#if you’ve been harassed enough people fearing you sounds better than anything else so. yeah

[allenkleinofficial]

Another villain song :))))))))))

[wincore]

wasted nights | liu yangyang

pairing: yangyang x reader

words: 5.5k

summary: firstly, you don’t think you should have survived this long. secondly, this might be the zombie apocalypse but your survival doesn’t feel as threatened by zombies as it does by liu yangyang. thirdly, you’ve chosen the worst time to develop a crush.

genre: zombie apocalypse!au, fluff, humour(?)

warnings: mention of injuries & blood, violence (against zombies), dumbassery, do not attempt during an actual zombie apocalypse

song rec(s): wasted nights - one ok rock 

a/n: october birthdays get halloween specials~ although this one is just full of unnecessary appearances by cats. also campfires because october campfires hit different. (i’m definitely saying this because i was born in october) also not me writing this as a joke and reaching 5.5k words </3

It’s two hours till sundown. 

What would you be doing on a day within the ordinary? Likely getting back from after school activities, chatting with a friend or feeding the stray kittens by the school building, or maybe pretending Liu Yangyang doesn’t exist—the possibilities were endless. Now there’s only one.

“Yangyang,” you call, more worried than not.

On a day out of the ordinary, you wish you hadn’t prayed for your exam to get cancelled the day all of this broke out. You wouldn’t be scavenging like some sort of rodent and you wouldn’t be standing at the gates of an abandoned shrine, though now is undoubtedly a better time to pray. It’s not the best of situations (especially not with a certain little rascal attached to your side). 

And understatements are definitely your thing now.

“Yangyang,” you call a little louder this time, eyes shifting around the shrine area. 

Should you step in? He asked you to wait, the stone steps now looking a little glum without him skipping over them. The only signs of life you’ve seen around has been a family of raccoons looking rather smug and a single spotted dove preening itself atop a branch. The lack of visibility into the forest surrounding the shrine bothers you, like something could jump out any minute and you suck your teeth, growing annoyed. Where is that boy?

You tap your foot against the ground soundlessly. What if a zombie were to pop out? They might be slow but the sight of them is still gross enough to paralyze you. Yangyang has his baseball bat with him, which leaves you defenseless in terms of weapons. Still, it’s not like the bat would have done you any good. You are, in the truest sense of the word, average at any sort of combat and freezing at the limbs comes to you more naturally. Zombies are not fun; whatever nonsense Yangyang has been trying to explain to you for weeks is optional, as is every other suggestion that comes from his mouth. It’s quiet and quiet, creepy shrines have never been your favourite place in the city.

You hear a low growl behind you, stiffening at the sound. Best case scenario, it’s a big rat. You’d rather not think of the worst case. Eventually, you gather some courage and turn slowly only to jump back with a short scream. 

Yangyang takes the old festival mask off to reveal a giant grin on his face, urging you to knock it right off. The anger that follows is natural and he should be used to it by now. Yangyang continues smiling, as if he didn’t just pull your soul right out of your body, and when he opens his mouth to say something, you’re quick to land a swift punch to his gut. He lets out a pained cry, dropping to the ground in a squat.

“Don’t do that,” you seethe. “Why can’t you greet me normally?”

“I’m okay!” He signals a thumbs up while the other hand clutches his stomach. 

“I didn’t ask.”

He moves his hand to place it over his chest. “Ow. Oh, and to answer your question, it’s because you don’t want to do my special handshake with me.”

“Hm. Get up. You said there were supplies here. What did you find?”

He pouts, finally getting up. “I can’t believe you’re just using me for supplies.”

You cross your arms. “Just get up already.”

Yangyang springs up despite the (admittedly) strong blow to his stomach and presents to you the plastic bag he’d been holding. In any other circumstances, it would spark some disapproval on your behalf but it turns out, those things do outlive most everything. For a moment, the ridiculous image of pulling a plastic bag over a zombie’s head crosses your mind. 

Yangyang finally responds, taking out whatever items he recovered. Not everything is useful however; he’s simply taken to collecting knick-knacks. 

“I found toothbrushes! Maybe your breath will stop stinking—”

You raise your clenched fist as a threat.

“—I was kidding. Obviously. You have lovely breath.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in an attempt to contain your exasperation. 

“Also, I found clean water so I filled up some bottles and yeah, I couldn’t find much else but oh! There was this huge cat and I mean huge like a big chonk kinda guy, you know? And I’m sure he was, like, trying to tell me something, like, he kept hissing when I went near him but…”

You wonder if Yangyang ever gets tired from speaking so fast, his words fading out of your comprehension. You shake your head, clearing your throat.

“Can we leave now?”

Yangyang raises an eyebrow, almost smirking as the gears in his head turn.

“You’re not… superstitious, are you?” he asks. “I heard there’s a lot of reported sightings of ghosts here.”

“No,” you blurt, quick to deny. Yangyang might have seen you crying after getting lost in the dark, almost fainting after encountering a zombie for the first time or even in deep sorrow after you lost your friend—but there’s still part of your dignity to protect before you can admit your fear of ghosts. There’s just something about this abandoned shrine; there are no visitors apart from the caretaker and if loneliness is responsible for anything, it’s making lonely things seem a whole lot scarier. You’d rather leave before the sun sets.

Yangyang laughs. “Who do you think would win in a fight? Zombies or ghosts?”

You roll your eyes. “That’s so stupid. Obviously ghosts.”

“No. Okay, maybe. I just think…”

There he goes again. 

You wonder if he was always this way—when you passed him by in the hallways, when he shot you a polite smile at club meetings or when you saw him being loud with his friends blocking part of the sidewalk. You’re sure he couldn’t have been entirely sane.

“Oh my god.”

Yangyang’s voice jerks you back to the present. You follow his line of sight to a cardboard box beneath a particularly dense shrub; it's a large one—quite possibly a carton of some commercial product which doesn’t matter anymore. However, it’s not the details of the box itself so much as it is the contents that grab your attention. 

You can almost see the sparkle in Yangyang’s eyes as he views the cats huddled together inside the box. They don’t seem to mind each other within their personal space—you count four of them, tightly packed and eyes closed in a late afternoon nap. How the box hasn’t ripped apart yet is quite a mystery, and what’s more troubling is how at ease they seem to be with the entire human race in disarray.

You grab Yangyang by the collar before he can make his way to them.

“Don’t harass them,” you say, massaging your temples. “Jesus, it’s like they’re glued to each other. Do they have to be in the same box?”

“It might just be the last cardboard box left on earth.” Yangyang shrugs.

The cats mind their own business, grooming their fur or closing their eyes in an odd sort of bliss. You wonder what it would be like to be so unbothered by all the chaos. It reminds you of someone.

“Come on,” you urge, thinking back to older times. “Don’t think I forgot how much you used to bother old Louis back then.”

Louis was the university cat, fed with so much love that he eventually started avoiding people like the plague. You wonder how he’s holding up for a brief moment.

“Don’t think I forgot how you were back then too.”

“What do you mean?” you snap, glaring at him.

“You were already a zombie,” he says before engaging in a cheap mimicry of you, drooping his eyelids and taking slow steps muttering, “I… must… maintain… gpa… grr.”

You almost take off your shoe to throw it at him before deciding it’s not worth your time. Ah, if only you had done that during club meetups, perhaps you’d have felt better about him joining. Everyone treated him so differently, and you hate to admit you now understand why. 

Everyone loves a good troublemaker.

And there happens to be another thing special about your sole competitor for the debate club’s president position. Apart from his strange antics (charms, he says), even this virus—this fuckall literal killer virus can’t infect him. He’s immune—an occurrence with a possibility lower than you finding him attractive. (There, you said it.)

You look at Yangyang still talking about Louis and a small smile crosses your face. You’d feed your right arm to a zombie before you admitted it but it’s nice having him around. You furrow your brows at the sudden familiar bubbling in your chest and shove it away in a flash before your conscious decides to tell you what it is. 

Your heart jumps to your throat when you make eye contact with Yangyang, turning away in a rather awkward manner. Oh, the end of the world does awful things to you.

“Are you listening?” Yangyang raises an eyebrow. “Oh my god, you weren’t listening at all.”

You roll your eyes. “I was distracted.”

“By me?” he offers in a sing-song voice, prompting a smack from you. It’s easier to pretend this way.

Yangyang massages his shoulder with a huff. “Why are you hitting me so much today? I’ve counted like eight and the day’s only just over.”

“Sorry,” you mumble before clearing your throat. “I mean, you’ve also said something annoying, like, more than eight times today.”

“I’m not annoying.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, maybe a little bit.”

The sun starts to lay in rest by the time you reach the city. Compared to the green, red and yellow of the yet standing shrine, this place is in dull monochrome with the occasional coloured signs that flicker to life. You force yourself to think but have a hard time remembering if it was always this way. Was it any different with the rushing cars or apathetic crowds? You can’t tell. You were part of them, after all. 

“Hey, how about a bottle flip challenge but with traffic cones?” Yangyang thinks aloud, walking backwards as you pass by a particularly well-lit alley. 

You roll your eyes in response. Is it the lack of people making him that way? Your unflustered companion looks at home among neon lights, all of them seeming to point towards him as an answer to a question you haven’t quite figured out yet. 

You glance at the alley just a second longer. The electric lanterns still glow red, and although dim, there are many. The shops almost look like you could enter and be greeted with a crowd of university kids or a group of office workers drinking away in celebration of the weekend. You sigh. It’s most certainly deserted inside; there’s no doubt. At the most, the tables are still arranged neatly and the meat grills aren’t completely rusted. You wonder if it’s a Friday.

There was never much grass in the city but whatever growth there was has withered into a mustard yellow or a lamenting grey. An empty city is hardly appealing, but you can’t deny the ill-favored things you’ve done the past few months in the absence of people—a part of you questioning whether breaking into supermarkets is still against the law when no one’s around to keep it. You smile at the memory of Yangyang pushing you around in a shopping cart, though you’d gotten drunk off the (stolen) liquor prior. The neon lights hanging as a banner over sketchy shops sometimes spark alive before dying down over and over again, and to be fair, you don’t think they ever shined too bright. Ironically, they’re the liveliest thing about the city now. 

The sky’s soaked in ink at a time you assume to be around seven in the evening. You walk closer to Yangyang without realizing; it’s not often you’ve been out this late the past few months.

“Hey.” Yangyang snaps you out of your daze. “Be careful.”

The words are strange coming from him but you understand why. You look up ahead with caution and a shiver runs down your spine as you stare at the intersection, a lone, tattered figure droning aimlessly. It’s only one, you tell yourself. And they’re slow.

The memories of your previous encounters send warnings over your skin, shivers begging you to run as fast as you can. You would if it weren’t for Yangyang’s grip on your hand, tugging you forward gently and though it’s something he does every time, you wonder if he knows how you’re really feeling. His footsteps are soundless, with the same red sneakers he’s worn since the beginning of this but something tells you it’s not the shoes that give him a cat’s footfall. The purple lights flicker on and off over the shop on the opposite street, the suddenness of it making you latch onto Yangyang for a short-lived moment. You’re quick to let go, throat too dry to make any sound. 

You curve around what would be a straight path, careful not to be in the creature’s line of sight when you cross. The streets seem wider when they’re so empty, and somehow it feels more unlawful this way. Yangyang signals to you to stay closer, and you follow before bumping into his back when he stops abruptly. There’s absolutely no sound, the feeling in your gut much worse than at the shrine.

“Something’s wrong,” Yangyang whispers.

A strangled shriek erupts from your mouth when something launches itself onto the two of you, making you land on your butt. You would’ve placed your hands over your eyes, but you’ve learned how to be less of a coward these past few days. 

A shaky breath leaves you. A cat. It was a stray cat. The little asshole looks at you with almost twinkling eyes, tail swishing from side to side before deciding you’re not worth its time. Your shoulders sag, a moment of relief despite your stiff muscles.

“Uh, (name)?”

You look up only for your stomach to fill with dread. The zombie from before is staring directly at the two of you, the same vacant look in its eyes that has haunted you for the entirety of the apocalypse.

“It’s okay, he’s too slow,” Yangyang reminds you, voice barely a whisper as he helps you stand.

