, always coming home from school with cuts and bruises from climbing trees and swinging too high for the adrenaline.

His father encouraged his creativity, imagination and inability to sit still but his mother frowned upon it.

At age 5, his little sister was born. Skipper. Kip. “Lil Kippy” to dad. The light of Willie’s life. Willie couldn’t imagine a life without her. She was every bit a trouble maker he was. Their mom had her hands full.

He would often sit her on his shoulders and run around the house just to make her giggle in excitement.

They also shared music. When Kippy found a new song, usually through dad, she would drag Willie to her room, play it on her cassette player and they would hum to the notes together and break out into dance. “Hey Kip?” “Yeah?” “You're a rad baby sister.” “Don’t call me a baby, Willie!”

It was at age 12, while helping his dad with the bakery on a Sunday evening, that a skateboard caught his eye for the first time. An older kid skated into the store and Willie’s eyes wouldn’t leave the rolling board on the ground.

He begged his dad to get him one. “You promise you won’t get bored of this one like you did with basketball and pottery making.” “Come on, dad, promise, I’ll practice and I’ll get really good and I’ll be so bomb!” “Will, do it because you’ll love it not because of how you’ll look to others.”

He had a brand new (his first) skateboard by the end of the week. It was black and “boring” and Willie, Kip and their dad spent an afternoon painting small details on it.

The first time he got on the board, he fell on the pavement and broke his nose. His mom told him "no more skateboarding" in a matter of seconds after seeing his bloody nose.

It took a lot of convincing from dad and she was not happy about it but his mom gave him one last chance to prove that he wouldn’t die skateboarding (...sry)

But once he got the hang of it, the wind in his hair — “Willie, put your damn helmet on or so help me god” —, zooming through space, the rush - it felt like he was complete.

He never wanted to come off of the high. It was like his feet belonged on the board, it was like he finally found the last puzzle piece.

Willie, Kip and their dad spent almost every weekend afternoon in his dad’s little corner, painting and listening to music. They knew every word of Redbone’s Witch Queen of New Orleans and Willie and dad spent every minute competing to see who could make Kippy laugh the most. They always ended up with paint all over their faces, hair and clothing.

There was this one time, Sylvia came home from the store to see her husband and two kids pretending to be in a rock band; Willie air-guitaring and drumming his fingers on the sofa arm and Kippy and Nil lip-syncing to I’ve Got to Find the Right Woman and when Nil noticed Sylvia, he pulled her into his arms as irresistible force come to me, I’m gonna love you played in the air, and that was the first time Willie saw a genuine smile on his mother’s face. There was a magic to the way her face lit up at seeing what an absolute dork her husband was being.

“Now clean up the mess all of you made.” She had said afterwards, a sternness in her tone but her mouth still twitching in a smile. That’s when Willie realized that his mom wasn’t all cold and stone, there was a fun-loving teenage girl behind the mask.

His mom didn't see the height coming because one day, in his second year of high school, he came downstairs two feet taller than her and she looked at him like he had grown another head. “What? Mom, what?” “Nothing...just eat before you get late.” His dad snickered, watching the whole scene.

There was another time, he caught his mom listening to the Beatles and asked her about her favourite song and they fell into a conversation like never before. That was the second time Willie saw a real smile on his mother's face. She cleared her throat after she caught herself – an hour and a half later – and grabbed a little piece of paper and jotted down some other song recommendations and then she stepped away making some excuse about needing to do something. Willie held the little paper in his hand like a lifeline. His mother was really something.

After he passed, Kip locked herself in her room for three day. She didn't come out for school or to eat or drink. She didn’t come out when her dad begged her: “please, Kip, let me help. Please.” She didn’t come out when her mother demanded it: “Skipper, come out and eat dinner right now. I’m not asking. Skipper Hurit Red!”

It was on the morning of the third day when Kip heard a soft whispering on the other side of the door — her mom’s voice — “...I’ve already lost Willie. After every single thing I did to try to keep you and him safe, I failed. I lost my son...don’t make me lose you, Kippy. Please.”

Kip opened the door so quickly, so urgently, it slammed against the wall and then, was engulfing her mother in an embrace, matching tear tracks on their faces as they sat on the hallway floor and cried.

They were quiet after that. Nil and Sylvia brought their chairs closer to Kip at the dinner table but they ate in silence.

Nil never painted anymore, and when he did, it was always portraits of long hairs and deep brown eyes and a care-free smile from memory. Willie smiled at them but lost the happiness he felt at being the focus of his dad's art when he looked into the tortured eyes of his father. He was sad, there were tears staining each canvas. And instead of the chemical smell of paint, all Willie smelled was salt and the burning smell of a heart on fire.

Kip threw away her cassette player and tapes in anger one day, screaming at Willie for being a coward and leaving her alone. Willie wailed next to her, yelled at her to believe him when he said that he never left her on purpose, that he would come back in a heartbeat if he could.

Sylvia kept her composure in front of her husband and daughter but she broke down every single day for months on end. Willie watched her do it. Watched her distant, cold demeanor crumble the minute her family was out of sight. He wrapped his arms around her every time and sometimes Sylvia would freeze and quiet down the minute he did it and he knew, somehow, his mom felt him.

Willie watched his family members fall apart, lose their ways. He saw the pain, sadness, anger. He saw everything and it ate at him until it was just anxiousness and no air to breathe. And he felt like he was breaking.

And then they moved because what did they have in this city aside from wreathing pain and a losing game. And Willie, for the first time, felt like an empty shell, no connections, no attachments to anything in his own city. No family. Just a skateboard and an abandoned house key.

...and a lurking shadow in a top hat watched him in his weakest form.

#julie and the phantoms #willie jatp #willie hcs #myhcs #jatp willie #willie #julie and the phantoms netflix #jatp #jatp ocs #myjatpposts #hilow answers

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achildlikeprincess · 3 years

Text

♡ The Halloween Dollhouse ♡

Above in the Halloween evening air, raindrops gathered and waited to fall upon the trick-or-treaters below. The old trees lining the neighborhood sang darkly of autumn richness. Glazed, golden leaves fluttered down with the chilly wind, lining the damp sidewalk like magic stepping stones. Minnie and her friends, dressed as a gaggle of witches in unearthly frayed and glittering black rags, were dashing between the houses as fast as they could before the first raindrop fell.

"Hurry! We've got to get all the candy we can!" Penny shouted. She rang the next doorbell seven times, hopping up and down in her pointy black slippers. "Penny! Don't be rude! Oh, I can't believe it's going to rain on Halloween," sighed Daisy. "Oh my! What a scary group of witches! I hope you won't melt when the rain falls," the old man who answered the door chuckled, giving them each a chocolate bar just as the sky above shattered and began to pour. "Better hurry back!" "Thank you sir! We'll be okay!" Minnie called, and the girls took off running. They were headed to Minnie's, looking for her Jack-O-Lantern carved with a glowing bow through the downpour. Thunder boomed in their ears and the darkness seemed ever blacker as the wind made the ribbons of their hats shudder. Five little witches suddenly saw the sky flash with lovely yet dangerous silver lightning. Rain whispered across their faces and smeared the eerie green makeup into dripping tears. But the warmth of Minnie's house was waiting, and soon they were crowded into the bathroom giggling, washing away the green paint and changing into pajamas, popcorn heating in the microwave and a scary movie playing on television. "We didn't even get enough candy!" Penny grumbled, emptying her plastic purple pumpkin and counting only a few chocolate bars and boxes of fruit snacks. "Did...did worms just come out of their masks?!" Lilly squeaked, hiding her face in a pillow. "I'm going to be sick!" Daisy reached for the remote, but before she could turn the channel the sky erupted with thunder, making the little house tremble. It was the loudest thunder crack they had ever heard, and the lightning strike that followed left them in complete darkness. "Oh, the power's out!" Minnie hugged her dog Fifi, who was glad to have her home early from trick-or-treating, and had been cuddling beside her on the couch. "Don't worry, though, I've got flashlights and plenty of candles!" "But the popcorn didn't finish popping!" Clarabelle wailed. "Silly, I've got a box of cookies!" Minnie found her way into the kitchen, Fifi at her heels. She brought back hot pink flashlights, matches, candles, and a pretty gold box of pumpkin sugar cookies. "What are we going to do all night? Just pig out in the dark?" Daisy scowled. "Let's think of something fun, how about having a séance?" Clarabelle offered. "Nooo!" Lilly whimpered, wanting to hide under the couch if any ghosts showed up. "We're going to my room, and from there we're going to a Halloween party at a glamorous hotel," Minnie smiled, leading the way. Daisy, Penny, Clarabelle, and Lilly curiously followed. The rain fell steadily against the windowpanes as Minnie carefully placed candles around her room and lit them. Soft orange light shone upon where the party was to take place: Minnie's dollhouse. "We all left our dolls here yesterday, remember? So, we'll dress them up and pretend the dollhouse is a big, grand hotel with a ballroom!" The girls were enchanted by the idea. They crowded around Minnie's treasure trunk painted with flowers where she kept all of her doll clothes. There were even things inside like tiny paper roses, faded floral handkerchiefs, plastic tiaras, and scraps of delicate fabric. Clarabelle wound the handkerchiefs around her doll until she was shrouded in mystery. Daisy and Penny fought over the roses but found there were enough to share. Lilly chose the frothiest, glittering pink cloud of a dress she could find, while Minnie picked a beautiful white satin gown. Outside the storm drew on. Moonlight streamed through a curtain of rain into the candlelit room, making it all very cozy. Thunder rumbled quietly now, and Fifi nestled next to Minnie whenever the lightning flashed. "You're coming too, Fifi! Look!" Minnie said sweetly to her baby, and placed a porcelain dog figurine inside the dollhouse. She was painted the same rich brown as Fifi, and the little dog barked happily. The party was ready to begin. With the power out, the music floated from a trusty cassette player. Minnie chose a tape with old romantic songs like 'In the Still of the Night', 'Twilight Time', 'Stardust', and 'Midnight, the Stars and You'. Each girl gave her doll a piece of candy as they sat down at a perfect little pink table. Clarabelle wanted everyone to meet her doll first, Dahlia Dairymaid. "She's hosting the séance!" Clarabelle grinned, placing a jeweled keychain of Minnie's at the center of the table, making a real crystal ball. The girls joined her around the table, linking hands and closing their eyes. Lilly peeked as Dahlia began to speak quietly into the candlelit shadows, asking the spirits to appear. A crack of thunder made everyone jump out of their chairs. Suddenly they heard the click of high heels on the polished floors. "Instead of summoning a ghost, you've invited a beauty queen to the doll realm," Daisy's doll, Mary Lou Moonstone, placed her bouquet of roses on the table, the satin red petals shining in the dark. "And me! I'm here to tap-dance!" Lilly's doll, the child star Helen Shimmers, danced out of the darkness and whirled around the table. "Please! I need quiet to contact the other side," Dahlia shooed them away. "Flowers! Flowers to buy!" a sweet voice echoed. It was Penny's doll, Wendy Gardenwalk, entering the hotel with a basket of flowers she hoped to sell. "Let's buy some for the ghosts," Minnie giggled. "I have all the flowers I need!" Mary Lou turned up her nose. "Oh dear, I suppose we aren't communicating with any spirits tonight," Dahlia covered her crystal with a shroud of lace. "Minnie, where is your doll?" Lilly wondered. "Oh, she'll be singing later tonight. But first, we need to finish these cookies so she will have a stage!" The girls laughed and shared the pumpkin cookies, the orange sugar sparkling in the glow of the candles. The dolls finished their candy and tried to start the séance again, but Helen took Wendy's basket of flowers and danced into the labyrinth of hallways. "Give those back!" Wendy chased after her, and everyone followed them. Helen's high-pitched giggles echoed down the grand halls of the hotel. Wendy snatched the basket back, and began to laugh too. The dolls twirled down the hallway throwing pink petals into the air. They sprinkled down upon the shining floor like pumpkin seeds. "How lovely, a path of petals for the queen," Mary Lou's glossy shoes followed the plush petals to the ballroom, as Dahlia walked in a dreamlike haze, silently willing any spirits who might be walking with them to communicate with her. The storm was growing quiet, a silence waiting to be filled by a doll's haunting song. As everyone played make-believe about the hotel, Minnie couldn't help but to feel perturbed. They all were still in her room, weren't they? She looked at the furniture she was sure she had made for her dolls, but it seemed too real, and just her size. The glittery orange garland she had hung from the ceiling for her dolls weeks ago was too high for her to touch. A final crash of thunder made the candles tremble, the shivering light dazzled her. Minnie thought how strange it was the candles seemed so far away. Had they left her room? Shadows floated across the painted walls, playing with her mind. But she didn't have too much time to wonder about it. The cookies were finished and now the empty box would become the stage for her doll's singing debut. The golden doors of the ballroom waited to be opened, but would there be ghosts inside? Of course not! Only a party for sweet little girls and their beloved dolls. The ballroom was the brightest place in the hotel, a crystal chandelier pouring warm light that no storm could touch. "And now, the lovely Miss Claire Poupée will sing 'Mouse of My Dreams'," Minnie announced, smiling proudly as her doll took to the stage in her starlit white silk gown. She sang her sweet and wistful melody as the girls and their dolls swayed across the candlelit floor, giggling and cloaked in Halloween magic. "I'm so glad you girls joined us for the night," Claire smiled when her song was finished. "It would be so lovely if this Halloween night went on forever," "We wish it could too," Daisy said dreamily; Penny, Lilly, and Clarabelle nodded along, but Minnie crept to the edge of the dollhouse, knowing they had been inside it for the entire night. She peeked out into the darkened room where the candles burned quietly, and asleep on the floor of her bedroom, she and her friends were laying and holding tightly to their dolls. The hushed rain and autumn leaves fell so softly outside the window, filling a night that would be spent in the golden world of her dollhouse ballroom.