“We can just take the other street—it’s a little longer but it’s mostly safe and there’s no way he can—”

Yangyang is interrupted by a sickening growl from behind you and you jump back. There’s another one. And another. You count four more before holding back a swear. Yangyang grabs you by the shoulder and the two of you take a step back, onto the sidewalk. There’s a shop behind you; you read a smeared sign above the plastic door curtains indicating a dumpling place. Even if you were to hide in there, there’s no guarantee you’d be safe. 

But if you’ve learned anything in these months, it’s that anything is always better than nothing.

The night has settled in completely, you realize. You’re about to tug Yangyang to the inside as you turn around, only to freeze up in your spot. A pale woman emerges from the store, her makeup still fresh but you know that look, the look in her eyes. How cruel.

“Please,” she mumbles, taking a step towards you and you think you might just cry. It’s not long before she turns, you think with dread.

You stumble back to Yangyang when she emits a blood curdling screech, lunging at you and to either your alarm or worse, relief, Yangyang pushes you back. You watch with wide eyes as the woman sinks her teeth into his arm, nausea growing at the sight of blood. He moves fast though, his arm swinging the baseball bat to meet the woman in the head, hard enough to knock her out. In these few moments, one of the zombies is close enough to reach an arm out towards you and you swear you can hear the horrid sound of his bones cracking when you step back. The longer you remain in this state, the slower you are. You suppose you should take comfort in these words but when you look at it, you still see a man.

Hollow. They’re all hollow. 

You take a deep breath.

Just as the thought crosses your head, you see Yangyang swing his bat again, meeting the zombie on the head and much to your wide-eyed horror, the head flies off into the dumpling shop and the body reacts with just about as much confusion as you do. It wildly waves about its hands in the now vacant spot before crumpling onto the road with a quiet realization.

Yangyang makes a face, pressing his knuckle to his mouth to prevent himself from what you presume is gagging. However, when you look closely, he seems to be holding back a laugh instead and very painfully so. You know he has a habit of laughing at the most inappropriate times but this, it really takes the cake.

“Home run?” he suggests, turning to you with a sheepish half-grin. There’s no hint of malice in his voice and you think that it’s probably not that he enjoys swinging his baseball bat at zombies. 

“You’re disgusting,” you reply, shaking your head.

“Maybe I should leave you here then.” 

You can’t believe he has the gall to be cheeky with blood running down his arm and four of the undead drooling at the sight of you two. 

“Do you think we can find ingredients that aren’t stale here? I miss having dumplings.”

“Yangyang.”

“Okay, okay.”

The other ones are still far enough and the two of you take this chance to run off towards the street Yangyang mentioned earlier and safely out of view. You notice him panting heavier than before, and your eyes scan over his arm in worry. The bite is ugly, red with oozing blood, and you hold back the urge to ask him if he’s anaemic. 

Yangyang follows your eyes before an ‘ah’ leaves his lips. He spins his head to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound in the same manner a dog chases after its own tail. He puts the bat down to try and twist his arm to see the injury but you stop him, clicking your tongue at his silly behaviour.

“You’re not twelve, Yangyang,” you scold. “Let’s get back to the hotel first.”

He shrugs, and you think some provoking words are ready to leave his mouth when he simply picks up his bat and walks off. You blink before quickening your steps to catch up with him. The blood dripping down his forearm makes you feel a little unwell but you know better than to touch infections.

It takes around fifteen minutes longer than usual to reach the hotel—Yangyang was right. It is safer here, with no zombies lurking around the corners. He must have been out late when he was scouting, you think with distaste.

You reach the now-rusting gates of your haven without trouble and the moment you reach, Yangyang falls to his knees, heaving a breath he seems to have been holding. You rush to him, eyes frantic when you reach your hand out to him, and he flinches, moving away from you.

“Don’t,” he mutters before getting up. “You turning into a real zombie would be my personal nightmare.”

It’s not enough to curb your worry but you follow him nonetheless, the stupid, wavering grin on his face making you unable to decipher what he’s really feeling. 

The familiar smell of honeysuckle washes into you as you pass by the entrance, locking the door behind you as Yangyang falls onto one of the chairs in the lobby. Kunhang happened to be passing by, a muffled swear leaving him when he sees the blood on Yangyang’s arm.

“You didn’t touch him, did you?” he asks, pulling on his gloves to further see the wound. A former med student is the best you have here, and somehow, you’ve never seen him complain about having to take care of someone as bothersome as Yangyang. 

You shake your head in reply to Kunhang and watch as he runs from shelf to shelf to procure more bandages than you’ve ever seen in your life. You’ve been seeing an awful lot lately. 

“We’re going to run out of bandages in a week if he keeps this up,” Kunhang says with a frown, moving so fast you can barely see his hands. “He’ll be okay, I guess. The virus just makes him dizzy.”

He’s probably thinking the same thing you are. Something serious happening to Yangyang is a little bit of a miracle. Maybe he’ll finally be set right in the head. 

Even so, you know Kunhang is worried despite his quick response, his frown lines deepening once he’s done wrapping up. He sighs before waltzing off to discard his gloves.

It’s not that you aren’t impressed by Kunhang; you’ve just seen him do that too many times to count. And of course, it’s mostly Yangyang on the receiving end. They might be good friends but this also happens to be the only time they're serious together. Moreover, Kunhang seems to beat Yangyang in the talking-for-twelve-hours-straight department. You have to admit though, being in charge of first aid for the few people stuck in this hotel is not an easy business. 

You take a seat opposite to Yangyang, dozing off in his chair and wonder if you should wipe the drool off his chin. Disgusting, you think to yourself, but another part of you dares to offer the word cute. 

The best thing about barricading yourself in a hotel during the apocalypse is not having to worry about beds. There’s at least five hundred rooms in this skyrise, more than enough for, what, sixteen people? The place is so big that you hardly run into the others. The only rule around here is regarding the pantry—to write down who’s taken what on the notepad stuck to one corner. Despite what movies show, people are far more helpful to each other in times of need, more so than usual even. You relax into the chair, the velvet cushion feeling comfortable against your back. 

There’s a nice communal feeling in this place. 

You frown. It’s not like you can stay here forever. 

At the very least, you can pretend each sundown and sunrise is ordinary here. You close your eyes, and slowly, thoughts of why you’re trying so hard to remember life before this drift away.

//

Yangyang wakes up before you do, grinning like crazy as he shrugs you awake. You stare at him through groggy eyes, untangling your limbs from yourself. The cold seeps into you and you shiver, hugging yourself.

“We found the keys to the lounge,” he rushes, albeit in a gentle voice. “Guess what?”

“Unh?”

“There’s a campfire spot over there! The others already started but I thought I should wake you up.”

It’s just like him to be excited about something like that. You get up nevertheless, Yangyang pulling you through the stairs and onto the only elevator that seems to work around here. There’s quite a few things about this hotel left to be figured out. You’re going to have to start worrying anyway when the power from the generator runs out.

Kunhang and an older man, Mr Kang, are the only ones there once you reach. You had expected it but the lounge is gigantic and a small part of it provides the artificial campfire area. There are paintings of wild animals and trees for children, you assume, on the walls only cut off by a large vent on the ceiling. The fire burns bright over the large circle of soil and firewood, whose authenticity is debatable. You sigh at the warmth, having grown tired of the autumn weather’s mood swings.

Kunhang greets the two of you with a grin before delicately poking Mr Kang to at least acknowledge your presence. It’s funny, the lot of you.

The place is a little small, considering there’s a literal fire in the middle of the room. You almost sit on Yangyang because he shifts too suddenly at Mr Kang’s disapproval of proximity, a small yelp leaving you whereas Yangyang, for the first time, looks like he’d rather die. He mutters an apology, and two of you manage to sit a good two feet apart, sudden awkwardness rising in the air—all of it unnoticed by Mr Kang. You heard he was a banker but if Kunhang and Yangyang had a polar opposite, it would most certainly be him. You can’t even remember the man’s voice.

You think you should say something but Kunhang’s laughter breaks the silence. There’s an unspoken exchange between him and Yangyang, piquing your curiosity though you aren’t sure what you should be asking. You just assume it’s one of their stupid inside jokes.

“I left your gift on your table. You can add it to your dumb shoe collection,” Kunhang tells Yangyang, smiling before standing up to stretch. “I’m going to bed. Mr Kang, won’t you accompany me?”

Mr Kang gets up begrudgingly and you’re about to ask them to stay longer when Kunhang turns to you enthusiastically. “Good night, (name). Don’t have too much fun. Although, I suppose there’s no better time to have too much fun either.”

You watch with furrowed brows as the two disappear into the doorway and down the stairs. You spend a couple of moments in silence before clearing your throat. When it goes unnoticed, you turn to Yangyang despite the warmth on your face. 

“It’s not dumb,” he mutters to himself, a little zoned out.

You stare at him for a few moments and the familiar feeling rises in your throat, now with a little voice to accompany it. 

Cute.

You cough, distracting yourself with any and all thoughts you would rather have, even of the zombies. Now isn’t the time—or is it the perfect time? You shake your head, calming yourself.

“Does it… hurt?” You ask, eyeing Yangyang’s arm.

He looks up as if broken from a daze, the campfire lights still dazzling in his eyes. You hold back a laugh. He really is a child; if he’s so easily mesmerized by fires, that is.

“Probably not any worse than the lady I whack-a-mole’d. Now that must’ve hurt.” Yangyang puffs his cheek before looking straight at you.

You stare back. It’s not the weirdest thing he’s said.

“What? I feel bad beating the crap out of zombies sometimes,” he says, scratching the back of his head. 

You hum in response. The thought of Yangyang developing a conscience is almost as bad as having to think about zombies. Though, you’ll have to admit, it does give you a strange relief. Zombies can’t really feel pain—they are, after all, numb in every possible sense—but some part of you wonders if it’s alright like this. Morals and survival aren’t meant to overlap. 

You feel the need to distract yourself with something.

“Hey,” you call, moving closer to Yangyang such that your shoulders almost touch. Before you know it, you brush the hair from his face, trying to style the mess into something more neat—a thing you’ve been wanting to do since the first time you saw him. Every time you’d see the messy mop of hair at an official event of the debate club, you’d have this strong urge and an almost putrid form of annoyance. You still don’t know how he managed to get in.

“You don’t look terrible with parted hair,” you muse. “You could’ve looked more decent at the debates.”

You look down from his hair to see Yangyang frozen, eyes wide as if a deer in the headlights.

“Are- Are you not breathing?” you ask.

Yangyang sucks in a large chunk of air, fast enough to choke on it and break into a coughing fit as he turns away from you. You reach out to pat his back but he waves his hand at you, indicating he’s fine before he can turn to you.

You look at him with no particular emotion, the night breeze having worked its way to you.

“What was that about a gift? Are you and Kunhang getting things for each other without telling me?” you say, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

There's a short pause, filled with the crackling of fire.

“It’s my birthday,” Yangyang says with a small smile as the campfire lights dance across his cheeks.

And yet, the words come out sad as if he’d been waiting for an occasion to tell you. You look at him, eyes widening ever so slightly accompanied by the loss of words and take a sharp breath.

“I’m not going to ask for a gift,” Yangyang teases. “Don’t look so worried.”

You open your mouth and close it again, unable to explain the gentle wash of sadness overcome you when you see just a boy. For all the talking he does, he never asks for much. 

“I mean, I- I liked spending the day with you. Why do you look so sad? Did I say something? Again?”

You look over his features, from his brow bone to his wide eyes to his lips and the conclusion arrives as gently as the end of the world. What’s the worst that could happen?

You quickly pull him into a hug, still careful of his injury, and a vaguely embarrassing sound escapes Yangyang, something akin to a sheep’s call. He clears his throat which turns into coughing before he can wrap his arms around you, his breathing soft against your shoulder. 

“I’m- I’m alive, you know? I don’t think I’m dying any time soon. I- I can’t even get infected! You know that.”

“That’s not why I’m- I…” You pull back, steeling your eyes so you don’t feel the warmth of embarrassment. 

Just like you prepare for debates, you think to yourself. Maybe Yangyang was right about you being a zombie—the way you follow the same drudging formula.

“I like you,” you say, your words more of a strained whisper but they’re out before you know it. You can fake confidence, you tell yourself. It’s horrible timing and spending your (potentially) last days with someone who rejected you is just another way to shoot yourself in the foot.