#minnie n me stories

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67impalaandwhisky · 4 years

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Destiny Is Heaven Sent

Summary: Knowing Dean Winchester since you were fifteen, you’ve always been pulled in his direction. Always wanting to open up the rattled and broken cage your heart lives in. But when the child you’ve been raising together dies, you find yourself closing up the cage of your heart again. And if destiny has one thing for you, it’s to break you down before bringing you back up.

Characters: Dean x You, Sam, Castiel, Bobby, OFC’s, OMC’s, (Ongoing)

This Series Is Set Through Seasons 1-6 With Knowledge That The Bunker Exists

Rating: 18+

Warnings (Ongoing and Will Be Updated): Grieving, Mentions of Rape and Defilement (As Per A Case), Show Level Violence, Swearing, Smut, Impreg Kink, Blood, Fighting, Drinking, Dean Being Dean, Fluff, Angst, Dom!Dean, Sub!Reader

Warnings For This Chapter: Show Level Violence, Drinking, Swearing

Chapter 7.

It's an odd sensation to have your best friend's hands all over you. It's difficult to get anything done during your morning routine with Dean constantly behind you.

"De." You murmur as his lips trail over your jawline. His hands squeeze tighter at your sides as he presses his chest to your back while you fix your hair in the mirror of the bathroom.

"Hmm?" He hums quizzically as he presses you closer to his body.

You can smell faint notes of cologne and whisky from his attire and it brings you a sense of calm as you turn to him.

"We have to go gank this ghost." You tell him.

You can hear Sam's feet shuffling impatiently outside of the bathroom as you look up at Dean's handsome face.

His eyes are lighter than usual today, the pretty moss colored flecks in his irises seem to pull you in as he smirks.

"I know we do. I just...I've never had my hands on you like this before. I've never been so close to you. It feels good." He whispers as his hand cups your cheek.

The rough skin of his hand makes your eyes flutter shut and you wish you could just take this day to be with him. Just to talk or to spend time with him but work comes first.

"It does feel good." You agree and his head bows down so his lips can meet yours.

Your lips move together, the kiss passionate and something close to longing as he runs his hands below your t-shirt.

"Fuck." He whispers against your lips.

Sam's hand slams on the bathroom door and you're both ripped out of your lustful gaze within seconds.

"Are you guys done fucking?" Sam asks loudly and you snort shoving his older brother away.

Rolling his eyes, Dean fixes his flannel shirt before opening the door.

"Relax Sammy. Not everything is about fucking." Dean says as he hoists the bag of guns onto his shoulder.

Sam stops moving, his head slowly lifts to look at his brother before it tilts.

"E-Excuse me? Not everything is about fucking?" Not a sentence you think would come out of Dean Winchester's mouth.

"You heard me. Candy girl, let's get a move on. I got ghosts to kill!" Dean calls to you and you emerge from the bathroom as you fix your shirt.

He stares at you for a second, the corner of his mouth flickers upwards before he gives a gentle chuckle.

"I want this bastard flamed and burned within the next hour." Dean says to Sammy as he heads for the door.

"Why such a rush?" Sam asks as he scrambles to grab his coffee and follow his brother.

"Because," Dean turns to him from the doorway before meeting your eyes, "He attacked my woman."

The ride in the car to the home of the nefarious ghost was silent. Which you were perfectly fine with. It gave you time to glance at your now boyfriend that you've been in love with since you were just a teenager.

It's so odd. He's pushed you away for so long and you know you have so much that needs to get said between the both of you but you wonder if Dean would be willing to talk about it.

He's so closed off from the world most times that you find yourself thinking that it would be hard for him to open up and tell you any semblance of the truth.

He's kept so much away from you for years.

You can tell he's in a happy mood by the way his fingers drum against the steering wheel as he listens to his cassette tape.

The autumn sun hangs high above the car, every so often peppering Dean's face in it's rays. The sun does a glorious job highlighting all of his handsome features. His nose is so perfectly straight, his lips so perfectly shaped and even from the right side of the back seat you begin to count the freckles you can see as always.

The small smile lines around the corners of his eyes just add to his handsomeness. He looks at your through the rear view mirror and his eyes linger as he stops at a red light. You seemingly become mesmerized by the deep green of his irises likening them to the forest before he sends a wink your way that has your gut fluttering and twitching like a mad man.

"So are you guys dating now?" Sam asks as he rolls down his window.

Dean clears his throat as he focuses on the tar lined road before him.

You don't want to reply, you want him to.

Sam looks at you through his mirror and you roll your eyes as he begins to give a devilish smirk.

"Yeah. We are." Dean mumbles and if you weren't in the confines of the car, you probably wouldn't have been able to hear his gentle voice.

"Good. About time." Sam says before sticking his tongue out at you.

"Bitch." Dean says with a chuckle only to hear the natural reply.

"Jerk." Your younger best friend says with a laugh.

With a giggle, you arrive in front of the haunted office of Morley Rosmund.

"Are you okay to go in?" Dean asks as he shuts off the car.

You can't help the chill that runs through your spine as you stare at the decrepit building.

"Yeah. I'll be alright." You reply, mustering up all of your strength.

Last night was a little more frightening than you guess you noticed. He was one angry son of a bitch and you just weren't ready for the sheer amount of anger he was radiating.

He ripped your dress clean off and was stronger than you could have imagined.

"Just stay with me. Okay?" Dean asks as he opens up his door.

Nodding to him, you open up your door as well before taking in a deep breath.

Sam wraps his arm around you as you round the back of the car.

"We got your back. You know that." He says in your ear as Dean begins to pull out shotguns.

"I still haven't kicked your ass for leaving me on my own yesterday. Don't tempt me." You tease as you take the sawed off shotgun from your boyfriend's hand and begin to load salt rounds into it.

Sam chuckles as he grabs his own and your eyes drift over to the building once more before swallowing thickly.

Dean swings the door open first. He casually glances behind him to make sure you're okay before stepping over the strewn, decomposing bodies that lay on the floor much like last night. With a grimace, you pick your shirt up to cover your nose before scowling at the dead women on the floor.

"This son of a bitch is disgusting." You hear Dean grunt angrily before he kicks open the office door with his foot.

"I wish we could just burn the building down. Make sure he's outta here for good." Sam mutters as he puts his large hand to the small of your back goading you into the office before him.

You spot your ripped dress on the floor from last night as you step into the office and you shiver at the sight.

Dean notices within a fraction of a second and he's by your side as he kicks the fabric out of sight.

"Come on, Candy girl." He whispers before pressing his soft lips to your temple and stepping out of the way to explore the shambled office.

Anything of any importance was being piled up in the middle of the room. Anything that was old and leathery. Anything that had a dull shine like a pocket watch Sam found in one of the top drawers of the desk you were forced to sit on last night. Even scraps of different cloth were all in the center of the office.

"What about pictures?" Sam asks as he leans in to look at an old painting.

"What, you think this dead pervert had a hard on for the arts?" Dean asks as he drops a leather briefcase onto the ground beside the pile.

"I don't know. Maybe. Just want to make sure we get everything." Sam mumbles as he continues to search.

"Yeah. I bet he really loved the ducks in a pond painting." Dean says before smashing the glass of the picture frame open.

Your eyes catch something sparkle beneath the woman that lays limp on the desk. It was a whirlwind last night but you managed to remember some things of Morley Rosmund's attire. Like the jewelled beetle that was on the lapel of his trench coat that is now situated beneath the woman's body.

"De. Help me grab this." You instruct him as you point to the pin below the dead woman.

"Oh God." He grumbles as he uses the barrel of his salt gun to lift her up just long enough for you to grab it.

You throw the pin into the pile on the floor before grabbing a hat off of the rack by the door that you remember the ghost was wearing.

Ghosts can be in multiple items and it's better to just get them all to be safe.

Suddenly as your boyfriend pulls open the safe in the corner of the office, your begin to see your breath in the small confines of the room.

"He's coming!" You say quickly as you pull back the hammer of your gun.

Dean holds up what looks to be a deed for the office before throwing it into the pile.

"Y/N!" Sam yells and you whip around just long enough to see Morley Rosmund behind you.

He gives a gentle smile before you're being thrown over the desk.

You groan loudly as you fall onto your back, your body shivering with dull pain as you lay your head back to the floor.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean curses as he throws gasoline over the contents on the floor.

"You little trollope." The ghost sneers as he wraps his hand around your throat.

You cough loudly, sputtering and whining as you claw at his hand. He picks up off of the floor slowly and you shakily lift your gun before shooting the rock salt into him, earning wisps of his body left behind.

Landing back down on the floor, you cough once more as Sam strikes the matchbook on fire and tosses it into the pile.

As the objects begin to catch fire, your body is thrown back to the wall as Morley reappears screaming furiously with red hot anger.

"Y/N!" Dean yells as he rushes towards you.

With a sharp yelp, you press your head back to the wall before the ghost's body begins to catch fire.

Being swept up into Dean's arms, you're instantly checked on. His hands press to your face, checking to make sure the ghost didn't inflict too much damage before he disappeared into thin air.

"You okay?" He asks gruffly as you gingerly press your fingers to your throat.

Your eyes flicker over to the burning pile of personal possessions before you nod.

"Yeah. I'm good." You whisper before standing up straight and fixing your jacket.

"That's my girl." He mumbles as he presses his lips to your forehead.

"I need a drink and food. Pronto." You say as Sam grabs the duffel bag full of guns and paraphernalia.

"A drink? It's like three o'clock?" Sam says as you step over bodies towards the front door.

"A woman after my own heart." Dean calls back to him and you giggle as he opens the door for you.

Knowing the job is done brings a huge weight off of your shoulders. It's not often you can appreciate everything around you when so many monsters and evil live in this world. But now, as you sit with your two favorite boys in this run down bar, the world feels lighter somehow. If only for a few hours, you're okay with that.

Dean has been so tried and true throughout the years and now finally you can call him yours.

Sam has always been your home. He's always seen to reason and has been a comfort in your hard times. You can always count on him to listen.

So when the food comes and you all dig in, there's something so peaceful with listening to the both laugh as Dean plants his hand on your knee.

You can take a few hours of comfort and calm before you're thrust back into the monster wielding world.

"Gotta hit the head." Dean says.

He plants a kiss to your hairline before he's up and walking towards the bathroom door.

"It's cute y'know. I'm really happy for you guys. Finally." Sam says before finishing off his beer.

You give him a gentle smile as he lifts his beer bottle.

"I'll go get us another round." He says, scraping his chair back loudly.

You pick at your food in the meantime while being alone. You're achy and albeit a bit sore from the attack but you'll heal in no time.

You can't wait to get back to the bunker and just relax for a few days. Wash your car, read up on things in the vast library.

"Hey there." The foreign voice draws you out of your calm daze. Looking up at the owner of the voice, you tilt your head at his handsome features.

"Noticed you with those two Backstreet Boy wannabes." The man says, taking Dean's seat.

You snort gently before shifting your chair away from him as he smirks.

"Those wannabes are my best friend and boyfriend." You say as you pick up your beer.

It feels weird to call Dean your boyfriend. A good weird. Like it was always meant to be.

"Wanna see what a real man can do?" The absolute gall of this lanky man is impressive.

You give a gentle laugh as you roll your eyes.

"Nah. I'm good. Thanks." Your voice is short with him and it seems to ruffle his feathers a bit too quickly.

"Come on, baby. I can show you what a real man's cock looks like." You blanch at his words and try to push your chair back uncomfortably as he catches you by your calf with his hand.

"I said no. Jesus. Fuck off." You bark at him.

His grip gets tighter and you sigh loudly before hearing a loud gruff voice that quakes your chest.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Dean yells from across the bar.

Flinching, you give a quick smile to the man as your boyfriend approaches.

He is so dead meat.

Destiny Is Heaven Sent Taglist: @roonyxx, @deans-baby-momma, @supernatural-love14, @winchest09, @flamencodiva, @indecisive20something, @that-one-gay-girl

Forever Dean Tags: @akshi8278

Forever Tags: @mariaenchanted

#destiny is heaven sent #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x you #dean smut #spn book #spn fam #spn series

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alovesthis · 4 years

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All Things Must Pass - Dean Winchester CHAPTER TWO

Dean Winchester x Read Fic

Fanfic Summary: Reader and Dean Winchester reunite after not seeing each other in a few years, ever since he told her to leave him and his issues behind. Reuniting wasn't what you expected it would be like because of past feelings, memories and a life threatening situation that was placed upon Dean Winchester.

Warnings: None? Angst, Flashback

Word Count: 2.5k

CHAPTER TWO

The drive back to the motel after picking up more greasy diner food and coffee isn't quiet between Sam and you. You aren't letting the excruciating news of Dean's deal get in the way of catching up with Sam. Although there isn't much to talk about but all the cases you haven't been on together and the many girls Sam and even you have connected with in the two years, it's nice to see him again after these past two years that flew by.

Having Sam around is like having another younger sibling and you knew that Stevie felt the same way about him, except they were best friends. They're metaphorically joined at the hip, despite the distance that was kept between the Winchesters and you all these years. For them it's easy probably because they weren't ever sexually and emotionally attached like you and Dean. Even if it is unsaid, it's still nothing but the truth.

Dean's love for you never faltered, and neither did yours for him.

Arriving at the motel, you let Sam go ahead as you stay inside the impala alone with your thoughts. You watch as he goes inside but leaves the door cracked open as if you were going to be right behind him. You slide from the passenger seat and sit in the seat where Dean would always be blasting rock music and occasionally a love ballad. Minutes go by and you decide that it was time to head inside. Once you reach the red chipped motel room that had a green plastic wreath around the room number, you push it open and stand in the doorway. Sam and Stevie are talking as they organize weapons and books, but you don't hear exactly what they're saying as your eyes are focused on Dean.

As you hesitate whether or not to walk completely inside and get prepared for the hunt, or muster up the courage to confront him, you wrap your arms around yourself in comfort. Gazing up and down, watching his body move around the motel, busying himself with whatever, reminds you of the cases the two of you used to go on. The way he rolls up his Carhartt button ups to his elbows, when he hunches over with his eyebrows furrowing in focus makes you swoon every time.

Going on hunts together and all the moments before, after, and everything in between. Being around him again started to make you reminisce about the years being alone with him while Sam and Stevie were at school alone. While John was off leaving Dean, you were there for him as he was there for you. Memories of times where you were both young, alone, and acting like you could take on the world together and save everyone.

The blissful moments of stolen kisses, both soft and rough touches begin to make your heart start aching. Even the drunken nights from the past are making you feel warm inside, aching for him and to get back to the way things were before he pushed you away.

"Happy birthday to me!" You yell as Dean is holding your side squeezing tightly as you two are walking out of a road bar and to the Impala. You listen to his contagious laugh and it begins making your cheeks heat up. That, or it was the alcohol that had consumed your body just moments ago.

"You know," Dean says, opening the passenger door. "We've been drinking since we were fifteen, why is it any different now?"

"Because it's my birthday and it feels damn good!"

"Alright there little lush, get in." He guides you to the seat and carefully closes the door, then walks around to the drivers side.

As soon as he sits down and slams the door, you turn to him and roll your eyes.

"I'm not little, I'm extremely tough just like you, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah whatever you say." Dean chuckles as he reaches for a cassette tape and pushes it in. A familiar song begins to play, the light guitar strings of a Zeppelin song echoes throughout baby and although you're both drunk, the two of you smile to yourselves.

'If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you...'

It was your song, the one that seems to always play whenever the two of you threw on music. Although many songs could easily be considered your song with each other, this one was it.

As the song continues on playing, the down pouring rain begins to slowly fade and the stars of the night begin to shine. Your twenty first birthday had completely gone over your head and it wasn't until Dean surprised you with a few birthday banners from a dollar store, beer and paper party hats lying around in the motel room. Despite being a bit bloody, dirty and exhausted from the hunt just a few hours ago, it made you feel special that he remembered, even if it did lead to a rundown bar.

With the song playing a bit too loud at the moment, you reach over and turn it down which earns you a disapproving look from Dean. Your mind begins to take you somewhere else, as you remember your sister's birthday is just a few weeks away and you haven't seen her in a while.

"I...um, Stevie hasn't been answering my calls, I figure her and Sam are busy with school? I just want to know if you heard from them? I was thinking of seeing them tomorrow and making sure they're okay."

"I haven't heard from Sam much either." Dean says after a few seconds. "Just told me him and Stevie have been hitting the books."

"Right." Your face scrunches up in sadness, missing your younger sister as she's probably sleeping at this time in the motel she shared with Sam, not just a few towns over.

"Look, they're fine." Dean rests his leather covered arm behind you on the seat. "They're two nerds in high school with a shit ton of work. We don't gotta worry, they're teenagers."

You nod your head, "Do you remember when we were seventeen?"

"Sure." He shrugs. "Pretty much did everything we're doing now back then. Except less broom closets and more beds."

"Yeah," you look out the window and watch the drizzle fall down on the glass as your face heats up. "And now, a lot more monsters, spirits and everything in between."

"Lighten up sweetheart," dean moves his arm from the seat to your shoulder, "it's your damn birthday, our siblings are fine."

He was right. You didn't want to think about anything else that could get in the way of your twenty first birthday. You just wanted to have fun with one of your favorite people in the world.

You reach up and hold Dean's hand that was hanging off your shoulder, squeezing it as you smile. Your eyes shift from the window and stare at your hands that are intertwined together. Letting out a sigh, your cheek comes in contact with the back of his hand, trying to warm up and just to try and feel okay.

"Hey," he whispers and you turn your head around and stare at him. "Happy birthday."

It was clear that it was him who made the first move. The arm around your shoulder giving you goosebumps, the sudden mood change for your birthday and the green eyes staring through your soul made it all clear. Dean drops his arm from your shoulder and wraps around your waist, pulling you forward practically on his lap but not quite. It isn't hesitation, but right before either of you go any further, his lips hover right over yours almost as if he's afraid.

"Dean..."

Your heart is thumping against your chest, your head running with so many thoughts. Why did tonight feel any different from most drunken nights? Perhaps it was because it was your birthday, or it might've been Dean finally making sense of the feelings he felt everywhere, for you.

"Like I said," he says as he squeezes your side gently, "lighten up, Y/N."

His lips finally press against yours, they're soft and plump against your own and it felt like nothing you've experienced.

All the other drunken times were fast paced, lips sucking and gliding over each other's mouths and necks. But this time it's slow like time began to stop. Your breathing hitches in your throat as he grabs the back of your neck with his other hand and brings you closer. His tongue running over your bottom lip wanting to take it further. Moaning into it the kiss, your mouth widens in invitation for his tongue which he so happily accepts and slowly inches it in.

Before you could get to the rest of that night of all the electrifying touches and the birthday well spent in the back of the impala, a loud thudding snaps you out of the trance. Looking to the other side of the motel room, Stevie and Sam are packing up bags and throwing together weapons and books for tonight.

You were thinking maybe it would be better to wait until after, but your mind was beginning to swarm with scenarios with how the hunt tonight could go. You can die tonight by a vampire or get bit, and never live to tell Dean how much you love him with every fiber in your body. You could live but then end up staying quiet and never see him again until he would be given a hunter's funeral when his time is up.

But the thought of all of that made your stomach start churning. The flooding memories the two of you shared, the scenarios and that damn deal. It was all becoming too much, and you weren't sure what to do anymore, except confront him. Now better than later, you guess.

"Uh, Stevie? Do you mind grabbing some med supplies out of the truck?" You raise your brows and tilt your head back signaling her to leave.

Stevie stares at you for a moment, trying to understand if that's what you wanted her to do until she looks at Dean minding his business and then back at you. She realizes you want a moment with him, and she'd be more than happy to leave you with the man she knows you love.

"Yeah, of course." She bites her lip in amusement. "Come on Sam, got some new books to share with you."

Sam picks up the bag from the floor and follows Stevie.

"Are they books you've complained about or are they books about creatures?" He asks as they pass you and out the doorway of the motel room.

"A little bit of both!" You hear Stevie say and you snort quietly to yourself.

Once they leave the two of you in the room alone, you take a few steps and close the door behind you. The sound of the click makes Dean look up in confusion as he glides a red towel over his gun, cleaning it.

"Where they off to?"

"To the cars." You answer walking to the table where he sits. You're unsure whether or not you want to sit down for this, or if you want to stay where you are and stand your ground for whatever happens.

"Can we talk?"

"Gotta make it quick, sweetheart. You know how much I hate vamps."

Sweetheart.

"Yeah sure," you mutter quietly as you almost choke on your words. The word, the nickname you haven't heard from him in years sends shivers down your spine and the butterflies start going crazy.

Your left hand swipes your right arm up and down, trying to warm and calm your body down. Dean rises up from sitting as you walk to the middle of the cheesy decorated motel room, standing much closer to him than before. He doesn't look up, instead he nods his head waiting for you to continue.

"Look, I'm just gonna say it and you're gonna listen. I know about the goddamn deal."

"How did you," he pauses and sighs, placing his fingers on the bridge of his nose. "Sam."

"Yeah he told me. He told me you did it to protect him. You took a deal with a demon and now you're just fine with dying?"

"The deal has been made for some time," Dean shrugs. "Don't have to be so mad about it. I'm fine."

"I'm not just mad about the deal! I'm mad about everything that's happened between us. We were practically family, Dean."

"We still are." Dean protests. "Which is why I was protecting you. You and your sister didn't need to be there."

"I told you then and I'll tell you now. We can hold our own, I don't need to be protected. We help each other and we don't do that by shoving people out of our lives. If this was me sacrificing my life for my sister, I'm pretty sure I would come to you guys, go to Bobby. Figure out something, anything."