But part of you has been wanting to do this for so long that you almost don’t mind.

Yangyang sucks in a breath, pressing his knuckles to his mouth as he straightens.

“That was- Wow. Okay. I- Uh. Wow.”

You let the heat grow stronger in your cheeks, racking your head for an explanation or even a lie. Maybe you can say it was a mistake. 

“I- I meant…” You lose track of your words. You can’t lie.

“I’ve never been confessed to,” he blurts, and if you squint, you swear you can see him blushing.

“Huh?”

Yangyang coughs again, followed by the same embarrassing sound. “That was- That was the first time.”

The silence between you is accompanied by the crackling of fire and the soft path-making of wind. You’re at a loss for words, something that you should be used to by now—they clearly belong to someone else.

“Oh my god, that was so stupid,” he says, pulling a horrified face as he frantically waves his hands about. “I meant to say I like you too but I- I guess I forgot to say it out loud. Ah, crap- I sound even stupider now, don’t I?”

Your lips twitch, trying to contain your smile but you’re seized with uncontrollable laughter anyway. The mortified expression on Yangyang’s face makes you burst into another fit of giggles before you can somewhat compose yourself.

“I think that’s the longest you’ve been quiet for,” you say in between recurring laughter. “Did anyone ever tell you being able to talk fast doesn’t get you ahead in debate clubs?”

Yangyang frowns.

“Oh, I just joined because I thought it’d get on your nerves,” he says, not a hint of jest in his voice.

You straighten away from him, the smile dropping from your face.

“You can’t be serious.”

He grins sheepishly, scratching the back of his head and offering no explanation. You huff in exasperation, getting up abruptly to avoid another oncoming headache. It’s a little difficult, considering you have the human version of it right beside you.

“Wait- Where are you going?” Yangyang scrambles up to his feet. “It’s my birthday, you know?”

You turn around and put your hands on your hips, a small smile on your face at the sight of him. “It’s midnight already.”

“Oh. How was I supposed to know?”

You laugh, shaking your head. Maybe the little rascal is special.

“Hey,” Yangyang calls. “You know, since this is the end of the world and all…”

You stare at him, heartbeat erratic at the lack of distance and despite the fading of teenage fantasies. Yangyang shifts nervously, glancing here and there while simultaneously trying to keep eye contact with you, an action which makes you hold back a chuckle. There’s a particular twinkle in his eyes but he can’t seem to be able to look at you straight.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, finally.

And what a daring end to the world it is.

[mopeytropey]

a beer buds series: chapter 10

author’s note: When I originally told my wife of the idea for this series, she immediately suggested an entire rewrite of 'a pleasant undoing' but told from Lexa's perspective. So I'm counting chapters 9 and 10 as honoring her wishes. The continuation of this series will reprise our almost strictly Lincoln + Lexa formula, but I'm not naive enough to think that at least 99% of you weren't going into this also hoping for some premium Clarke + Lexa content. (Forgive me for the deviation ... and the smut)

Timeline: essentially, we're just picking up where chapter 9 left off ...

Beer: Lil’ Heaven: Two Roads Brewing (Stratford, CT) SESSION IPA

Made with three exotic hops - Azacca, Mosaic and Equinox. Taste is of tropical fruits, specifically passion fruit, grapefruit and apricots. Finishes with just enough toasted malt character to balance.

ABV 4.8%

Posted on AO3 here, or below the cut: 

:::

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

“I saw you two days ago.” Lexa affectionately rolls her eyes, nevertheless smiling while accepting an exaggerated hug from Lincoln as if they are reuniting after a long separation. 

“Work doesn’t count. You’ve been completely off the radar for a week, socially speaking.” 

They’ve met for an impromptu breakfast at a local diner not far from Lexa’s apartment. She’s back in her neighborhood for practicality reasons, having left the idyllic bubble of Clarke’s bedroom in order to do some loads of laundry. But, it’s also a nice excuse to see her friend. 

Lincoln has already procured them steaming cups of coffee and a pair of red vinyl stools at the breakfast counter that faces the busy griddle top. He is grinning at her as they sit, awaiting her response. 

“I’ve just been … busy,” she says, not even able to curb the bashful smile that follows as she removes her coat and hat.

Lexa pretends not to blush, knowing full well her time spent with Clarke has superseded any other social obligations as they have begun a long overdue exploration of new and exciting facets of their relationship. 

Namely sex. A good portion of her week has, in fact, been absorbed by unspeakably good sex. 

“Uh-huh,” Lincoln laughs warmly. “I wasn’t even sure you two had remembered how to physically separate at this point. Thought maybe Clarke would be joining us as well based solely on the fact that you two haven’t surfaced for anything other than work responsibilities in a full week.” 

Lexa sips her coffee through a growing grin to prolong any acknowledgement of Lincoln’s playful accusation. 

“Morning, hon’.” A familiar waitress says in passing, leaving two menus beside Lincoln’s coffee cup. “Let me know when you’re ready to order.” 

“Thanks, Helen,” Lexa smiles. It’s not often that she indulges in big breakfast meals, preferring her protein smoothies or avocado toast, but Lexa has nevertheless fallen into a routine of frequenting the diner as a way of establishing new roots. 

In her old Brooklyn borough it had been the Chilo’s taco bar where she and Anya would meet every Friday to decompress from the work week over carnitas tacos and cheap beer. In her new portside life in Massachusetts, it’s Angie’s Diner. The coffee is palatable, at best, but the atmosphere is welcoming and Lexa has always enjoyed seeing familiar faces when forced to dine alone. Helen’s gruff, New England endearments in a seasoned, smoker’s voice, have consistently been a comforting presence. 

When the woman shuffles off to tend to the other, early morning diners, Lexa turns to see Lincoln still watching her expectantly. “Clarke had some tasks at Dockside to attend to, and I really need clean clothes.” 

“And, you’re functioning okay in her absence? Breathing okay and everything?” 

Lexa laughs at his continued teasing, but easily concedes to an honest answer. So much uninterrupted time spent in Clarke’s company, sharing the myriad truths about their feelings, has apparently begun to bleed into her other relationships as well. 

Lexa has almost always been able to leave herself unguarded in Lincoln’s presence anyway. 

“I’m probably more dysfunctional when she’s around, actually.” 

Lincoln stifles a laugh around a sip of his coffee. “That sounds like a fair assessment. Everything’s going as well as expected then?”

“Yeah, it’s—” Lexa tries, and instantly fails, not to picture Clarke lathered and laughing in the shower while Lexa fights to stand beneath the warm, steaming spray; Clarke pressing her against the kitchen countertops with hands roaming while the coffee steeps; Clarke cuddling into her on the sofa with the lights dim and the TV volume low “—it’s been really good.” 

“Oh no.”

“What?” Lexa smiles unsurely, eyes widening at Lincoln’s grave expression.

“What’s with the hesitation?”

“What hesitation? I did not hesitate.” 

“I know that hesitation.” Lincoln narrows his gaze at her, dark eyes assessing for signs of Lexa’s concession. “What are you in your head about now?” 

She really needs to stop associating with people who can read her like a book. 

“Okay, fine,” Lexa exhales. She flips open the worn menu, its once glossy, laminate pages now dulled from years of loyal patronage. “I’m just adjusting to the intensity of it all.” 

“You’ve made a major life change. Totally normal to feel overwhelmed,” Lincoln shrugs. 

“I know. You’re right. I haven’t even slept at my apartment in almost a week.”

“And, this is somehow a bad thing?” Lincoln laughs. 

“No, I have absolutely zero complaints,” Lexa clarifies. “But, we’re spending literally all of our free time together—and portions of our work days, too.”    

Lincoln chuckles after another sip of coffee. “Also totally normal. In the beginning, Octavia used to impose all of these ridiculous sleepover schedules—like, spending three nights a week together is the maximum, or whatever—only to completely abandon her own, dumb rule and would end up sleeping at mine for weeks at a time.” Lincoln thinks better of it a second later and warns, “Don’t ever tell her I told you that.” 

The legitimate fear she can see in his eyes makes her laugh, and suddenly she doesn’t feel quite so overwhelmed. “I’ve always considered it wise not to let on that I know just how obsessed Octavia is with you.”  

“Smart woman,” Lincoln winks. “So, other than acclimating to new sleeping arrangements, what is it that’s stressing you out? You think you’re spending too much time together?” 

“That’s the thing—I like being able to be with Clarke as much as possible. This past week, spending time with her, I’ve felt calmer and happier and more settled than I have in ages.”

Lincoln smiles so warmly, Lexa can feel it in her chest. “Don’t you think Clarke feels exactly the same way?”

“I’m pretty confident that Clarke enjoys having me around, yes. It’s not like she’s trying to kick me out of her house or anything yet.” 

“But?” 

“But, I keep wondering what the long-term implications are. Because the way that everything is changing between us: it feels … significant.” 

“Yeah. That’s because you’re in l—”

Lexa looks away with a groan that drowns out the rest of Lincoln’s statement, rubbing a hand against her forehead. “Oh my god, please stop saying that.” 

“Okay, okay,” Lincoln laughs. And then, after a moment while clearing his throat, he not-so-subtly reiterates: “But, you are.” 

Lexa studiously ignores any truth in Lincoln’s playful accusation and further expounds, “I guess if anything is stressing me out, it’s not knowing if Clarke is experiencing something similar to what I am right now.”

“Knowing Clarke like I do, and having had the pleasure of a front row seat to all of this from day one, I can confidently assure you that she is right there with you. That being said, have you ever considered—I don’t know—asking her yourself instead of sitting here having a hypothetical conversation about it with me?”    

“I do plan to speak with her about this,” Lexa assures an openly skeptical Lincoln. “I do.”

“I mean, you’re in the first week of a new relationship, Lex. I get it. That is usually not time that’s predominantly spent talking.” 

Lexa is saved from her sudden flush of embarrassment by the return of their waitress, Helen, who kindly disregards the red tint on Lexa’s cheeks as she orders her scrambled eggs and rye toast. 

“The point is,” Lincoln continues once their orders have been placed, “you guys have this really solid and established friendship going into this thing. In my experience, that can sort of push you ahead at a faster clip than you’re probably accustomed to in relationships.” He drains his coffee, placing it back onto the counter with a dull clink. “So, what would make you feel better about the rate at which you and Clarke are headed?”

Lincoln has a uniquely comforting way of simplifying Lexa’s life. He’s so genuine and forthcoming, and she could hug him again for all his supportive logic. Instead, she takes a deep breath to clear her head and pledges to hug him later. 

“I want to be up front with her about where I see this going, to determine whether or not she and I are on the same page. I want her to know that I’m—”

“—in love with her?” Lincoln grins. 

Lexa punches him, with unintentional force, and regrets it only when Helen—a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper curls and kind eyes—glances at them in mild concern as she refills their coffee. “I would ask if he’s bothering you, hon’, but I have a feeling you’re more than capable of handling yourself.” 

“Don’t worry, I deserved that,” Lincoln assures their waitress, laughing at Lexa’s menacing scowl while rubbing his arm. 

“I was going to say, I want Clarke to know that I’m not interested in dating anyone else.” 

“Oh, right, right,” Lincoln nods, still smiling. “See, I just keep forgetting you two haven’t already been dating exclusively for, like, six months.” 

“Why do I hang out with you again?” 

For all her feigned exasperation, she is instantly wrapped up in an embrace, not unlike an older brother might lovingly harass his younger sibling. “Because you love me.” He pulls her in closely for a monstrous hug—right there at the diner counter—despite Lexa’s sharp elbow to his abdomen as she playfully fights against the forced affection. 

:::

Clarke emerges from her silver Saab just as Lexa ambles across the snow-dusted gravel of the marina, icy rocks crunching beneath her boots. Cars are parked at odd, misfitted angles wherever they can find space between the boats set up on large blocks in their bright white winter wrappings. Clarke is wearing her plaid scarf and bulky winter parka, and Lexa’s chest tightens with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation at seeing her again after a short span apart. 

“You should have let me pick you up,” Clarke says by way of a greeting. 

“It’s not a bad walk from my apartment.” 

Their breaths dissipate in the air between them after briefly appearing in frozen clouds. Lexa can feel her teeth about to chatter because the air on the water is properly freezing, but she attributes the chill along her spine to the nervous energy of being near Clarke. 