"You don't get it." Dean says, pacing back and forth. "If any demon or anyone gets even a sniff of someone trying to figure out this deal with Dean Winchester, I am toast. Gone. So would you please drop it and move on? Find the goddamn vamp or vamps!"

You look away from him and drop your head into your hand as you sigh.

"Are we doing this just so you can apologize to me? So that you don't feel guilty in pushing me away? Is this what this is all about, letting me and my sister come on this case with you? One last hurrah for you, isn't it?"

He stays quiet, his eyes glancing at the floor.

"Ah so it is. You're such a stubborn dick." You turn to him and shake your head in disapproval, hands now crossed over your chest.

He watches you intently with furrowing brows and his lips pursed. Before he can talk, you walk to him standing a few inches away.

"But then again so am I." You smile wickedly. "I'm sticking around after this, and you're gonna deal with it."

"Please," He walks around the table to stand in front of you. "I just-"

"Look, you wanted me far from what you were trying to do back then. That's over now, right?"

He nods, "That's done."

"You have a year left? Fine, let's get over all that shit that happened and you make it up to me. Or else that deal won't be the one to kill you."

Dean nods his head, "Yes ma'am."

"So now we can get those fucking vamps." You turn your back on him and storm out to the Impala, an impending fear and sadness creeping up on you.

You're not thinking about the vampires you're about to hunt down. Not about the hunt, or anything about the last two days. The only thing that stays on your mind is the deal and how Dean Winchester will be out of your life for good and that it was death coming for him. You think about losing him forever would mean you could never have the chance to love him in the right way.

- so. much. angst. comment please, nice feedback welcome too! it motivates me and I like interacting with other readers and writers!

TAGS:

@akshi8278 @deanswaywardgirl @canonboobs

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stonecoldjerseyfox · 4 years

Text

Jersey on my mind (part 19)

Mila’s feet dangle in the air as she sits on the edge of the guard post, while looking out over the surroundings. Next to her on the floor lies a bottle of vodka, in case she gets bored. She turns her eyes to the flickering flame of the oil lantern, the only source of light. Besides the lantern its pitch black. The darkness is wrapped around the surroundings like a heavy blanket. No lights are on in the houses.

Before she put on her jacket, hid the vodka bottle in the inner pocket and went out to the guard tower Mila tucked Juri in for the night. She helped him choose a cassette tape to fall asleep to, made sure he had all of his ‘friends’ also tucked in; the brown dog named Jeff (Mila had no idea why), his soft bunny named Bruce after Bruce Springsteen and the teddy bear that goes by the name Eddie, after Eddie Vedder. But Mila hasn’t been able to figure out Jeff. Who’s Jeff? Instead of asking him about it, she kissed Juri on the forehead and left for guard duty. Daryl wasn’t at the guard tower when she arrived, so Mila made herself comfortable.

She taps her fingers towards the floor and hums the tune to “Hungry heart”, starts to sing faintly. Springsteen makes her think of the summers in New Jersey. Driving around on hot summer days, the long days at the beach in Point Pleasant, eating tons of ice cream and drinking Pepsi Cola, riding around Atlantic City with Darya and Laura in Darya’s dad’s convertible-

“You sing well.”

Mila looks up. Daryl has joined her, finally. In one hand he holds the crossbow and in the other two bottles of water.

“You’re late.”

”You’re easy prey, sitting like this.” Daryl sits down besides her, lets his legs swing over the edge next to hers and gives her one of the bottles.

”Wolves are gone. Walkers don’t jump.” Mila removes the lid and takes a sip of water. “I think I’m fine.”

”You’re really good.” Daryl looks down at his knees. “I mean, singing. Your accent disappears when you sing.”

”Yeah. I’ve heard that.” Mila laughs and puts the water bottle down, next to the vodka bottle. ”It would sound even better if I had a guitar and a cowboy hat.” With a smile she grabs the Vodka bottle from the floor, unscrews it and takes a bountiful sip, before offering it to Daryl. ”I’ve heard you should drink at least one liter a day.”

”Thought that applied to water?” Daryl lifts an eyebrow and brings the bottle to the mouth and drinks, lets out a cough as he lowers it. ”Gotta get you a guitar then, Jersey.”

“Yeah I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” She replies. “It sorta’ feels pretty pointless now. I haven't played in forever.” she meets Daryl’s gaze. “I was engaged to this guy, before- It’s because of him I play the guitar, and sing in ‘American’.”

Daryl stiffens up at her words. It’s barely noticeable, but Mila notices.

“He’s dead anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” Mila takes a sip of vodka. “My father hated him for encouraging my interest in music. Said it was a waste of time. He didn’t understand the phenomenon ‘hobbies’.” Mila tries to remember what her dear papa yelled at her through the glass. It was hard to hear exactly what he yelled, since he banged at the window, but she could make out some of it. ”Eto chepukha, Milena, chepukha!” she repeats. “Nonsense.”

“Seems like a charmer.” Daryl replies. “Ain’t a waste though. I like it.”

Mila glances at the broad archer next to her. Somehow he reminds her of Jim; tall, broad shoulders and muscles. Jim had brown hair and beard, a bit more groomed than the Southern archer, but still-

The first time Mila laid her eyes on Jim was during a gig at a bar in Brooklyn. She was there with her friend Laura. Jim played guitar in the band and halfway through he pulled his shirt off. Milas eyes were glued to his bare chest during the rest of the performance. Even a blind person would have noticed such an intense stare down; as did Jim on stage. Afterward he asked her over to their table, and she fell like a paw for the big Oklahoma native, with the pretty eyes and the kind smile. Jim was big as a bear and kind as a puppy. He was warm, had a boisterous but contagious laugh, he was friendly and charismatic. Everybody around Mila adored Jim, everybody except papa, which made sense. Papa hated everyone, except himself.

Physically, Daryl reminds her of Jim somewhat, but their personalities are like night and day. Jim was able to entertain an entire room full of people, and happily did so by telling stories or playing the guitar. Daryl would probably never even think of entering such a room. He’s encased in armor, a hard shell no one seems to be able to break. She hasn’t heard an ounce of bursting laughter from him and he barely talks. And yet she likes his company. When she saw him walk down the street into the Safe-Zone last night it felt like a ton of brick was dropped from her chest. Of course she was still angry with him for some unimportant reason she can’t really remember now, but she was happy for having him back.

“Where’s he by the way?” Daryl asks. “Your old man. Ya’ said ya’ came here together.”

“In prison.”

The statement doesn’t seem to surprise Daryl significantly.

“What for?”

Mila hands him the vodka bottle again. Daryl looks puzzled at it.

“If you want to hear about it, you might need it.” Mila explains and doesn’t take her eyes away from his. “There’s a legit reason why I have alcohol problems.”

“Haven’t noticed.” the archer winks at her over the bottle and drinks. “Why’s he locked up?”

“Murder. And for kidnapping me.”

It might be so easy to say it because she feels some kind of connection to the man sitting next to her, or maybe it’s because the whole world went to hell and papa, Mila’s perdition, her Achilles heel, probably is dead by now.

Mila was the only child. Her father, her papa, wanted to have a son. Instead he got Mila. Her mother, who loved her more than life itself, couldn’t bear more children and Mila was punished for that her entire life by her father. Papa was stern on her from the start. Sergey Yuruchenko’s offspring wouldn’t be a weakling. Her sole purpose in life would be to make him proud. Like a show dog. He hardened Mila like steel; dragged her out on the frozen river Volga during the winters for an ice bath, a procedure to ‘man her up’. If Mila hesitated or began to cry she had to stay longer in the water. Eventually she stopped crying. He taught her to fight, games that often resulted in cracked lips and black eyes. Sometimes Mila began to cry because it hurt and she felt scared, but he assured her it was a fun game, and she believed him. He coached her in sports, to make sure she would win. Second place was never enough. Mila could’ve easily become an olympic marathon athlete, if she would have had the choice. But he had already set out her entire future.

”My mama loved me with all of her heart and papa made sure that I never forgot how he grieved the son he never had. It was my burden and my responsibility to prove that I was worthy of his affection. I was a wreck emotionally. Thrown between boundless love and emotional abuse.” Mila pauses and takes another mouthful of vodka. “I got respect from him for the first time when I was fifteen. He firmly argued that if a man couldn’t hit a soup can fifty yards away with a gun after drinking a whole bottle of vodka, he was a wimp. He didn’t count on me, a fifteen year old girl to even dream about trying.” She raises her eyebrows at Daryl. ”But I passed the test and he eased the leash.”

After that summer, Mila had a great year. She was ‘allowed’ to be an ordinary teenager in all its meaning. She went to parties with her friends, dreamed of Leonardo Dicaprio when she kissed her first boyfriend Dima for the first time and she was convinced that life would continue like that.

“Then one day he asked me to come with him on a trip abroad, for work. It was just the two of us at home that day and he was so different. Friendly even. It felt odd, but he was so convincing. He asked me to be ready in an hour with a bag. I felt so excited. Not until we walked through the gate at the airport I understood where we were going. I couldn’t believe it. We were going to America! He made the whole trip sound so exciting. It felt like we were friends for the first time. That I finally had a father.”

Mila pauses. She’d thought about that moment many times since that plane ride. How it all was just an act. How he used Mila’s cluelessness to save his own ass. In reality he didn’t feel like that at all. He didn’t care about her.

”We were arrested as soon as we got through the passport control at Newark. We were separated, put in different rooms. I panicked the entire time, fought and cried. An interpreter and two policemen came and told me that he was arrested. I tried to convince them that it must have been a misunderstanding. But it wasn’t. I was kidnapped and papa was internationally wanted for murder in Russia by Interpol. Or serial murders, I think it’s called, in the case of more than three victims.”

“How many?” he asks.

Their eyes meet through the darkness. The only sound that’s heard is the chirping cicadas, the wind rattling in the trees and the thudding sound of the walkers crashing into each other on the other side of the wall. Well, he hasn’t run away yet, Mila thinks.

“Including the policeman he killed at the station the day after we arrived; ten.”

Daryl doesn't even try to hide his astonishment.

”A woman disappeared in Moscow in- gosh, I don’t even remember the year. Anyway, she was found under a bridge, two days later. Then another woman was found a few weeks later, under a viaduct. Seven women and two men around Moscow. One woman was completely beheaded. I was fourteen when they found her, and my father told me to ’be safe’ when I walked home from gymnastics practice.”

Mila remembers almost all of them by name. They were read out during the trial in New York, while images of them were displayed on a projector. Mila saw their bruised faces, the dead eyes in the pale, straight faces. No matter how awful it was, she couldn’t look away, like passing a car accident. Mila had to watch, to understand that it was her papa, who worried when she would go home alone from gymnastics, he who always urged her to beware of boys in a group (or boys in general), that had done these horrible actions. The youngest victim was eighteen and was found in a shallow part of Volga. They had to identify it through dental cards. In court, sitting on that hard bench in between Ellie and Joe Galka, Mila desperately tried to meet her father’s gaze, wanted him to turn around where he sat, with his back against her. When he finally did, Mila didn’t see a trace of regret or empathy in them.

”He kidnapped ya’ to- what, to save himself?”

“It didn’t seem suspicious if he traveled with his daughter. I was his ticket out of it. If he did get caught, he could use me as-” Mila fiddles on a thread in her jeans. “-Yeah, I haven’t figured out that part yet. He really knew how to inflict maximum damage to his advantages. Because of his position, working for the state, which is... corrupted beyond imagination, he could change my documents without anyone asking, making himself my sole guardian. On paper, I no longer had a mother. It was- He was so split. On one hand, a well regarded worker for the state, modest and punctual. And on the other hand, emotionally disturbed, a psychopath. A monster.” She sighs. “The same day we were arrested he overpowered a police officer. He killed him, granting him life in prison here, not risking being extradited to Russia. Social services took care of me and I ended up at the Galka’s. The first six months I visited papa in prison weekly. It really fucks you up in the head, being pulled back to the root of evil, to one's perpetrator. In my case, it was the same person. Perpetrator and father. Evil impersonated and the only person I felt I had some connection to here. And yet, I never got an explanation to why he did what he did. Eventually, thanks to the Galka’s, I stopped visiting. He didn’t like that, being out of control.”