Clarke’s gaze narrows in judgement. “Stubborn.” 

“Those in glass houses,” Lexa counters, arching her brow in a way that brings that pleasant tint of blush to Clarke’s cheeks. 

It could very well be the wind; except Lexa knows that it isn’t. 

“Okay can we further reprimand each other once we’re inside where it’s warm?”

Clarke’s gloved hand wraps around her coat sleeve and tugs until they are both headed towards the blue front door of the coffee shop. A welcomed gush of warm air envelopes them instantly, and Lexa’s skin begins to tingle where the harsh winds had chilled her face. There isn’t much of a line, nor is the shop crowded with other people. The moderately-sized open room is sparse with patrons, enjoying their steaming drinks under natural lighting and softly playing music. 

It’s been six days—not that Lexa has been meticulously keeping track, but it’s been six days—of near-constant kissing and unrestrained touch; of perpetual orgasms and an intentionally precise exploration of Clarke’s body; of general sensory overload when it comes to redefining her relationship with her best friend. Hardly a week has transpired since they began testing the waters of this mutual attraction, which has nevertheless consumed Lexa entirely. 

Maybe it’s only been six days, an insignificant length of time under normal circumstances, but it feels much more weighted than that. 

Between the kissing and the touching and the orgasms, nevermind the sudden influx of unveiled honesty, she can hardly keep her head above water. Her mind hasn’t stopped spinning since that first kiss on Clarke’s doorstep, and she’s only slightly concerned with contracting vertigo if they don’t stop and address what is happening between them sooner rather than later. Lexa needs to sit in a familiar, public space in the light of day with her best friend to discuss the implications on their relationship as it progresses at full tilt. 

Lincoln’s advice rings in her ears as they enter the shop: just talk to Clarke. 

“Hey, strangers!” A barista greets them happily as she and Clarke approach the cash register. Her name slips from Lexa’s memory, but Clarke returns her greeting for them both. 

“Hey, Morgan.”

“Oh my god, I thought you two got lost at sea or something. We haven’t seen you in ages.” Morgan is young, perhaps just out of college, with bright pink hair and a septum piercing. 

Clarke’s head shifts so that she can give Lexa a strange look, which Lexa promptly returns before offering a brief smile. “Oh, um, yeah. Just busy during the holidays,” Clarke answers. 

Lexa gives her order and Clarke pays, brushing off Lexa’s insistence on paying her share. In seven months, if she’s learned anything, it is not to question Clarke’s generosity. They move to a deserted sofa beside an old wood stove fireplace to wait for their drinks and begin removing their coats and hats. Lexa’s toes begin to tingle and thaw within her leather boots as the heat from the fire permeates. 

The harborside shop is the same as always: natural light streaming through the windows facing the water; a smattering of locally produced art hanging on brightly colored walls; and, a handful of other patrons sitting in mismatched furniture with computers or paperbacks. Everything is the same, except for her and Clarke. 

They sit closely, quickly finding small, innocuous points of contact. Clarke tucks into one end of the sofa so that her knees rest gently against Lexa’s legs. Their hands seek touch as the barista delivers their drinks, separating only briefly to accept the steaming mugs and offer their gratitude. Once Morgan leaves them to attend other customers, Lexa falls into the comfort of their secluded, sun-drenched pocket of the shop. 

“It’s so cold outside. I think my feet are still thawing.”

“It feels nice in here,” Lexa responds, smiling because Clarke inches closer to her anyway and she was only outside for under two minutes as it is. 

Lexa senses a buzzing from her coat where it sits beside her and reaches into one of its deep pockets to check her phone. A text from Lincoln confirms their plans to meet up later for drinks. She types a quick, one-handed response before replacing her phone and returning her full attention to Clarke.

“Lincoln,” she explains, although Clarke doesn’t look poised to ask.

“Does he miss you already?”

Lexa laughs, shaking her head. “No, he’s not nearly as codependent as you.” 

Clarke attempts to withdraw her fingers from where they are slotted between Lexa’s, but Lexa tightens her grasp with a widening grin at Clarke’s dropped jaw and feigned affront. 

“Are you still hanging out later?”

“Yeah, he was just confirming the time.” Lexa’s thumb smooths across the back of Clarke’s hand in a slow, repetitive arch. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Clarke shakes her head firmly. “No, this is your sacred time together—I can’t encroach on that.”

“It’s beers and appetizers, Clarke. I wouldn’t call it sacred.”  

Clarke’s eyes widen dramatically. “I’m gonna tell him you said that.”

The empty threat makes Lexa smile again. They’ve always had a particular talent for banter, and the added layer of their recent sexual experiences makes it all the more delightful to trade taunts and harmless barbs. 

“How was your laundry adventure?” Clarke asks while reaching for her coffee, and Lexa smirks.

“Thrilling.”

Despite her instincts to stay within reach of Clarke at all times as much as physically possible, there is also the issue of personal hygiene. In this case, it was Lexa’s growing pile of clothes that needed attending. 

“And breakfast with Lincoln?”  

She can’t tell Clarke how she is actually reconsidering a lifelong friendship with Lincoln because he had spent a majority of the morning brutally teasing her. To reveal that would require Lexa to also elaborate on his specific proclamations about her feelings for Clarke. 

And so, Lexa tells her, “It was good.”  

“You can always do laundry at mine, you know.” 

“Is this just another ploy to keep me tethered to your house for longer intervals?”

An exasperated look flashes across Clarke’s face while she swallows down a mouthful of steaming coffee. “Yes. Have you not been paying attention at all over the past week?” 

Lexa swallows through a grin of her own. There’s really only one, notable thing they’ve been engaged in over the past week, and to think of it now has Lexa’s face warming as she becomes acutely aware of Clarke’s proximity in a public space. 

“I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.” 

Light laughter escapes her as Lexa’s right hand fiddles the ribbing of Clarke’s sweater between her fingers. She is dressed in something off-white and oversized that cuts at a low vee below her neck so that Lexa’s eyes begin to wander to its shadowed opening. It’s a sweater she remembers from the time before—when all of Lexa’s cultivated interest in Clarke (including her wardrobe) was something unspoken and dutifully ignored. 

Lexa remembers that Clarke had been dressed for a dinner at her mother’s house, and Lexa had been granted a chance encounter for quick minutes in which they danced around a thrumming attraction. She can feel it sparking in the air between them now, their pocket of relative privacy threatening to implode from the calculated looks Clarke is giving her. 

“Busy week?” she further teases, eyeing Lexa’s blush over the rim of her coffee mug as she takes another sip. 

Lexa purses her lips and narrows her gaze at Clarke’s self-satisfaction. “Exactly how much joy does it bring you to torture me?”   

“So much,” Clarke laughs. She slips her fingers between Lexa’s so that they are loosely held together. “But only because you’re so adorable when you’re exasperated.” 

“Flattery is supposed to absolve you?”

“Obviously.” Clarke rolls her eyes, bringing Lexa’s fingers to her mouth and brushing them quickly with a kiss. 

With affections such as this, Lexa would forgive her of almost anything. 

“So,” Clarke says through a sigh while bringing their joined hands to rest again on her knee. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Now that Clarke has given her the floor, Lexa practically swallows her tongue in nervous vacillation. She had strategized a few, well-devised talking points during the process of cleaning her clothes, not to mention procuring some sound advice from Lincoln over breakfast, but sitting here in front of Clarke has made Lexa forget how to string together words and phrases to construct complete thoughts. 

In a desperate attempt to find her resolve, she reaches for the cup of english black tea she’d ordered. Lexa takes her first sip, wishing she’d asked for a pinch more sugar but nevertheless hoping it will soothe her racing thoughts. 

“I just wanted to … check in.” 

Pathetically underwhelming start. Lincoln would be so disappointed. She takes another sip that is more like a gulp. 

Clarke nods slowly. “Okay.” 

“About us.”

“Okay,” Clarke repeats, her smile looking apprehensive at best. 

“Our friendship has evolved significantly over the past week, and rapidly, at that. I just thought we should—” Lexa wavers and Clarke comes to her rescue.

“Check in?” 

“Yeah,” Lexa nods.

“Okay. Are you—are you feeling okay about everything?” 

Lexa begins to tangle her fingers around Clarke’s more fervently. “Things with you are almost too good.”

Clarke’s smile changes instantly, full and bright and genuinely pleased. “I feel the same. I’m actually feeling incredibly, fucking lucky, to put a finer point on it.” 

“Good,” Lexa smiles, exhaling a modicum of relief. “I do too.” 

“Oh my god, you had me scared.” Clarke leans back into the couch, dislodging their hands to run her fingers through her hair. “I thought you were going to say you want to date other people or something.” 

“What? No.” Lexa’s breath has been lost to a vacuum of panic so that her ask is hardly audible. “Do you?”

“No! No. I’ve dated, Lexa. I’ve dated plenty,” Clarke laughs lightly, reaching for a surer hold on Lexa’s fingers. “But, you—I mean, you’re single for the first time in over three years. You must have thought about it.” 

Not single, Lexa says to herself before thinking better of it and rephrasing aloud:

“Clarke, I could date a hundred women and none of them would be you.”

“Yes, I am fairly certain I’ve yet to be cloned.”

“Are you going to stop being a smartass so I can say this?” Lexa smiles in mock irritation. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Clarke pinches her lips together, attentive. “Continue.” 

“What I mean is, no one else would compare. I’ve never met anyone like you—this connection I feel with you, I’ve never experienced anything like it.” Lexa takes a breath, licking her lips before forging onward. “I can’t say where this is going, but I can say, unquestionably, that I have no interest in dating anyone else for the foreseeable future.” 

The words leave her in a rush of honesty. It feels like she’s said too much too soon, but Clarke leans forward with a smile and Lexa interprets the gentle press of her lips as having said exactly the right thing. 

“Do you think we can take these drinks to-go and finish this conversation elsewhere?” Clarke’s voice is pitched low and seductive, and Lexa senses a chill tingling at the back of her neck. 

She resolves to stop doubting her honesty, if also to reconsider hanging out with Clarke in public spaces for a while until they can get their rampant sexual urges under control long enough to enjoy a cup of tea. 

“Did you have a specific location in mind?” she grins in response as if the gleam in Clarke’s eyes isn’t a clear enough indication. 

:::

Part 2

:::

The sex is consistently noteworthy, and Lexa had never really doubted that she and Clarke would be compatible in that way, but so is the intimacy alongside it. Lexa has never before distinguished between the two so markedly. But, with Clarke, the intimacy is so distinct. When she is coming around Clarke’s fingers, letting her watch the strains of pleasure in her face and shoulders, Lexa registers the vulnerability of being caught in Clarke’s gaze as an orgasm ricochets through her. 

Ordinarily, a week into any new relationship and Lexa would still be clinging to well-practiced safeguards. She would be withholding some parts of herself for safekeeping and ultimate preservation should things go sideways. 

But, not with Clarke. 

She likes that Clarke watches her so carefully. The way that she feels when held by Clarke’s gaze is a kind of certain safety that Lexa hasn’t known before. She kisses Clarke fully, holding nothing back as the pulsating aftershocks of her orgasm begin to ebb. When Clarke slowly removes her fingers, Lexa bites Clarke’s lip, swallowing the soft moan that follows.  

“Does this mean you want to be exclusive?” Lexa asks, still breathless, when their lips have parted. 

She feels Clarke’s laughter against her face before she’s being kissed again. “Yes, you idiot.” 

“Good. Because I want to take you out.” 

“Tonight?”

“Not tonight. It’s going to require some planning. I’d like it to be a proper date.” 

Clarke’s elation is instantly visible. “Okay. I’m going to be honest, I’m highly intrigued to find out what a proper Lexa date looks like.” 

Lexa kisses her again and considers, not for the first time, if she’ll be able to stop now that she’s started. Clarke’s warm tongue and soft lips are now vital to Lexa’s existence. She craves the sensation of their mouths sliding together at random intervals throughout her days. 

“Kissing you has not been a disappointment,” she says, bringing more of Clarke’s bright laughter as they shift their limbs to reposition against the mattress.

Clarke’s leg wraps around her waist as Lexa brushes stray hair from Clarke’s face where they now lay facing side-by-side. “Oh, my god, I’ll second that. I knew you would be a good kisser.”

“Did you?” Lexa smiles at the confession. She likes that Clarke had thought of her in similar ways. She had not been the only one lost in questionably scandalous daydreams over the course of their friendship. 

“Yes. I may have thought about it, once or twice.” 

“I had a pretty good feeling about your talents as well.” 

It’s such a simple, shared admission that nevertheless makes Lexa’s heart trip in its rhythm. “And now, I think about it constantly.”

For that, she is rewarded with another press of Clarke’s lips. “Me too. I’m pretty sure I’m regressing into a terrible excuse for a restaurant manager as a result of constant distraction.” 

“And the bar for your professionalism was already set so low as it is.” 

“Hey!” For that she gets a finger plunged sharply between her ribs, and Lexa squirms away from Clarke’s violent tickling. 

“I’m kidding. You are an elite and respected paragon of your field.” 

“You’re damn right I am,” Clarke affirms with pride. 

“Honestly, I was so lost in thought the other day, I dropped a six pack on my foot.”

“Lexa!” Clarke laughs, kissing Lexa again anyway. “Oh no.”

“No permanent damage,” Lexa smiles. “Can I tell you what else I really like?”

Clarke could not look more delighted. “Yes, please.”

“I really like your sweater.” 

“Wait—which sweater?”

Lexa props up onto an elbow, separating their warm skin as she casts her eyes around the room before locating the sweater in question. It sits near the foot of the bed where it had been discarded moments before. “That one,” she says. “It looks really good on you.” 

Clarke seems both surprised and amused by the compliment. “Come here.” 

Lexa allows herself to be pulled closer when Clarke wraps both hands around the back of her neck and their limbs slot back into place. They kiss lazily as if time doesn’t exist while Lexa’s hands begin to drift along the pathways she has started to chart across Clarke’s skin.

“I like seeing you in such a good mood,” Clarke eventually tells her. 

“The effect of midafternoon orgasms cannot be underrated.” The frank sentiment makes Clarke laugh again as she rests their foreheads together and begins smoothing over Lexa’s skin with the tips of her fingers. “Also, I like being able to tell you things—things I wouldn’t have been able to say before.”

“I like when you tell me things.” Clarke tucks a strand of loose curls around Lexa’s ear. “Anything else in that busy head of yours you feel like sharing?”

Three words ring prominently in Lexa’s ears, and she fully blames Lincoln’s stupid taunting for the sentiment being at the forefront of her mind. It has nothing to do with the soft, swirling blue of Clarke’s eyes, or the subtle tilt of her mouth, or the fact that Lexa has memorized the sound of Clarke’s laugh. She swallows roughly and presses her lips to Clarke’s, sealing the unspoken words between them for good measure. 

She instead tells Clarke a different truth, “I’m feeling much better since we talked.” 

“I’m glad,” Clarke smiles. “I feel better, too.” She runs a hand down Lexa’s arm, finding her fingers. 

“I was sort of anxious to say anything,” Lexa admits, feeling brave while cocooned in Clarke’s bed despite her earlier insecurities. She had worried, yet again, about saying too much. There was always the risk of Clarke pulling away if Lexa revealed too much. “I spent at least two days debating with myself.” 

Clarke’s exaggerated surprise results in Lexa’s quiet giggles. “No, you did? You tortured yourself for days with unnecessary internal debates? That is highly out-of-character, Lexa.”

“You really are a lot more like Lincoln than I ever realized.” 

Clarke’s laughter somehow brings them closer together, and Lexa shifts her legs where they are staggered between Clarke’s. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And, I’m glad you finally talked to me about this. I mean, I wasn’t totally expecting you to propose in the way that you did, but—” 

“Clarke.” Lexa buries her face into the pillow and clenches her eyes to stave off her creeping mortification. So much for embracing her honesty.  

Of course, Clarke is endlessly humored by watching Lexa suffer and only continues her assault on Lexa’s heartfelt admission. “I mean, correct me if I’m misquoting, but you said: ‘for the foreseeable future,’ which basically translates into asking me to date you, but like, forever.” 

“Oh my god,” Lexa mumbles, her face still pressed into the soft cotton of Clarke’s pillowcase. 

Clarke is not deterred by Lexa’s mounting humiliation, pressing kisses full of laughter into her neck and shoulder until Lexa finally turns to face her. Using the leverage of her leg wrapped around Lexa’s hips, Clarke has since wrestled her onto her back. 

“See?” she says, running an index finger down the slope of Lexa’s nose and effectively smoothing the furrow of embarrassment between her eyebrows. “So adorable.” 

It’s hard to keep hold of her ire when Clarke is naked above her and straddling her hips. Perhaps Clarke knows this as well because even as she shifts imperceptibly, Lexa feels it straight through her core. Her hands come to rest on the tops of Clarke’s thighs, and though she senses a residual scowl tugging at her lips, most of her regret for being too honest has faded. 

“I’m sorry for making fun,” Clarke says while her thumbs rub circular patterns on Lexa’s ribs. 

Lexa has never seen anyone look less apologetic in her life. “I would be more inclined to believe you if you weren’t actively trying not to laugh.” 

“No, no, I’m serious,” Clarke reiterates, although she is fully laughing now. She clears her throat, aiming valiantly for composure. “What you said was so sweet, and, I mean, in case you couldn’t tell, I sort of plan on dating you for a really long time, too.” 

Lexa fights her own smile rather poorly. “Well, that’s very convenient.” 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Clarke nods. 

It’s the perfect segue into more unrestrained fondling, more languid kisses, and Clarke seems to be on the same wavelength as she leans her weight onto her hands and begins to roll her hips. It’s easier falling into this rhythm when for six days they have perpetually cycled the same routine: intimate talks bookended by multiple orgasms that are interspersed with brief intervals reserved for sleep and nourishment. 

Lexa gasps into their first kiss from their well-timed movements—the feeling of them sliding together in that way has a heated sensation building quick and low. Just the pressure of Clarke on top of her and the way her slow, purposed movements are hitting Lexa in the all the right spots, has her close to a second orgasm in minutes.

She can hear Clarke’s breathing accelerate as well, the forced puffs of air through her nose that Lexa feels against her cheeks as their kisses grow more urgent. Clarke’s hand moves first, skating down Lexa’s abdomen as she lifts her hips to slide her fingers towards Lexa’s clit. It’s been no more than twenty minutes since her last orgasm, but Lexa’s body instantly responds to the circulating pressure of Clarke’s fingers moving against her. 

They are still figuring things out, learning how the other responds to physical arousal, but this—Clarke on top of her, easily working her towards climax with deft fingers and filthy, open-mouth kisses—will do the trick every, single time. Lexa could probably come with much less stimulation at this point, when brushing touches while fully clothed are sometimes too much for her to function. Never mind the visual currently hovering over her—Clarke’s bouncing chest, grinding hips, and blown pupils. An image of her fingers sunk into Clarke in this position is enough to send Lexa over the edge. Her back arches off the mattress as the orgasm rolls up her spine, and Lexa catches her breath only after Clarke starts kissing her again. 

A familiar dilemma has Lexa torn between using her hands or her mouth as the tingling sensations of her own orgasm have barely begun to fade. In the end, her urgency to feel Clarke’s arousal, and see it to completion, has Lexa moving a hand between their bodies to slide eager fingers into Clarke’s folds. There will always be time later to bury her face between Clarke’s legs. 

Her breath always stutters at that first touch—it’s slick and warm and Clarke groans appreciatively when Lexa extends two fingers just as Clarke sinks onto Lexa’s hand. That she is open and intimate with Clarke in a way she never thought possible has not fully registered as her new reality, and for a brief second, Lexa’s mind goes blank. 

In another breath, Lexa shifts, guiding Clarke to change her position just enough that she can take one of Clarke’s nipples into her mouth. The quick suction and slow laps of her tongue produce a groan from Clarke that Lexa will be thinking about days later. 

“Fuck, Lexa,” Clarke pants, her hips now thrusting quicker against Lexa’s hand, pressing harder against her fingers as they slide in an out. 

Clarke’s arms shift, palms flat against the mattress on either side of Lexa’s head where she is still holding her weight. 

“Are your arms getting tired? Do you want to switch positions?” Lexa absently moves her hand that had been massaging one of Clarke’s breasts to lightly hold her bicep. 

“No.” Clarke smiles and kisses her softly, in direct contrast to the way she is currently riding Lexa’s fingers. “You’re very sweet, but I’m good.” 

“Okay, good. Because I’m really appreciating this view,” Lexa grins, moving her hand again to swipe a thumb across Clarke’s nipple. 

“Do you think you can—”

She doesn’t let Clarke finish, relying instead on her still-developing intuitions, and takes the other nipple into her mouth. 

“Yes, fuck.” 

Lexa celebrates her victory of predicting Clarke’s needs by altering the position of her hand to reach Clarke’s clit with her thumb, the result of which has Clarke nearly collapsing onto her as her elbows buckle and her hips jerk forward. Lexa finds a well-practiced rhythm after that and works Clarke all the way to climax until the movement of her hips becomes erratic and she is no longer able to string together coherent profanity. 

The comedown is soft and fun, quiet giggles and breathless kisses. Clarke collapses onto the mattress beside her, arms and legs finally relieved of their tension, and Lexa curls onto her side so that she can rest a hand onto Clarke’s stomach where she lies flat on her back. 

Lexa is so content, she feels like her body might levitate in a boneless mass above the bed. Clarke’s breathing is still coming to rest, and Lexa watches her hand rise and fall with each inhale and exhale. 

Into the greying stillness of the bedroom, Clarke asks, “Hey, what time are you supposed to meet Lincoln?” 

The serenity Lexa had felt shatters in an instant. “Oh shit!” She flails about for a moment in search of her phone, having completely forgotten about her plans. “What time is it?”

She locates her phone before Clarke can answer. It’s already half past three, and Lexa’s stomach plummets. The text from Lincoln says: where you at?

“Are you late?” Clarke has come to sit behind her where Lexa’s legs hang off the mattress near the bedside table where she’d found her phone. Lexa feels soft kisses against her shoulderblade. “What did he say?” 

Below Lincoln’s text is a picture of two full pints of beer sitting on a bar counter. She holds her phone at an angle so that Clarke can see Lincoln’s texts. 

Lexa runs a hand through her hair as her heart hammers from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “Shit.” 

More than the shame of accidentally standing up one of her closest friends, Lexa dreads the fallout of this enormous misstep because Lincoln is never going to let her live this down. Worse yet, there is a good chance that he’ll share the story with Anya, which will mean, essentially, Lexa can never again return home. 

“Why don’t you get dressed and go? I can drop you off,” Clarke offers sweetly, still pressing reassuring kisses along her back. 

“I’m going to ask him if we can reschedule,” Lexa decides. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Lexa answers, turning her head to smile at Clarke over her shoulder. “I don’t

really feel like putting on pants at the moment.” 

Clarke kisses her shoulder cap and grins in return. “You’ll get no argument from me there.” 

“Let me give him a call really quickly.” Lexa reaches for a shirt on the floor—something of Clarke’s she’d worn to bed the night before—and stands to slip it over her head. Something about calling a close friend while completely naked and still coming down from an orgasm makes her slightly uncomfortable.   

“Take your time,” Clarke tells her, also rising from the unkept sheets and blankets to pull her hair back into its messy bun. “I’m going to go downstairs and reheat our drinks from earlier.” She tugs at the hem of Lexa’s tee shirt and places a kiss at the corner of her mouth on her way to the bathroom. “Do you want a snack, too?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Lexa grins, following after Clarke’s lips as she starts to move away. A soft hold on her wrist is enough encouragement for Clarke to lean up into another kiss, reminding Lexa just how shaky her legs still feel from their exertions in bed. Perhaps sustenance to replenish her blood sugar is necessary instead of relying solely on a steady drip of oxytocins. 

Lexa appreciates the view of Clarke’s retreating backside even in the fading light of the bedroom as the sun has started to move towards the horizon. She runs a hand through her wild curls and exhales, preparing to make her phone call while perched on the edge of the mattress.

Lincoln answers on the first ring. “Hey, buddy. Did you get lost?”

“Something like that,” Lexa says. “Clarke and I went for coffee, and then I sort of … lost track of time.”