Mila had never revolted, but when she had to acclimatize to a new culture and language all on her own, that changed. She could just as well have ended up dead behind a dumpster from drugs, but instead she went on to study at Columbia University. When papa found out that she studied to become a dental nurse, instead of a ‘real dentist’, or ‘the president of all dentists in the entire world’, or anything equally grandiose, he went all mad and had to be dragged out of the visitors room by the guards. A few days later he made a phone call and yelled at Mila for three straight minutes, until the call broke. When Mila paid him a much involuntary visit a few weeks later he’d calmed down a bit; he’d been in solitary confinement since that lash out.

”Of all professions...” Papa snarled into the handset. ”Dental nurse? A servant! Milaya, why are you causing me this pain?”

Mila pulls herself away from the memory of Southport Correctional facility’s visiting room, back to the present, to the cool, calm night, where she shares a bottle of vodka with the archer.

“As far as I’m concerned I don’t have a father.” Mila meets Daryl’s gaze through the faint, warm light from the lantern. “I moved on. I made it. I got pregnant while in uni and tried to commit suicide. That was a nightmare. Once again I had to... switch on survival mode. I felt so defective. How could someone with a father like mine, someone who’s been hurled between motherly love and fatherly abuse, possibly be a good parent.” Mila takes a sip of vodka. The bottle is almost completely empty by now. “I haven’t had much space for making my own choices in life. Until recently.” she says. “I did some stupid choices on the way here. But at least I turned out... fairly good in the end.”

They look at each other in silence. Nothing is heard but the walkers collected hissing breaths, like a choir of rotten asthmatics, gasping for air, while pushing up against the wall. Sometimes a thud, like flesh against metal, is heard when the ones in the back push the ones in the front extra hard into the wall.

”Ya’ think he’s alive? Or they?” Daryl asks, husky. ”Your parents?”

Mila shrugs her shoulders; she doesn't know. After a while in the weeks following the outbreak, the phone calls to her mother in Russia stopped working. Her father can’t be alive. It would be impossible, just as impossible as it is to escape a high security prison like Southport.

”What about ya’ foster parents?”

”I don’t know.” Mila bites her lower lip. ”When the two of us came back to Jersey the Galka’s were gone. So we left, me and Juri.”

”Ain’t too bad, though.” Daryl says, in what Mila thinks is an attempt to cheer her up. “He’s a great kid.”

”He is.” she smiles. ”I never thought I’d make it, being on my own with him like this. He’s my everything, the better person of the two of us; wakes me in the morning, cheers me up and is always happy. I don’t know how he does it. He’s three!”

”And a half.” Daryl smirks.

“Touché.” Mila looks at him. “Gosh. I’m surprised you haven’t ran away.”

”Why would I? Ma’ old man was a boozer, an ass.” Daryl replies, and his eyes suddenly shift from almost warm, to dark. “I hadn’t much of a mother. Smoked herself to death, burnt the entire fuckin’ house down at the same time. Ma’ brother went in and out of juvenile. Died, as everyone else.” Daryl hesitates, but then he continues. ”I’m a nobody. Always been. I don’t have anything to run from.”

Mila lays her hand on top of Daryl’s, that rests against the floorboards. He twitches by her sudden move, like a stray dog that has never felt a friendly touch.

“You’re not a nobody.” Mila says, emphasising every word. “You saved my life. Heck, I think you saved more lives than my sorry ass. Do you always push those who care about you away?”

Daryl becomes silent.

”Sorry.”

”Don’t be.” Mila says. “Honestly, It’s like you don’t think you deserve anything; people being kind to you, that people care. That’s not healthy. No wonder you’re so peevish. Just let the guard down once in a while. You do so much for everybody here, who are so thankful for it and want to show that to you. Let them. You need it. Let people in. Have you never done that?”

”Never had a chance.” he answers. ”It’s always been bloody knuckles and shards of glass.”

”But does that mean that the whole world is dark and evil? I’ve had a bumpy ride too and I’m not all stiff and irritated with everything.”

”Well ye’ ain’t me.”

”And thank god for that.” Mila smiles a little. ”No matter what your life was like before it doesn’t have to continue being like that.” she gets silent, before she meets his eyes again. ”Have you ever just sat down and thought about what you want? Not what everybody else needs, or what they tell you to do, no matter what you think. Have you?”

”Never gotten that chance either.” Daryl grunts, and continues to look at his shoes.

“Well, do that.” Mila holds up the bottle of vodka in front of her. It’s empty. “Crap...”

“Ya’ haven’t had enough of that?”

Mila puts her head to the side and smiles dazzling.

“I told you I have problems.” Mila smirks and puts the bottle down. “But I’m workin’ on fixing that. Not tonight though.”

The corners of Daryl’s mouth curves slightly upward and he chuckles faintly. They sit quietly for a moment before he once again turns to her.

“Ya’ really a dentist?”

“Dental nurse.” Mila corrects. “What, are you surprised?”

“Not at all.” Daryl replies. “How’s that like?”

“We'll take that one another time.” Mila adjusts herself on the floor. “I have to save some cock-and-bull stories about tartar and teeth extractions for later.”

“Can’t wait.” Daryl smirks. “If ye’ want to sing something, I don’t mind.”

Mila smiles. They sit next to each other, watching the night turn into early dawn. Mila sings faintly, to avoid unnecessary attention from the walkers, dangling her legs in the air, while Daryl’s eyes rest on the horizon, wearing a pleasant smile upon his lips.

#daryl fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon #twd daryl #Jersey on my mind #Daryl Dixon Fanfic #The Walking Dead fanficition #The walking dead fanfic #fanfiction #twd fanfiction #fanfic #twd fanfic #the walking dead fandom

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lifblogs · 4 years

Text

Livin In You: Chapter 12

Fandom: Supernatural Pairing: Destiel Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: 1312 Summary: Castiel is a mental health worker who is just fine with the way his life is. The only thing that really bugs him is how much his co-worker, and friend, Meg, mentions Dean Winchester, the most famous rock star in the modern age. Meg drags him to a concert, and he ends up getting tied into the wild and angsty life of Dean Winchester. Suddenly his old life seems boring, but so much calmer. Suddenly, it matters to him that he's still a virgin. Suddenly, this rock star that he despised the mention of, now matters to him. Dean Winchester is a rockstar who's on top of the world when it comes to music. Yet there's more that he wants. He misses Lisa and Ben, he craves connection, craves being himself. Any hope for that amidst his alcoholic life all changes when Zachariah, the head exec of Heaven's Records, pairs with a new exec, Michael Edlund -- the Archangel of Music. Under Michael's dominance, he's no longer in control of his own life. There are rules. No more sex with fans. No more alcohol. And in Dean's view, no more god damn free will. Yet he stumbled into Castiel. CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 3 | CHAPTER 4 | CHAPTER 5 | CHAPTER 6 | CHAPTER 7 | CHAPTER 8 | CHAPTER 9 | CHAPTER 10 | CHAPTER 11

READ ON AO3

Dean was glad to be sitting in the Impala, to feel its purr beneath him, to hear the rumbling of the engine, to feel the leather wheel against his palms. It was better than staying up in that bright hotel room where he’d been told he was made for Michael.

Made for Michael, he mused. What the fuck does that mean? Asshole.

The tension still resided in him, and he figured if — no, when — he went out to lunch with Cas he’d maybe have a little to drink. Not as much as last night. He hd to promise himself that. He didn’t need another repeat of that, and public drunkenness was probably the kind of shit Michael, and Zachariah didn’t want him doing anyway.

Castiel was looking at him, as if he was hurt, cerulean blue eyes so big. Dean didn’t like it. It reminded him of pity. It wasn’t a pitying look, per se, but it sure as hell seemed close.

“What?” Dean snapped.

“They’re allowed to do this to you?” Castiel asked.

“I don’t know,” Dean answered honestly. “They think they can. Sam’s gonna help. But I can’t do anything right now. I just… I just need this time out, Cas. And I want to make up for last night. I was an ass.”

“You were drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t an ass.”

“But—”

“Cas, I’m trying to apologize to you,” Dean intoned.

Castiel’s cheeks went a little pink, and Dean couldn’t help staring. They were at a crowded intersection, and would surely be left at the right light for awhile, so it wasn’t as if he couldn’t get away with it.

Someone behind him honked their horn, drawing him from his reverie. How long had he been looking him over? Looking at those pink cheeks, the full, pink lips, the sharp jawline. Dean’s gaze had also gone to his thighs. And as he’d looked at Castiel, Castiel had looked at him.

Focus on the road, he told himself. He made the turn, and continued driving.

“Then I accept your apology,” Castiel eventually said.

“Good.”

“And not because you have money, or your’e some big name celebrity.”

“Right.”

Why was Castiel making a point to say that? Did he think he was entitled?

Maybe I am.

“Because you’re actually trying to be human.”

Dean’s gaze hardened, heat flaring.

“What, so you think I’m not human?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Uh, buddy, yeah, you did.”

“Okay, fine, maybe I did say it,” Castiel snapped. “But I mean, look at you. Your outfit costs more than my rent, your brother is famous by association and also your lawyer, you have Garth at your beck and call. That’s not… normal.”

Dean gave him a cocky grin. “Thanks, it’s called being rich and famous.”

Castiel only sighed at that and sank down in the seat.

“You know, we don’t have to do this,” Dean went on. “I can take you to get that phone, make sure your car gets fixed, and then drop you off wherever you want. You have that friend, right? What’s her name?”

“Meg.”

“Meg, that’s right! Seriously though, man. If this is bothering you—”

Quick as an adder, Castiel shot out, “It’s not.”

“Then what’s your deal?”

“What’s your deal?”

“You know what? No, we’re not gonna argue like this. We’re not a couple o’ twelve year olds.”

Castiel grinned.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Dean, you seem pretty immature.”

“Are you… are you teasing me?”

Castiel’s brows lowered, suddenly all serious. “Yes.”

Dean started laughing, and it felt good. It felt so good that he didn’t feel as if he had to do anything else in that moment. For those few moments he wasn’t thinking about the contract, wasn’t hoping his headache would go away soon, wasn’t thinking about how much he wanted to punch Michael in his stupidly gorgeous face. And he wasn’t thinking about how strange his situation with Cas was, or what he yearned to do with him. There were no worries about where this would lead, about maybe ending up hurt and disappointed. He just laughed.

Castiel laughed too.

“There we go!” Dean said. “Knew you couldn’t be such a hard-ass all the time.”

“Thanks.”

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel seemed to mean it sincerely. He inwardly shrugged. If that’s how Cas wanted to take it, that worked too. Besides, Dean was realizing he was starting to like Castiel’s reactions, even if he wasn’t so sure he liked what it did to him.

“Tell me about yourself,” Dean requested.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t want to take a total stranger out to lunch.”

Castiel seemed to think that was reasonable as he asked, “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, whatever you want to tell me,” Dean said with a shrug. “Favorite color, favorite movie, where you went to college… that kind of stuff.”

So Castiel began to tell him, and Dean took note of everything. By the time they made it to an electronics store, he knew his favorite color (green), knew his favorite movie (A New Hope), knew his favorite book (The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher [Dean had had to try really hard to not seem so shocked]), knew his favorite food (peanut butter and jelly sandwiches)... He listened to him talk about his college experience, what he’d majored in. Dean was happy to hear it all. By the time they pulled up to the store, Dean didn’t want the conversation to end.

He rifled through his pockets, grabbed his wallet, and then started flipping through the bills he had in there, counting.