“Say no more,” Lincoln laughs. “It’s your turn to ditch me for a girl now, right? I hope the sex was worth it.” 

The fact that she is wearing nothing more than a thin tee shirt has Lexa covering her face with her hand. “Lincoln, I didn’t—” 

His laughter persists, and Lexa wonders how loud it must be within the confines of the bar. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s totally fine. Honestly, I’d be more upset if you weren’t standing me up for time with Clarke right now.” 

“I’m really sorry, Linc. I can be down there in like fifteen minutes.” 

“Don’t you dare.” For the first time since he’s answered the call, Lincoln’s voice takes on a serious tone. “I swear to god, if you show up here, I’m frogmarching your ass right back to Clarke’s house.” 

“Okay, fine,” Lexa laughs. “Let’s hang out early next week though. Beers on me.” 

“Don’t even worry about it. I’m serious. I actually ran into some people from the gym plus the rep from Two Roads is here doing a tasting—I’m good, I promise.” 

“I’m going to make this up to you,” Lexa reiterates. Despite Lincoln’s assurances, her guilt does not fully dissipate. 

Clarke chooses this moment to step out of the bathroom, wearing just as much clothing as when she’d gone in, and Lexa’s brain lags at the sight. Her expression seems to be asking if everything is okay, and Lexa smiles in response. 

“Lex, would you stop? Tell Clarke I said hi, and I’ll see you at work on Monday. Oh, hey, ask her if she’s tried the new session IPA from Two Roads. It’s intensely enjoyable.” 

“Okay. I will.” She smiles up at Clarke, who has stopped to stand in front of her after slipping into a tee shirt and sweatpants. Lexa’s hand settles on Clarke’s hip like a magnet snapping into place. “Clarke says hi, too.”

“Sorry, Lincoln!” Clarke says, projecting her voice towards the receiver while tucking strands of curls behind Lexa’s ear. “It’s all my fault.”   

There is more laughter down the line before Lincoln reiterates that everything is fine and he could never actually be angry with either of them. 

:::

“So, since when do you source your unhealthy caffeine intake from elsewhere?”

“Huh?” Clarke smiles. 

They’ve taken up seats at Clarke’s kitchen island with their reheated drinks from the coffee shop and Clarke’s version of a snack: smoked turkey and cheddar sandwiches on toasted potato rolls with homemade aioli. 

They’re both wearing slightly altered versions of the same outfit—soft tee shirts and loose sweatpants, Clarke’s cut off into shorts so that Lexa’s fingers are continuously tempted to trail across all of the exposed skin within reach. 

She sips her tea and returns Clarke’s smile. 

“The barista at the coffee shop seemed shocked to see you,” she clarifies. “Don’t you practically pay rent there by spending so much of your time buying their coffee?” 

For a brief moment, Clarke can’t seem to find her voice. She practically chokes on her sandwich, taking longer than expected to swallow her first bite. Lexa raises an eyebrow expectantly as their drinks emit swirling strands of steam into the air between them. 

“I—I could ask you the same,” Clarke volleys back, not unkindly, as she dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin and reaches for her coffee. “Morgan seemed just as surprised to see you there.” 

Lexa bites her lip and looks away. She had asked out of genuine curiosity and confusion, and now it seems yet another bout of confessions is forthcoming. 

She clears her throat. “Do you have any beer, actually?” 

Clarke laughs lightly before shifting her expression into something like mild offense. 

“Um, hi. My entire existence is practically centered around craft beer—do you even know me?” 

“Right,” Lexa laughs. “Stupid question. Would you like one?”

“Again: do you even know me?”

Lexa starts to slide off her stool with a bright smile that belies the low buzz of nerves she is withstanding as an unspoken conversation simmers between them. Clarke is dislodging their legs from where they had sat in a close tangle at the island. “Stay,” she directs her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll get them.” 

Once Lexa has pulled open the fridge door, she turns to look at Clarke over her shoulder. “Do you have a preference? Lincoln was asking if you’d tried the new IPA from Two Roads.” 

“Are you actively avoiding answering my question by distracting me with beer inquiries?” 

Lexa pinches her lips together to ward off a sheepish admission, and Clarke rolls her eyes affectionately. “Look on the left hand side, bottom shelf.” 

Lexa ducks down to retrieve two brightly colored cans of IPA before closing the fridge door and returning to the island. “Not to split hairs, but technically, you avoided my question first.” 

“Okay, fine,” Clarke sighs dramatically. She takes one last dreg from her coffee before shoving it away in favor of the can of beer Lexa has just opened for her. “I was—” Clarke actually ducks her head so that Lexa can see her thick eyelashes fluttering “—I was afraid I would run into you during the, uh, when we—”

“Broke up?” Lexa supplies. She is still holding a small smile for Clarke when blue eyes finally snap up to meet hers. 

It had felt like that. A relationship ending—a significant one at that. And, Lexa had been left broken in the aftermath. 

“I was going to say when we stopped talking,” Clarke continues. “But, it was more than that. It did feel like a break up. And, we didn’t decide anything—I cut communications all on my own.” 

“Clarke—”

“I’m really sorry, Lexa.” 

Lexa is already shaking her head, part disbelief at what she’s hearing, part exasperation that Clarke has mistakenly absorbed all of the blame. 

“Clarke, I know you have this bizarre obsession with always being right, but I can assure you—what happened in November was all on me.”

“I just vanished, Lexa. I didn’t even tell you why or allow you to explain anything.” Clarke’s eyes are downcast and her voice softens in unmistakable regret as she fiddles the silver tab on her beer. “I freaked out and hid away. And, it was really shitty.” 

Lexa can’t help the way her mind creates distinctions between Clarke and Costia—the contrast of Costia’s distance from their relationship to Clarke’s sudden disappearance. With Costia, it had often felt like abandonment and disregard. The space between them had been a disappointment, a mild discomfort that Lexa sustained over time. Losing Clarke—and it had felt like that, as if she turned around one day and panicked to find Clarke had vanished—left her devastated and painfully bereft. 

“Not seeing you was horrible. Not being able to talk to you was even worse. But, I’m glad you stepped back and took that space. It was shitty, but not because you did anything wrong.” 

“I hated not seeing you, too,” Clarke admits, and they share another small smile across the kitchen island, tinged with a distant, remembered sadness. 

“I couldn’t avoid Dockside, contractually, but I—I didn’t want to encroach upon your other spaces.”

“So, you stopped going to the coffee shop.” 

Lexa confirms with a short nod and takes the first sip of her beer. She’s glad they’ve had this talk, but she’s also more than eager to segue out of November’s gloom that is better left in the past. She takes a cleansing breath and sets down her beer. 

“In the end, I was glad you created that barrier between us, Clarke. I was miserable, and Lincoln will tell you that I was insufferable to be around, but it made me realize what a massive idiot I’d been.”   

Her admission elicits an actual laugh, and Clarke shakes her head fondly. “So much for that Ivy League education.” 

There’s a lot more that could be said, and it’s a much longer conversation that they will likely parse out at some point. But, today has been exceptionally good, and Lexa isn’t quite ready to lose the momentum of their good moods. Even for the sake of honesty.

“I’m a slow learner,” Lexa shrugs.

“Based on the activities that occurred in my bedroom this afternoon, I can attest to that being entirely untrue,” Clarke says, voice pitched low and taunting. 

At the return of Clarke’s brazen flirting and sly smile, Lexa ducks her head as her cheeks warm. Because, despite the fact that they have spent a good portion of the afternoon swapping orgasms, she still sees Clarke as her best friend, in many ways, who she has only recently had the distinct pleasure of seeing naked. 

“I’m sort of a quick study in that department,” Lexa smirks. 

“I’ve noticed,” Clarke laughs. They sip their beers in weighted silence for a few beats, sharing glances as they drink, and then Clarke adds to the mounting tension by asking, “So, when do I get to hear more about this date?” 

“The details of the date itself are highly classified,” Lexa explains in all seriousness, despite her stomach swooping. 

“Classified, huh?” Clarke laughs into another sip of beer. 

“Do I honestly strike you as someone who is going to halfass a first date?” 

“You don’t strike me as a person who has halfassed anything in their entire life.” 

“Correct,” Lexa smiles. She shifts smoothly along the island’s edge until she is again stood on the same side as Clarke, who accepts Lexa’s proximity with a slow-spreading smile. “You know, I could potentially be persuaded to provide a sneak peek of some post-date activities,” she offers, already moving to enter Clarke’s space more fully as their drinks are gingerly slid a good distance away. 

She slowly spins Clarke’s stool just enough that she can slot between her legs, and Clarke is already leaning into the touch as Lexa’s hands curve around her jaw. The kiss is like regaining breath after being submerged under water. Their conversation on past events hadn’t been strenuous, by any means, but Lexa registers a sense of relief to have resumed their previous activities all the same. 

She sinks into the warmth of Clarke’s lips and tongue, exhaling after several, languid moments. When her hands move to slide up the length of Clarke’s thighs, eliciting a distinctly strained exhale as Lexa teases her fingers beneath the cut-off edge of Clarke’s shorts, it’s abundantly clear where they’re both headed. 

They make it as far as the sofa. 

Lexa can’t be bothered to maneuver the stairs when there are so many other available surfaces on which to make Clarke slowly shake apart. She does so on her knees while making good on her earlier intents to spend a long stretch of time between Clarke’s legs. The last shards of sunlight are nearly gone, leaving them in golden shadows and dim light from the kitchen while Clarke moans soft encouragements and cards her fingers through Lexa’s hair. There is no rush, no urgency, hardly a sense of time moving at all. Lexa feels calm and confident, content to bring Clarke closer to release at a measured pace as she begins to gently rock against the pressure of Lexa’s tongue. Everything feels languid and slow, like running through water. 

It’s not lost on her, as Clarke’s orgasm eventually echoes through the quiet house, heels pressing into her back and Clarke’s fingers threaded into her hair, that this very sofa had been the impetus for their time apart. The innocence of that encounter, as she and Clarke gave in to the comforts of shared sleep, had propelled them toward a shift in their relationship. Looking back, everything that has transpired between them since that singular event seems inevitable. 

Falling asleep with Clarke that first time had been rife with implications that they would eventually end up right back here: a cozy, nondescript, weekend night spent on Clarke’s couch with nowhere to go. 

The insignificance of an otherwise mundane Saturday is outweighed by the way Lexa’s mouth curves into an easy smile as she kisses the warm skin of Clarke’s inner thigh. Clarke is coming down from the aftershocks of a slow-rolling orgasm when Lexa registers a sharp uptick in her heart rate as they lock eyes while Clarke is still catching her breath.

And, this too holds weight—for all their recent honesty, there are still things Lexa has left unsaid.

“Get up here,” Clarke gently demands. Lexa complies without pause. 

Clarke’s sated and satisfied groans melt into scratched laughter that dovetails with their kiss, and the magnitude of what Lexa feels is underscored as their mouths meet. 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Clarke tells her some breath of time later, when Lexa has moved from the floor to the sofa at Clarke’s urging. “If this type of activity is in the cards for date night, I don’t really give a shit what the actual date itself looks like.” 

They lay along the length of the sofa, limbs over lapping at certain intervals, and Lexa’s hand flat against Clarke’s stomach beneath her tee shirt. 

“Good to know I can scale back my efforts,” Lexa smirks, feeling no less satisfied that she has reduced Clarke’s expectations with one, albeit exemplary, late-afternoon orgasm. 

Clarke’s laughter echoes Lexa’s contentment, and her smile grows. She can feel the subtle shaking of Clarke’s diaphragm beneath her fingertips. 

“This has been such a good day,” Clarke says, adding further reinforcement to Lexa’s equally satisfied mood. “I really like having your here. Have I mentioned that?”

Lexa grins into Clarke’s close gaze and presses her lips to the edges of Clarke’s smile. “Once or twice.” 

“Lincoln is the kindest, most-deserving creature on the planet, but I’m really glad you stayed here instead. Just this once.” 

Lexa’s contented smile slips and she nearly groans as her head falls onto the armrest. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.” 

“What do you mean?” Clarke laughs. 

“I pride myself in being reliable—no excuses. If I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Especially when it comes to Lincoln or Anya.” Lexa exhales and glances up to find Clarke’s eyes. “The fact that I neglected our plans for—”

“The best sex of your life?” Clarke supplies with swagger. Lexa’s smile returns without her consent. “I mean, you looked like you were about to say: the best sex of your life.” 

As laughter bubbles up from her chest, it vanquishes Lexa’s lingering criticisms about her snap decision to break plans with Lincoln. Clarke’s commentary is a reductive synopsis, at best, but also not entirely untrue. “Yes. Something like that.” 

A beat of silence passes and then Clarke says, “If you’re worried he’s going to give you a hard time about breaking plans, wait until you tell him you proposed.”

She buries her face against Clarke’s shoulder to the delighted rasp of Clarke’s giggling laughter and concludes, yet again, that it is the absolute best sound in the world, even at her own expense. 

:::

[giorno-plays-piano]

Sinking under Part 2

Pairing: detective!Steve x Reader Warnings: yandere, stalking, death of minor character, allusion to non-con, swearing, brief mention of suicidal thoughts. Words: 1931. Summary: You are suspected of a murder you did not commit. Steve Rogers, a detective employed by the mother of a victim, makes your life even more pitiful than it already is. Part 1 P.S. A big shout-out to awesome @tansypoisoning​ who helped me a lot with this part! If not her, I think I’d never write this :D Sending you lots of love! _____________________________________  You were shaking like a leaf, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t hold your phone, and Steve quickly put it in the pocket of his formal black pants. He was hugging you close, your head on his chest again like when you had encountered him in a supermarket half a year ago. You were leaving the courtroom. You were not the defendant. You were asked to participate in the trial as a witness.

“You’re a fucking slut!” A woman’s high-pitched voice almost made you deaf. “I KNOW IT WAS YOU! IT WAS YOU! YOU! I’LL SUE YOU, YOU LITTLE BITCH!”

Steve fastened his pace, and the two of you were pretty much running away to the exit, rushing before the crowd would come out of the room. The murderer had been found, and they proved he was guilty for your neighbor’s death, not you. It took them long six months before the judge stated that the best friend of the victim was found guilty as there was more than enough evidence to support his charge. 

Six months. Six months of constant fear for your own life, barely moving outside of your house, being scared to touch your phone to see hate messages from the family of that dead bastard, taking more pills than you had your entire life. Six months of being continuously bullied and followed around. You could hardly count how many times you wanted to jump off the bridge or take too many pills at once.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, darling.” Steve easily pushed through the line of reporters with their microphones, recorders, and cameras. “We’re close, hold on to me.”

All other voices blended into incomprehensible noise: people asking you thousands of questions, someone still yelling from the back, and policemen demanding everyone to keep out the way. You saw nothing, moving fast with Steve to his car. He was your shield; the one who kept protecting you at all costs.

When he found out about hate mails, he simply took your SIM card and gave you a new one with just his name in the list of contacts. When he saw his own employer coming over to your house to harass you with her accusations, he found a cheap apartment in the outskirts of the town and helped you to relocate fast. Steve had been helping with the investigation, tracking every other suspect down and telling you every significant detail he wanted you to know. He followed you too, of course, to pretend he was doing his job and avoid any suspicion. No one needed to know the nature of your relationship.

What was it, anyway? First couple of months it was hard to tell. You felt like he was simply using you to satisfy his own needs, though Steve was a considerate lover to an extent. He could fuck you literally anywhere, including the back of his own car. He enjoyed making a mess out of you, your makeup smeared and hair wild, and sometimes it was either driving you mad or making you frightened. But then he was really great at aftercare, getting very affectionate. He could help you to wipe your face and adjust your clothes carefully, and if you were home he would bring you to the shower and wash your hair so tenderly it could make you cry.

Nonetheless, it felt rather strange he was ready to trade sex for protecting you from the accusations of his employer. You couldn’t understand why he went through all this hassle just for a chance to fuck some girl. With his angelic appearance women would probably line up to get into his bed.

You had finally landed on the car seat, Steve on your left already turned on the engine and moved before you were approached by a few reporters who kept following you.

“You’re safe.” He said softly, turning his head to you and curling his lips in a heartwarming smile. “We’ve won, baby. Fuck all these scumbags, we’re done with this shit.”

You burst into tears with your hands still trembling, and Steve reached out to grab your palm. Forcing yourself to smile back at him, you wiped your face with your other hand. You were lucky he was with you.

“T-thank you, Steve.” You murmured quietly as if you still couldn’t believe it’s over. “Thank for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Come on, darling. I only did what I thought was right.” His smile grew wider at your appreciation of his efforts, and he rubbed your hand. “You can’t imagine how happy I am we’re through this goddamn investigation. It calls for a celebration, don’t you think? I want some champagne and oysters.”

You laughed through tears, shaking your head. Steve had one quality you were always jealous of – he was optimistic. Even at the worst times, he was able to keep his head high and pull himself together. Then he helped you to get through with your issues too. Of course, he demanded to listen to him, to follow the rules he set for you – don’t mess with other men, don’t go where I can’t follow, don’t speak to police unless I instruct you to, don’t leave without telling me first – but it was a small price to pay for the protection he offered.

“Now we don’t have to hide anymore.” Steve turned the car, and you saw he was bringing you to his house. Naturally, celebrating there would be better than in your half-empty apartment since Steve’s place was more comfortable and cozier.

“Do you mean I can finally return to my house?” You thought of the grass on your backyard that probably grew higher than your pretty red fence.

“What?” He sounded surprised. “Why would you want to come back there, right next to the house where that piece of shit died?”

“I can’t keep living in the apartment. I’m very thankful to you, it really became my hideout, but I have my own place.”

“No, baby, come on. Friends of that guy still live in the neighborhood. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” He brought your hand to his face and left a tender kiss on your knuckles, bringing you to tears again. “You can live with me now before I find a better place for us somewhere else.”

You gaped at him openly and heard your heart pounding in your head. Did he just offered you to live together with him? Was he so scared those men would hurt you for real? Or did it had to do something with your relationship? Wait, no, it couldn’t be. Maybe Steve liked to cuddle and spent some evenings together as if he pretended to be your boyfriend, but you never took it seriously. There was no reason to.

“You mean… you want to live together? Like a couple?”

“Well, yeah?” He flashed his beautiful smile, and you held your breath. “We can start like a couple if you need more time.”

What’s that suppose to mean?

“Steve, I don’t understand anything.” You told him honestly.

“We don’t have to pretend like we’re strangers, darling, since that old bitch can’t do anything anymore. Honestly, I’m tired of dating secretly, aren’t you too? All this precautions, living in different places so that no one knew, hiding from the windows. It was exhausting.”

Although you could agree it was really unnerving, you still didn’t understand why he called it a secret dating. Wasn’t it just… sex?

“Now we can take our relationship to the next level.” Steve was delighted, a bit too exited maybe, and then whistled, turning the car again – you were already in his neighborhood.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything and just kept staring at the man, taken aback by his words. Apparently, you had been missing something very important all these months. But you could swear you had never talked about anything like that before. You didn’t even remember discussing your feelings for each other much.

Obviously, Steve wasn’t happy with your silence, peeping into your absent eyes. He frowned with annoyance: usually you were much more responsive than now, always listening to what he had said.

“What is it, baby?” He asked you, his voice tight. “Don’t you want it?”

You awakened from your stupor and grasped the fabric of your dark blue skirt.

“No, it’s not that… it’s just…” You mumbled, unsure of what to say and feeling a bit scared of his displeasure with you. “We just never talked about it. I thought… I thought you didn’t want t-to be romantically involved.”

Steve blinked at your sudden confession. It took him a moment to put his thoughts together, and he rubbed his forehead with his thumb several times. Meanwhile, you remembered all those times when he brought you nice food and wine, watched movies with you, combed your hair because he really liked how pretty it looked, and made you a shoulder massage when you were too tired. He bought your meds and always took care of your mental health the best way he could. Even if you had never talked about love, do fuck buddies normally do things like that? You were not so sure anymore.

“Damn, I get it.” For some reason he laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t say it properly to you. You’re right, it’s completely my fault. I took it for granted that you saw me as I saw you, but I’ve never verbally admitted what I wanted from this relationship. I’m sorry, darling. Please, let me do it properly this time.”

You nodded, still feeling uncertain about all this. It felt a bit unreal at best.

“I love you.” He said with a grin and placed his hand on yours again. “You’re my precious little girl, and I want you to be with me. I want to keep you safe. I want you to stay close, so I would be able to protect you.”

You didn’t know why you cried, but your pathetic whimpering made Steve look at you with awe and admiration, his other hand gently caressing your wet face. He unclasped his seatbelt and moved closer to you, kissing your forehead. It only made you cry harder.

“It’ll be alright, baby. I know you’ve been through a lot this half a year. I’ll keep helping you, ok?” He shushed you gently, your phone still in the pocket of his black pants.

“Ok.” You managed to utter between your sobs.

“That’s it, darling.” Watching you with adoration, he took a wet wipe from the box in a car seat pocket and gently rubbed your face with it. “Everything gonna be alright. When you move in with me, I’ll take care of those guys, the friends of your neighbor, and you’ll be safe. But before that, promise you’re gonna listen to me, alright?”

You nodded once again, and Steve carefully wiped the tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You’re so good for me, baby. I’ll take care of you, I promise. Just keep following the same rules we had before I deal with all those fuckheads, and nothing bad gonna happen, believe me.” He was gently rubbing your face with the wet wipe and taking off your smeared makeup, occasionally kissing your face. You kept nodding at him, not even listening to his words properly and trembling again like after leaving the courtroom when your neighbor’s mother shouted behind your back.

It was over. The trial was closed, and you were ought to be safe. But why, why did it feel like nothing had changed?

[jay-and-dean]

Not in love

(Dean x Reader)

This is a request from @acklesterritory​ :

Hey Jay. I think you know me by now. You got me hooked on your last series fic and you know it. I just wish for a Dean x Reader fic where the reader is just like 8 or 9 younger than Dean and love him to the moon and back, can take bullets for him but still don't want to admit it even to herself bc she thinks 1. He deserves better 2.She's not good for him 3. She got honor & hates to beg for love.

Warnings : Angst, Swearing, Smut.

Words : 7.3k (I know...)

Note : I took the liberty to insist on the “she doesn’t want to admit it, even to herself” because I thought it was very interesting. I really hope you like it, and @acklesterritory​, I’m sorry it took so long <3

Want to read more => ***MASTERLIST***

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           You look across the room searching for familiar faces. Hiding behind your glass of this cheap whiskey they gave you, your back on the wall, you sigh.

           Flannel everywhere. A room full of hunters, that’s rare and, well, loud. You love hunting, it is your life and unlike most people, you regret nothing about it, yes it can be gloomy and dirty, but it's a life of adventures, where almost everything is possible.

           But hunters…

           That’s different. Most of them are machos, rude, lout. They only talk about guns and you don’t really like guns, they are necessary but you would never act like them : like a stupid kid collecting toys. They keep saying they are humble people, bragging about how simply they live only this glass and their gun, owning nothing else... but the truth is they are conceited bastards ; narrating their feats on a loop. They live in violence and it rubs off on them, nothing stays pure about them, and alcohol makes them smelly and moronic... The one you met before at least.

           No, you never liked hunters. And they never really liked you.

           You don’t talk to them if you don’t have to. You really don’t need sexist comments, or behaviors close to harassment, like you suffered a few times, so you just act like they were all the same. Bang the hunter chick… A fantasy for most of them. But yet, you tried two or three of them along the years, and no thank you. Sweat smelling selfish boors.

           When they don’t try to convince you to suck their dirty cocks, they make fun of you for hunting, just because you don't look like the typical monster killer. In the best case, they ignore you.

           Of course, there are some exceptions, and you started to meet the good ones. Like Jody. Maybe it is because she’s a woman, maybe it is because she isn’t a hunter for long but you really love that woman. And the hunters she introduced you to were always the kindest and smartest.

           Your eyes find Sam. Sam Winchester himself. He’s the biggest exception ; how can a man so good be a hunter ? His soft face remembering you of the good times you had together, his friendship enlightening your days with trust and joy.

           He looks at you and winks, you wink back of course. It’s his way to tell you he is with you -he knows you don't like this kind of event- and your way to tell him you’re good.

             But, to be honest, the only man you really want to talk to is always the same : Big brave impressive Dean Winchester. The other exception.