After coming up with what he thought would be a sufficient amount, he passed the money to Castiel.

“Alright, kid, go have fun,” Dean teased.

“Ass.”

“You’re an ass.”

“This is too much,” Castiel said.

“Just take it. I’ll wait out here.”

“Will anyone see you?”

Dean lowered his hat over his brow. Castiel just raised an eyebrow in what Dean thought might be a disbelieving look, but then he took the money Dean offered, and got out of the car. The door creaked as it opened and closed. Dean knew he should oil the hinges, but that sound? That sound felt like home.

He tried not to stare as Castiel walked away, but oh god, Dean would be lying if he said that his new friend or whatever he was didn’t have one hell of a nice ass.

Guilt tugged at his stomach.

Castiel had helped him last night, helped him when he hadn’t even known how to help himself. He shouldn’t be looking at him like that, thinking about him like that.

“You are an ass,” Dean muttered to himself, agreeing with Cas.

Still, even as he tried to veer his thoughts away from what he wished he could do with him, they just kept burning in his brain.

Dean tried to rationalize it, tried to logic his way out of the thoughts. No, you can’t do that. One, he’s being nice to you and you don’t want to fuck that up. Two, he’s a virgin and probably isn’t interested. Three, you don’t even like virgins! Four, if Zachariah or Michael found out, maybe even Crowley, they’d have it out for your ass.

The logic made sense. It really did. Yet, his emotions didn’t listen to it.

Suddenly frustrated, and a little angry with himself, Dean leaned over to look through the glove compartment on Castiel’s side. His cassette tape collection was in there. Hell, he knew cassette tapes were outdated, but they were classic. How could he not love them?

Dean found a Led Zeppelin tape that he loved, and he popped it into the tape deck. He put the volume just loud enough for him to hear, and listened to one of his greatest inspirations while he waited for Castiel.

#Destiel #Destiel AU #Destiel fanfiction #rockstar!Dean #rockstar!Dean/Castiel #Supernatural #Supernatural fanfiction #spn #spn fanfiction #fanfiction #writing #my writing #Livin In You

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jjmichie · 5 years

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The Day I Touched Eddie Vedder’s Ankle

March 25, 1992

It was cold, as March in Minnesota tends to be.

But this March was colder than usual. Brian was gone. And I had a horrible case of mono that I had succumbed to immediately after he dumped me, which led me to drop the majority of classes I was taking that semester. My financial aid situation was now a mess but I was too sick to go to work and my money supply was dwindling. I had pushed my friends away. I didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone or go anywhere or do anything.

It had been this way for over a month. I spent long days in bed, with barely the energy to eat or even sit up. My muscles and my head and my whole body hurt whenever I tried to move or even think. I couldn’t distinguish whether it was from the sickness or loneliness or aching for Brian but it didn’t matter. I just knew everything hurt and everything felt dark, cold, empty, dead . . . hopeless.

But sitting on the nightstand next to my bed were two tickets to an all ages show at First Avenue. Pearl Jam. It was coming up soon. I really didn’t want to go. I was supposed to be going with Brian. We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to BE together. But the tickets continued to sit there, mocking me, reminding me of what my world had been just a short month ago, but now of what was gone, what was lost, and reminding me of how badly I had fucked it all up.

But I also hated to let the tickets go to waste. I had paid for them. So, as a reluctant Plan B, I convinced my sister to join me. She was older, but always seemed younger. The kind of sister you end up scooping up off the floor of a closet at the end of the night when you bring her to a party, or who takes off on a motorcycle with a random guy she doesn’t know. or disappears for so long in a shopping mall that you end up freaking out and contacting mall security . . . but anyway.

Night of the event. I made myself pull out my standard rock concert clothes, which consisted of knee high black suede boots and a long black velvet jacket thing, which was tapered at the waist then flared out into a skirt in the most lovely feminine way. It was adorned with brass buttons down the front, and two in the back. I loved that jacket. It usually cheered me up every time I put it on. But this time it didn’t. This time I was just going through the motions.

When we got inside the already-packed venue, I could immediately feel Brian. I swear I could smell him. I knew he was there. There was no way he would miss this. But he was upstairs, in the balcony where 21-year-olds were allowed, not corralled on the main floor, in the kiddie pen, where I was humiliatingly sequestered. I let my head turn towards the balcony, let my gaze drift up there, as if I might see him. As if he might see me and actually come down.

Scrunching ourselves as best we could onto the main floor, my sister and I tried to push our way towards the stage, but didn’t get very far. In fact, not very close at all. In my weakened state I just didn’t have the energy. We ended up in the back of the room, near the sound board, more Mike-side than Stone-side, although at the time I didn’t know the difference between the sides. I didn’t know their names yet.

“Oh weird,” I commented to my sister, as I looked around us. “Every single guy here is wearing a flannel shirt.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Of course they are,” she said in her big-sister voice. “That’s what they wear now.”

I hadn’t realized the extent to which Pacific Northwest attire had already permeated the burgeoning grunge crowd in the midwest. For some reason I thought me and the Record Store Boys were the only ones who knew about this. But it was literally Every. Single. Guy. in the room was wearing plaid flannel. When had this happened? I felt kind of stupid, as I realized I was looking WAY out of place in my velvet finery.

And it was interesting to note the ratio of males to females. Easily over 80 percent male. And most of the females appeared to be tag-along girlfriends. Me and my sister were definitely the minority. Which is weird when you think about it. Given how handsome everyone in the band was, why weren’t there more girls?

But then they started to play.

We stood still, as did everyone around us on the floor, completely captivated by the unbelievable power that was suddenly filling the room and pelting us like someone had fired off a flurry of rockets. We watched the surreal energy on the stage, bouncing, whipping their hair, growling out song after song. All I could think was . . . WHUT!!!??!!!

Mostly my eyes were glued to the lead singer. It was hard not to stare at him. He just completely broke the mold of what your typical rock star guy was at the time. But I also remember the rest of the band, that Jeff was wearing a cool hat and looked so solid and muscular, although I didn’t know at the time that his name was Jeff. (The advantage of being Mike-side is that you get Jeff too!) And I remember the guitarist on the other side smiling. Smiling. And the way the guitarist on my side was belting out solos! My god!

I recognized most of the songs, because Brian had given me a homemade cassette tape (I couldn’t afford a CD player), which had Ten on one side and Nevermind on the other and I played it endlessly. At first I had gravitated towards Nirvana, and only listened to the other side because it was too much of a pain in the ass to hit rewind and wait wait wait for it to get back to the beginning. Might as well let the other side play. But then something happened. Something changed. And the more I listened the more I liked it. The more Brian played it, whenever we were together, alone in his room, the more it became my favorite. Our favorite.

But then Pearl Jam began playing the opening chords of Black.

Shit.

No.

Don’t do this to me.

I was instantly back in his bedroom, the CD player going. Brian and I had come to agree at some point that Black was the best song on the album. It was our song. The song we made love to. We didn’t realize everyone else felt that way too. But from the cheer rising from the sea of flannel, it was obvious that this was a favorite of everyone at First Avenue. Brian. Brian. I screamed for him with my mind, begging for him to hear me in his mind, and then I couldn’t see the band or the flannel or anything any more because my eyes were blurred and tears were gushing down my face blinding me and I missed him so much and I knew he was right above me hearing this too, hearing this right now. All the love gone bad . . . Was he thinking about me too? Why wasn’t he coming down the stairs? I couldn’t go up, but he could come down if he wanted to. He must have known I was there. Why was he letting me cry alone? Why did he leave me? Why did I let him? Didn’t any of it even matter to him? . . . in somebody else’s sky . . .

And my stupid sister didn’t even notice, and neither did all the flannel-clad minions who were trying inappropriately to mosh to this song, unable to contain their passion, unconcerned and not deterred by the slow melodicness that clashed ridiculously with their movements.

End. Please let this end.

It did. When Black finally ended I stood there, hearing the next song and the next, but still feeling sort of numb, not bothering to wipe away the mascara that now dirtied my cheeks.

But a short time later my attention abruptly shifted from my own sorrow back to the lead singer, who, to everyone’s surprise, was leaving the stage. Making his way toward the railing of the stairs, he began climbing. He was climbing up the railing, up towards the balcony. And all the flannel-clads turned their backwards-baseball-capped heads upward in unison to follow his progress.

Meanwhile the First Avenue security guys looked at each other and then began inching closer, inching their way over to the railing, looking serious, looking concerned. What was this guy doing?

He was now up on the balcony, but he was OUTSIDE the railing, on the tiny piece of floor that extended beyond it, barely enough room for his boot. He must have been, I don’t know, 30 or 40 feet above us all. His arm was wrapped around the railing to hold himself in place, and he turned around and looked down at us.

This is my most vivid memory of the show. The look on Eddie’s face. The unbelievably intense look of concentration he gave the crowd while he looked down from that perch. He looked only mildly scared. But you could tell he was assessing us, visualizing what he was about to do, and judging exactly where to jump and seeking out those he could trust, literally making eye contact with some key dudes, the bigger, taller dudes, with their hands raised, communicating silently with only his eyes, making sure it felt right.

Once assured of that, once assured he could trust them, he turned back around, facing the balcony and the railing . . .

. . . and he let go . . .

I know logically that Eddie’s body must have followed the laws of physics and fallen at the normal speed that humans fall when they fall, but it didn’t seem that way. He seemed to float. The fall seemed to take forever. He drifted down, arms outstretched, eyes closed (although I couldn’t see his eyes, somehow I knew they were closed), so elegantly, so delicately, like a snowflake.

. . . and landed softly and securely on the hands of the big dudes he had just vetted. From there a swarm of hands seemed to rise up out of nowhere and wave like seaweed in an ocean and before I knew it the graceful ragdoll was floating towards us. My sister and I both stretched as far as humanly possible to reach out and touch touch touch! I felt my hand on his skin, right above the line where his white sock met his bare flesh. Wet Hot. Solid muscle. Coursing with life. Wow . . . But I could only touch him for a few seconds before he floated on, was passed on, passed back towards the stage.

My sister and I both gasped at our hands, staring at them, and holding them out in front of us, giggling with glee, feeling so ridiculously groupie, and realizing we were acting as dumb as the Beatles fans we used to make fun of on TV. But the guys around us seemed to be having the same reaction too. They were thrilled to have participated. Many of them were high-fiving each other with the hand that just seconds earlier had been connected to their new hero.

I didn’t realize it until later, but at some point during the crowd-surfing ceremony, all of my thoughts of the guy upstairs were forgotten. I no longer felt lonely. I no longer felt sick. I no longer worried about my missed classes or my dwindling bank account. I no longer cared that my outfit was out of place. There was no where in the world I would rather be than right there. Right then. On the main floor. Participating. Hearing this mind blowing shit kicking fucking awesome too good to be real music. And reliving the feel of the delightfully sweaty ankle that I had just helped to push along.

The ankle was now safely back where it belonged, up on stage with the smiling guitarist and the cool hat and the power power power that the whole band was thundering out, filling the small venue with ungodly energy and life.

And as I listened to it . . . I let go too.

I let go of the memories, of the loss, the despair, the darkness, the hopelessness, and let the flannel forest envelop me. The group moved as one, and I was part of it, leaning on them, letting them lean on me, swaying with them, riding wave after wave of bliss and feeling every word and note and chord and drum pedal kick. I let go and trusted them to support me and lift me . . . just like Eddie had done on the balcony.

When it was over and we finally had to leave, we carried the energy and the high with us. Totally happy. Totally alive.

Things turned around after that.

The snow melted. The sky was less dark. I resumed classes and doubled up during spring semester in order to graduate on time. I was so inspired by McCready that I ramped up my own electric guitar playing abilities and joined a band. We actually played at First Avenue ourselves about six months later. Granted it was just “new band night,” and granted, we were pretty shitty, but still. I stood exactly where Mike had been standing. Before long I fell in love with the singer/songwriter in my band and we are still living happily ever after, together after all these years.

So . . . thank you Pearl Jam. Really. Thank you. That night gave me the jolt I needed to pull myself out of a horrible place and find the strength to take control of my life and build a happy future for myself. And my life has turned out pretty fucking good. Thank you. You made a huge difference.

#pearl jam #first avenue #eddie vedder #jeff ament #stone gossard #mike mccready #dave abbruzzese

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vinciaka · 5 years

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KALEIDOSCOPE: a project by DAYE

my dear friend serge aka daye just sent a full project for me to listen through before the release of it. It moved me so much that i couldn’t sleep without trying my very best to explain how listening to this made me feel, cause it made me feel very much, all 7 tracks. i want to (try to) explain to you how each song made me feel.

a little quick thing to know before you read this: i tend to reach a lot, and in this little post here, i will try to explain how i saw these songs and the conceptual interpretations i made. they’re probably wrong and might not have been the artist’s true intentions when making the songs, but songs are more fun if you listen to them in your own way. oh !warning! my “review” or whatever might be very biased lol okay

where were we? oh right, the feels. I feel like it made perfect sense to name this project KALEIDOSCOPE, because just like the real thing, daye reflects both his personal life and producing essence in his music and it creates this beautiful art that transforms into another masterpiece depending on how you decide to look at(/listen to) it. he has used things like audio clips from moments in his life, sounds of a cassette player being opened/closed, voices of friends with his (oh so) suitable voice to enhance theirs, and his own voice as main focus (spoiler: my fav song is where he raps the outro... stay tuned xo). It all results in a beautiful memoir, that i felt was focusing on the things surrounding him, perceived by serge and translated by daye into these songs.

the first song ROLLIN sucked me in with the very calming cheerful melody. the song features rapper mike jones that tells a story about a cute blossoming affection between two people who both seem too shy to come forward about it. the story is accompanied with beautiful inputs of shorter melodies created with something that sounds like a very pianoy electric guitar (comes in around 1:46). this song really shows dayes talent when it comes to creating melodies and layering the same melody with different sounds. we hear everything from violin sounds, to synths, backed by fabulous kicks and claps and hi-hats and tambourines and... you get it. he pays a lot of attention to details and it shows through the very subtle sounds of “plings” and his own “so now we” voice input. the beat is concluded with a beautiful piano outro played by one of his friends and puts a more “ripened love”(lol) denouement to the cutesy lovey dovey mood introduced in the beginning of the song. it ends with an audio clip talking about rolling....the green (or brown) stuff. This song feels: buoyant, calm, blissful, bubbly, cute.

the second track BADBOY (also my second favorite song) is just pure, fantastic, simple yet detailed quality production. this song feels like taking an evening walk in the inner city when everything is about to close during warmer weather & meeting up with fun adventurous friends. the drum loop is just so beautifully chosen and is the highlight of the song to me. the second name of this song should be SYNTHBOY (sry). the thing is, i usually don’t like synthy sounds, but daye chooses his sounds so perfectly and breaks it off with complementary non-expected sounds, and the result is... my second favorite track. the outro is a fun audio clip where his friends are joking around. The song really gives me both summer night and summer day and summer day vibes. This song feels: sunny, refreshing, cresent-moony, breezy

next song SWAGOO is my personal favorite. wow.. just wow. i would divide the song into 3 parts and i mean… 3 parts? ugh daye’s mind! the first part is a sample of a song with vocals that go “your love, your love, your love” and it’s a great introduction to the theme of the song. Next part we’re introduced to a very soothing R&B electric piano feel that was quickly accompanied by a very minimalistic, clean kick, snare and hi-hat. once again, rapper mike jones is featured and this time tells a story that seems to continue on where he left off in ROLLIN. but this time he’s ready to settle down. the whole minimalistic instrumental through the second part gave off the good feelings of liking someone and being really sure about the whole thing. but i realized that it all was a false feeling of comfort when the second part was cut off into an audio clip. the audio clip is from a video featured by yours truly (lol) & other friends and is from a house party both me and daye were at at some time in april 2019. in the audio clip you can hear us singing to self control by frank ocean, and the part daye chose to add just makes so much sense and is so fitting into the story. it was the part where frank says “i came to visit, cause you see me like a ufo”. after mike jones spoke about being ready to settle down into the relationship, it seems like it all fell off, just like what that part in frank’s song hints at. two people falling off. right after the audio clip, i was hit by what gave me kind of a revelation, kind of an unreligious epiphany… the third and final part of the song. the last part lasts for 30 seconds and that’s what i dislike the most about this project, because to me that last part is the highlight of this tape. daye uses his own voice (!!) in a gloomy way with a sullen beautiful instrumental that i was amazed by. that part of the song is what fits my personal music taste the most. its crazy. the goal of trying to write all of this down instead of reviewing it directly to serge was to give me a chance to fully express how i felt about this project, but still this part gives me a hard time to explain how wonderfully divine it was. his vocals concludes the love story that mike told. the love interest was just “bad news” and the whole thing left daye in a slump. this whole song is just a wonderful story about love that fades when the mutual feelings stop being mutual and daye portrayed it beautifully through merging 3 different parts and leveling it out to create one harmonious song. excellent. i wish i could replay those last 30 seconds over and over again. in the very end, you hear the sound of a cassette player opening, welcoming the next song. This song feels: jolly -> hopeful->surprising->gloomy, amazing, rainy

track 4 and 5 i will review together as one part. first we hear SMILLAS INTERLUDE and then we hear TIMELESS, both have beautiful melodies and lyrics sung by serges friend smilla. the interlude is just different cuts of her voice singing some words, but mostly overwhelmingly beautiful runs. wow what a voice. in between the cuts of her voice daye carries on the theme with cassette player opening/closing sounds. the interlude almost sounds like the process of writing a letter with drafts and parts that both are kept and thrown away but that in the end results in a fully written letter, and that’s what TIMELESS is. if deciding to look at this project as one big storyline where all songs are small pieces of a bigger story, the lyrics in TIMELESS seem like an explanation to why the love was “bad news”. the whole intention of the relation seemed to be confusing and not straight to the point, a “timeless haze” as told by smilla. the best point of this song, the music production by daye, made it feel like everything still was alright. the beat felt like a hug, saying that the confusion is okay. it felt like a rainy summer day. bright outside with gray skies and a rainbow. the song is fully nuanced because all of the elements in it. everything has more than one layer. the drums, the synths, the vocals. during the chorus, a simple bassline is added to the instrumental and it gives the song a whole new layer of depth. the mixing of this song is the best in my opinion. This song feels: reassuring, confidently confusing, self focusing, profound, like a kiss on the forehead.

the second last song of this tape, COMING HOME shares the spot together with BADBOY as my second favorite track. the production is just so spectacular and high quality! i love it. the drum loop hits hard throughout the whole song and once again, daye’s ears made my ears a big favor by choosing it. his talent with finding and picking out the best sounds & layering was really noticable in this song and it all feels like a whole majestic musical arrangement more than just a beat. it feels like the last day of summer. the melody created by the bass, synths and other sound effects makes the song feel like a sad farewell, but affirming of that better days will come. To further push the feeling of that this is a goodbye, we once again have the talented mike jones lifting the song even more with his added lyrics about “coming home”. between mike’s verses, i was blessed with a beautiful guitar solo played by daye’s talented friend edvin. i had a hard time choosing, but the point of this song is the drum loop and the bassline. listening to the project as a whole, it feels like this is the last song of the project even if isn’t. This song feels: elevating, reminiscent, bittersweet, concluding

like i said above, COMING HOME feels like the last song. but now, we have come to the official last song: INTRO2PHASE2. what im about to say, the title already hints on it. this song sticks out the most to me and it is made very obvious the first two seconds of the song with a very intense synth sound that differs from any synth throughout the whole project. the music composition differs a lot too and is no longer soft and summery but rather upbeat, more intense and less... lovey. it was impossible not to move your head along to the beat. What i like the most about this song is that it shows a whole different side of daye and portrays his versatility when it comes to production. whichever genre he decides to approach he does perfectly and leaves his fingerprints scattered all over the finished product, so it still sounds like daye. this feels more like an intro to the next concept more than outro to this tape, and that is why the song before this was (to me) the last song of this project (or should i say phase?). mike (who is featured here too) also uses his voice in a more powerful way compared to the more relaxed/soft way that is heard in the other songs he is in. if it still isn’t obvious that this is an intro to the switch of concepts, it is made even more clear with mike’s unfinished sentence where he says he doesn’t want drama, he wants-... to be continued i guess! This song feels: intense, like fire, stinky face, hard

im excited for what’s next to come, and curious about where the focus will shift in the next project. daye left us with a cliffhanger, and hopefully, in the future we will know what it was that mike jones wanted instead of drama.

to summarize, this project felt very conceptual even if intentional or not, the order of the songs made sense if you were to look at it as a whole story. generally, it sounds like the theme is love; from its exciting beginnings to the end of it (and maybe the rebound too?) in a very realistic way. all songs can be seen as one big coherent story, or as individual songs and which one you see depends on how you want to look at it through the KALEIDOSCOPE. This project feels like: love, summer, a story

#wow if u made it all the way here #my opinion is irrelevant tho

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carryonsimoncarryonbaz · 6 years

Text

Always Something There to Remind Me

For Carry On Countdown 2018 Nov. 26: Nostalgia prompt

Simon

Baz wants to leave soon, to get to the city in time to question his aunt about Nicodemus.

I’m going to go with him, of course. I told him that, straight away, last night. I can’t stay here, not by myself, without him. The thought of staying here alone to wait for him, with his family, in this house, makes me ill.

But it’s more than that.

I won’t let him search for the vampires without me.

Baz didn’t argue when I said that. Just gave me a strange look and said “Well, of course you’re coming with me, Snow.”

I want to be right there with him. For once, strangely enough, it’s not because I think he’s plotting. I’m sure he’s plotting something but it’s got nothing to do with me this time.

All I know is that I don’t want him to confront the vampires alone. I think that would be a terrible idea.

I’ve been thinking about this, thinking about it a lot, now that I know more about Headmistress Pitch and her death.

I know Baz is a vampire, even if he won’t fully admit it. He came closer than ever to speaking about it yesterday.

I think he hates it, hates being one. I think he’s ashamed and conflicted about it. The things he said last night, when we were talking about Nicodemus, I think he believes them.

I don’t believe them. And I don’t want him to, either.

I’m worried about how he’ll be with other vampires, real vampires.

I know he’s a real vampire but he’s also a student at Watford, a bloody brilliant football player and a first-rate git. Not to mention top of our class.

He’s not like normal vampires.

I don’t know what normal vampires are like. I just know I’ve run into a fair number of dark creatures since I’ve come to Watford. They all have this aura they give off, a sense of not-rightness. I don’t know how to put it into words. It’s just a feeling I get.

But I don’t feel that with Baz. Never have.

He’s a right arse, don’t get me wrong. He’s vicious and cruel and not above intrigue and scheming. He’s exasperating, infuriating and downright nasty sometimes. But I don’t think he’s really out to harm anyone.

Not even me.

I say that knowing full well about Phillipa Stainton and the chimaera but even then. . . I think he meant to scare me, not kill me.

I don’t know. None of this makes sense.

I tug at my hair. I don’t know what I’m thinking. But I know he can’t go alone. I don’t know what it will be like for him, being around them. Thinking about them. Remembering his mum. Knowing he’s one of them, even though he doesn’t want to be.

Has he been around vampires before? I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to ask.

I don’t know if it will make it any better, having me there with him. It can’t make it worse, I suppose.

Scratch that. Things can always get worse when I’m involved.

But at least he’ll know he’s got someone in his corner.

Am I in Baz’s corner?

I haven’t really thought about what this truce means. I said I’d help him find his mum’s killers. Does that mean we’re on the same side now? Working together.

I don’t know. I can’t think about it, it ties me up in knots trying to figure out what this all means. Why I’m helping him.

Why he’s letting me help him.

Why I don’t mind being around him so much. Why he doesn’t make me as angry as he usually does.

I can’t think about this.

After breakfast he takes me up to his room again. So I can change into something other than my uniform. Which he says makes me look twelve.

“I can’t take you with me to a vampire lair if you’re wearing that outfit, Snow. It will look like I’m babysitting you. How can I come off as imperious and menacing with a child in tow? Come on, now. I’m sure I’ve got something that fits you.”

I stomp up the stairs after him. I don’t look like a child in my uniform. I love my uniform. It’s comforting and comfortable. I don’t want to wear his posh clothes. I’ll look right foolish in them, I will.

His first suggestion is a suit. There’s no bloody way I’m wearing a suit. Not one of Baz’s suits. They’re all tailored and sleek and I would look even more ridiculous in one of those than my uniform.

I also think the trousers would be too tight.

I can just see myself, fighting off a vampire in its lair and splitting my trousers. No, thank you.

“No way.”

Baz rolls his eyes and sorts through his shirts before handing me one. I don’t think that’ll fit either. He’s taller than me but I’m broader in the shoulders.

“That won’t fit me.” It’s a really nice shirt. I can tell by the way the fabric drapes over his arm.

“Snow. Take the shirt. I’ll step out while you try it on, to preserve your modesty.” His tone is laced with condescension but for once he’s not actually sneering at me.

I take it and he steps out, drawing the door nearly closed as he does. This is our unspoken rule. Eight years in the same room but we don’t change in front of each other. The thought of it always seemed to make me feel too vulnerable, defenceless if he chose to attack me while I was trying to shimmy out of my trousers.

It’s a bit stupid, now that I think about it. Why would he attack me while I was getting dressed and not while I was asleep? Anyway, our aggressions usually end up playing out far more publicly.

This shirt’s too tight across the shoulders. I can button it up to mid chest but any more ends up straining the fabric. I certainly can’t close it at the neck. I’ll choke if I do. I’ll likely tear this one by the time we get to the car. It’s fitted and tailored to him, not me.

The fabric is soft though. Smooth and silky.

“Too tight.” I call out to Baz.

He steps back in, eyebrow raised in question and just stops in the doorway. He blinks at me.

“I told you. It’s too tight. Can’t wear this. I’ll look like the Hulk, splitting my clothes if I raise my arms.”

He’s still blinking at me. It’s surprising to see him, speechless for once. Probably thinks I’ve already ruined it by stretching the seams.

“I should just wear my uniform jumper. It’ll be fine.”

“No.” Baz’s voice is raspy. He clears his throat and then continues. “I’ve a rack of jumpers right behind you, Snow. Surely you can find something there. Or in one of the boxes under the shoe rack. Those are ones I don’t wear as often.” He clears his throat again. “I’ll be downstairs. Don’t take all day.”

And then he sweeps out of the room, leaving me amidst the bounty of his wardrobe. It’s like being in a haberdasher, he’s got so much in here.

I take his shirt off and hang it up again. I think it’s in the right place.

Then I start poking about in his wardrobe. I’m a bit nervous about it actually. I’ve got no idea what all he’s got in here. Might be hiding something sinister.

His room is absurd, like it’s out of a film of what you’d expect for a vampire’s bedroom. All dark paneling and red lamps and plush curtains and his creepy bed.

And of course, he’s got a walk-in wardrobe. Typical. I can’t believe how many clothes he’s got. I mean, I knew he had a lot of clothes because I’ve seen his wardrobe at Watford. We wear uniforms five days a week but Baz still has all these posh togs for weekends.

But here at home he’s got even more. And jeans. I’d never seen Baz in jeans before coming here.

He looks good in jeans. He looks good in everything, which is really bloody tedious, honestly.

But he looks really good in jeans.

I can’t think about that either.

He said the jumpers were on the shelves and there were more in boxes at the back.

I find the shelf. These are too posh for me. Fucking cashmere, they are. In practically every colour. Baz is such a wanker. I touch the soft wool. There’s a wine-colored turtleneck one.

I wonder what Baz would look like in that.

What the fuck am I going on about? I shake my head and narrow my eyes. I can’t wear any of these. Maybe the ones in the box he mentioned aren’t as fancy.

I poke around the back of the closet. They’re a few boxes on the floor back there, tucked under some shelves that house an absolutely absurd number of shoes and boots.

I look around again. No hats.

That strikes me as odd until I really think about it. He was probably the only one of us who actually looked good in the boater we had to wear our first years at Watford but I know he hated it as much as I did. Maybe more.

Baz would look like even more of a villain in a fedora.

He must not like hats. He won’t even wear a beanie in winter, when it’s cold. Probably doesn’t want to muss his perfect hair, the wanker.

I think he’d look good in a beanie. Not one of the skullcap types, but the looser ones, the ones with the excess material that just flops to the side a bit.

I shake my head. What the hell am I doing? I banish the image of Baz in a beanie from my mind and focus on the task at hand. I need to find something to wear.

It’s certainly not going to be one of those cashmere jumpers.

I pull one of the boxes out from under the shoe racks and squat down to look at the contents.

It’s not full of jumpers.

I know I should put it back, put the lid right back on and look at another box. Or just put on one of those bloody cashmere jumpers and go downstairs to find Baz.

But I don’t. I stare down at the box in fascination. It’s large and deep, deep enough to hold an assortment of vinyl records, cassette tapes, what look like some photo albums and notebooks.

I can’t help myself. I flip through the vinyl. Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Bowie. Some more recent, if you can even call them recent—Elvis Costello, XTC, Police, Prince.

I’m surprised. I mean, I know Baz is musical. He plays the violin. But I guess I somehow thought all he listened to was classical music. Isn’t violin all classical? I don’t know. He never plays in our room.

I’ve heard him though. When I’ve followed him to his lessons. It sounds classical to me, the bits I managed to hear sitting in the gallery.

I don’t know why I never thought of him listening to other music.

Music is a huge part of magic. Lyrics and such. But the Mage won’t let us have electronic devices at Watford. Miss Possibelf has an iPod and speakers she brings in just for Magical Words. She’s got special dispensation and it’s only for that class.

I pick up one of the photo albums. I really shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t know why I am. I just can’t help it.

It feels like I’m seeing a different side of Baz right now. Looking through this box. And I can’t stop myself.

I look at the photo album cover and that’s when I freeze. It’s got Natasha Pitch blazoned on it.

Fuck.

These aren’t Baz’s things. They’re his mother’s.

I’ve got no right to snoop in his things in the first place but it’s absolutely out of line to look at a box of his mother’s belongings.

I go to place the album gently back in the box.

“Snow? What the devil is taking you so long?” Baz steps into the wardrobe. I can’t push the box away from me fast enough.

I can’t pretend I’m not looking in it. The lid’s off and I’m sitting on the floor next to it.

Baz’s face is paler than I’ve ever seen it when I finally look up and meet his eyes.

Baz

I’m getting impatient. I want to catch Fiona before she recovers from the hangover she’s likely nursing this morning. It will be easier to pump her for information if she’s feeling fragile.

How long does it take Snow to find a jumper? He throws on the first thing he finds in front of him at Watford, whether it’s clean or not.

He’s probably just overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. I should have just stayed and found one for him myself.

But I really can’t be up there, in my wardrobe, searching through my clothes to find something for Snow to wear. It feels too intimate. Too much like something I’ve fantasized about.

Snow in my bedroom. Snow borrowing my clothes. Snow taking his jumper off and putting mine on.

The sight of him, in that shirt, half his chest on display and his broad shoulders straining at the fabric. I had to leave before I said something stupid.

Before I did something rash.

I have to stop thinking about that. It’s too much. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that he’s here. That he’s in my house. That he came to find me.

I look at my watch and end up stomping upstairs to find him. Really, it can’t be taking this long to find something that fits him. We’re not that far off in size. I’m taller and he’s broader in the shoulders. That’s it. A jumper should be just fine.

I sweep into my bedroom. No sign of Snow. The wardrobe light is on. Crowley, is he still in there?

He is still in there, seated on the floor next to a box.

Not my box of old jumpers.

The box that holds my mother’s things.

He looks absolutely unnerved at the sight of me.

I’m staring at him. I can’t speak.

He schools his features, swallows thickly. I’m gaping at him, I’m sure.

“Snow? What are you doing?” I’ve found my words again but my voice sounds hollow.

“I’m sorry, Baz. I was looking for a jumper and . . . and I thought you said there were some in a box. I guess . . . uh . . . I guess I opened the wrong box.” Snow stands, wipes his hands on his trousers and shuffles the lid back onto the box. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked at it.”

“You looked in the box?” Crowley, I’m just repeating what he said. “You looked through my mother’s things?” I’m almost too shocked to be angry. No one looks through my mother’s things.

Even I don’t go through them much anymore.

I used to. I used to go through them all the time, touched every record, pored over every photograph. The ones from her years at Watford. The pictures of her with Fiona.

The Pitch sisters. Unstoppable and irresistible. So cool, the two of them. Matching raised eyebrows, sardonic expressions on their faces.

Looking through her things wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing would bring her back and after a while it just hurt to see it all. The evidence of the music she’d never listen to again. The journals she’d never write in again.

The photos of her, strong and powerful, ageless now, because time stopped for her. Stopped in that nursery all those years ago.

I’m still staring and Simon is shuffling from one foot to the other looking acutely uncomfortable. I should say something but my mind is blank.

“I’m sorry.” He says it again and it shakes me back to the present. “I had no right.”

It’s my turn to swallow. I step in and walk past him to kneel down next to the box. The lid is askew and I pull it off for a moment and gaze into it.

It’s all there, just like it always has been. I put the lid on properly and push it back under the shoe rack, my grip lingering on it for just a moment.

I stand up and narrow my eyes at Snow. “I should have come back up and found something for you myself, Snow. I should have realized you’d get easily distracted with so many options.”

He frowns at me. I don’t want to talk about my mother’s things. I’m not prepared to have a conversation about them, not now. Not with Snow.

I pull out another box and toss the lid aside. Perfect. I pull out a cream-colored jumper with a Scandinavian design. “Here. Wear this. I’ve never been all that fond of it. I won’t matter if you stretch it out.”

I thrust it in his direction and he takes it. I briskly put the lid back on the box and stride out of the space. “Come along now, Snow. We haven’t got all day.”

I’m not angry at him. I don’t know why not. I should be. I would have been, a few weeks ago. By all rights I should be shouting at him right now. But I’m not. I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Exposed. Vulnerable.

I should hate that Snow has seen something so personal. But I don’t.

I don’t.

Snow’s here. He took a chance. He took me at my word, about coming to Hampshire. He let himself be vulnerable, coming here, to his enemy’s home.

But we’re not enemies now, are we? We’re not friends. We’re not allies. I don’t know what we are.

But it’s better than what we were.

I’ll take it. I’ll take this over fighting. I’ll take this look of confusion over the looks of suspicion he used to give me.

I’ll take anything Simon Snow gives me.

And I’d give anything to have this last. To have us stay this way.

I’ve been able to talk to him. About Mother. I’ve never done that with anyone before. Not anyone other than Father or Fiona.

I’m not angry about the box.

Simon

I don’t know why Baz didn’t shout at me. I expected him to be angry. To punch me, like he used to when we were younger.

To throw me out of the house.

But all he did was stare at me. Then he put the box away, found me a jumper and hasn’t said a word about it since.

I won’t bring it up. Baz doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s clear. I feel terrible about snooping around like that. I don’t know why I even did it.

I do know why I did it.

I want to know more about him. I want to know why he is the way he is. What he thinks about. What he’s like when the war and his mother’s death aren’t on his mind.

I follow him out of the house and we get in the car to look for vampires.

title from Naked Eyes song Always Something There to Remind Me

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #coc 2018 #carry on countdown #nostalgia prompt

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