When you first met him, you really thought he was just like all of them. The first thing that made you change your mind was his smell : Dean doesn’t smell like old sweat and rancor, but like some delicious manly sweet boy. His face of course too : the man is so handsome you’re still not sure how he is even human and there is no ounce of stupidity on his features…

But the childish laughs and the touching fear of not being enough to be loved, the bravery of his soul and the nobility of his heart are what made you change your mind for good. He let you into his life, into his house and heart like he does so generously, that’s when you decided you needed him in your own life and became a devoted friend.

You lost him when you arrived the hunter funeral of some douche -at least you decided he must have been a douche- you never knew, and your eyes never found him again after that. You hate that. It’s really weird that need of knowing where Dean is all the time.

At least here you’re pretty sure he’s not hitting on some girl… Almost sure. What if he was ? Your heart races and your stomach make knots.

Oh shut up Y/n… He’s an adult, he does what pleases him.

You sigh and hesitate to go looking for him. You’ve been avoiding everyone for an hour, you're bored, and now, you miss your best friend anyway.

Your best friend. Not only your best friend, but the best friend. A friend that makes you breakfast because he knows your laziness can make you skip it when it’s too early, that holds your hand during horror movies, a friend that lets you take selfies with him, even if that makes him grumpy, and on most of your photos, you’re annoying a frowning Dean.

In a deep inhale, you decide to throw yourself in the crowd, holding your head high, and wearing that cold look of yours, the one you wear when you really don't want people to feel like they can approach you.

You find a bottle and pour some whiskey in your almost empty glass, that's when you hear it : Dean's captivating laugh. Turning around, you catch sight of the man you were looking for.

He's standing in the kitchen doorframe with a beer in his hand. Form this angle, you can see his slightly pointy ears and smile without pointing your finger on what makes you beam each time you see his face.

You hesitate for a second, you want to join him but he's talking to two of the type of men that you usually avoid. When you decide to leave him and maybe go back to your calm place next to the stairs, he turns his head to look at you, like one of the men had told him you were staring, and he smiles quietly.

"Y/n !" he calls you from across the room, making your heart beat a little faster.

He raises an arm and invites you to join them with his hand. After a short hesitation, you walk toward him. And as he always does, he welcomes you by wrapping his arm around your shoulders protectively.

"This is Y/n, she's the one who killed the freaking Kraken" he introduces you with a large grin, and for a second, you're mesmerized by the strength emanating from him. "Y/n, this is Leroy, and Mike."

The two men greet you and Mike eyes you from head to toe.

"I didn't know the famous Dean Winchester had a girlfriend" he says, and you know exactly what he's doing. This is not an innocent question, it's a territory question, but you’re not a property.

"Huh ? No she's not my girlfriend..." Dean starts and you roll your eyes.

Mikes downright laughs and you feel a needle going through your heart. What is so funny ? Thinking that a man like Dean could like you ? That a man like him would settle down ? Does he laugh because he thinks you're available ?...

"What's so funny, Mike ?" you snap sternly, making him stop right away.

Dean turns his gaze on you with that look again. A look you've seen a few times lately, but you can't read at all, like he needed to understand you, his deep green eyes searching your face. Something unreadable between confused and sure, between tender and angry... Puzzling.

You push Dean's arm and sigh, why is he acting like this anyway ? You take a sip of your drink and glimpse another unreadable look between the three men. Jeez you hate this kind of moments... Before Dean can say anything, Jody calls you and you take a deep relieved breath.

"Excuse me Deanie... Dean" you correct yourself. The last things you want is to give them anything else to talk about or to embarrass your friend.

"Tell me when you want me to drive you home" he says in a kind smile.

"Just... enjoy the... funeral" you say realizing how weird it sounds, but you know Dean doesn't have much occasions to meet other hunters.

After a smile, and a friendly touch of his arm, you leave, a little sad that you have to share him all the time, missing the days you had just the two of you last month, when Sam went on a "hunt" alone with Eileen.

The best days of your entire life... The first two days, you drank and played all the games Dean knows : pool, poker, some gambling in shady clubs, drinking games with the money you made... It was the first time you actually were drunk for 48 hours straight. The days after, you both just stayed at home, cooking for each other, watching lame movies in the Fortress of Deanitude, falling asleep close to each other like puppies... But after that, the weird look on his face appeared.

"Y/n" Jody puts a hand on your shoulder. "I was wondering where you were, I know you don't really like those kind of... event" she says kindly, filling up your glass. "But, hey... I should have known, of course you were with Dean" you really don't like the smile that appeared on her face.

"What does that mean ?" you frown.

"I mean... Dean and you" her smile won't fade despite the stern look on your face. "Come on !" she says a little annoyed now.

"Dean and I are friends" you state, your voice a little lower than usual.

"Yeah but..." she looks confused now. "Y/n... You like Dean, everyone in this room can see it, I mean it's written all over your face whenever he's in the room, and it’s… It’s cute, don’t…"

Your throat becomes tighter, and you can feel your palms sweat so you cut her.

"I don't" you turn to look at him and catch him looking back. "You're mistaking Jody. Dean is my best friend. He's not into relationships, and I'm not either."

"Yeah..." she nods. "Okay, I'm sorry Y/n. Just... Sam thought..."

"Sam !" you cut her. "You talked about this with Sammy ? Am I the only one not aware that I like Dean now ?"

"Y/n..." Jody tries when you rub your face with both hands.

But you leave. In an attempt to hide the anger raging inside of you, you mutter something about going to the bathroom before walking to the stairs.

 ***

 Loving Dean... No she said liking Dean but whatever, that's stupid. Dean is... It would be like loving the Sun, it just doesn’t make sense. And you're not a desperate teenager, good thing you don't love, no like, Dean, because you wouldn't even tell him anyway.

You find the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bathtub. What did Sam say to Jody ? What did he say to Dean ? At this thought your breath shakes.

"Y/n ?" Sam's voice calls you through the door. "Can I come in ?"

"What if I say no ?" you mutter and he enters.

His too tall frame takes all the tiny room all of sudden, and looking at him from so low doesn't help, but he squats to face you.

"Are you okay ?" he asks with too much caution and it makes you roll your eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be ? I just needed space for a second, Sam.”

"From Jody ?"

You sigh, not knowing what to answer to that.

"Yeah I know you...” he continues. “You don't run to hide in bathroom when everything is okay" he searches your face.

"I didn't run" you protest kindly. Seeing he won't stop looking for answers in your eyes, you just shrug. "She said something... It's not her fault."

"Was it about Dean ?"

"Wh-... What do you all have with Dean ?" you protest but your next words get stuck in your throat when the man you're talking about is standing right behind Sam.

"Sam" he says and his brother just gets up, like he had nothing more to say to make him leave the two of you alone.

Sam touches your shoulder like you had been through something lately and walks away. When he's out, Dean closes the door and sits next to you on the bathtub in a little grunt, his thigh against yours.

"I told Sammy to let you alone, but you know him, he never listens to me" he gives you a corner smile. "He thought something was bothering you..."

"Nothing is bothering me" you say.

"That's what I told him, because I know when you need your space, you really want to be alone... But I also know you have something on your mind" his hand finds your leg.

Why does he do that ? Now Jody put those things on your mind, you are aware of every one of his gesture. Does he think you lo-like him too ? Is he trying to seduce you ? To sleep with you maybe... Is it his fault you can't take him off of your mind ? Did he somehow, put ideas in your head too ?

It’s true that lately, he’s been closer to you. He’s attentive and sweet, somehow, he acts like you two shared a bond the others don’t understand ; but do you ? That time you got out of the cinema together, he had this weird pause, was he trying to ask you something ? Dean and you are really good friends, and for a long time, you noticed opening up to him is easier than with other people. And it's both ways. You’re the only one Dean talked about Mary for example, when she came back, when she left them, when she died… Again.

Maybe people are just mistaking a perfectly good friendship with flirting. Why does that makes you that angry ? Maybe because the idea of Dean and you together is just insane : He’s Dean Winchester, if he ever chose to be in a relationship, it will be with someone worth it…

You look at his hand and realize your lips made a thin line. You remember falling asleep next to him to wake up in his arms, you never really thought of that, it was just natural, but do friends do that ? He has to stop making this friendship weird. And that unreadable look…

"What did Jody say, I saw your face change" he gives you his drink, for you to take a sip of it.

You can't tell him.

“Nothing special, she was kind as usual” you just shrug.

“Yeah, she is, that doesn’t prevent her to be clumsy… Was it about your dad ?” he asks.

Your lips forms a corner smile, he’s the first one to not bring up… well… himself.

           Dean is the only one you talked about your dad in details. He was a hunter, a weird kind of hunter : he only went after demons, with books and exorcisms, you don’t think he ever touched a gun or knife, with his glasses and skin frame. He looked more like an exorcist from what you recall, and he had a regular job too, at the museum. You never really asked how he acknowledge demons, but you always imagined him finding books and ancient spells all alone at night in the museum library… Like in movies. He was quite a joke among hunters, despite the amount of successful exorcisms he proceeded. He died when you were seven anyway, and your life went down closer to Hell since then. Until you met Dean… and Sam.

“I know you’re uncomfortable around hunters, and that one or two of them made fun of your father…” Dean continues.

“It wasn’t about my dad” you just say, wanting to rest your head on his shoulder like you often do, but not daring this time.

“Okay… Was it about me ?”

You frown : not him !

“Why would that be about you Deanie ?” You put on your mocking smile. “Not everything is about you.”

“You were saying something about me when I came in.”

Your smile dies and you look down. He’s Dean, you never lied to him.

“Jody just said we were always together…”

“And ?” he asks, obviously having no idea how that could bother you.

“Like it was, I don’t know, fishy…” you complete your sentence.

He grins and bumps your leg with his.

“Does she think we’re having sex and stuff ?” he wiggles his eyebrows, which usually makes you laugh but this time his words hurt your guts.

“That’s ridiculous” you sigh.

“Is it ?” Dean just pouts making your blood boil.

“Wh- You’re… Jesus Dean !” You get up to free your thigh from his warmth. “You’re incredible !”

“In the good way ?” he cautiously asks making you groan. “Oh…no, bad way.”

He gets up, trying to take your hand, but you put both of them under your back.

“Why do you act like that ?” he frowns.

“Why do you act like that !”

“What ? I act as usual !” his eyes search yours.

You don’t answer, and look down. What can you tell him ? Do you really want him to back off ? Probably not.

“I’ll take you home” he says.

“No. No, Dean, I’m okay, really, go talk to people, I’ll take another drink and…”

“I don’t like it here either” he cuts you. “I don’t fit here, and people don’t stop asking me about the Demon part of my life, I don’t know how they heard that… Or Hell, Purgatory. I feel like… I don’t know… People admire me for Hell, but I…”

“Yes” you just say, knowing he’s talking about him torturing souls, about the fact that he will never forgive himself for saying yes to Alistair.

“And they think the Demon thing is funny” he chuckles to hide the pain. “The worse is, I know at some point I would have like them, but now, after all that…I don’t know, I just don’t fit in.”

“I’m sorry” you say, finally reaching his hand, you know Dean really don’t like people reminding him about those days. You sigh, the idea of him hurt way more unbearable than the touches you want to avoid. “Two hours drive, we still can watch a movie when we’re home.”

“I’ll take my jacket” he smiles, putting his hand on your back to lead you outside.

           He got you just like that. You were determined to stop being so close to him, and just with a heartbreaking word, he got you asking for more…

           You go down the stairs just before him, trying to swallow the pain in your throat, what is this freaking pain anyway ? Your best friend is awesome, nothing sucks about it, and people can think what they want.

“My my… Dean Winchester and his “not girlfriend” coming out of the bathroom where they locked themselves together” Mike says and Leroy laughs along with a few other guys.

Before you can think, you take three quick steps toward him and punch him, triggering a chain reaction : He is taken aback but his friends take a threatening step toward you. Dean pushes you back to place himself in front of you. Silence falls, and Sam appears on your side.

“Are you crazy !” Leroy yells, checking his friend’s bleeding lip. “It was just a joke !”

“Maybe she’s just tired of your jokes” Dean states, annoying Mike who’s already furious with pain and humiliation.

“Keep your bitch on a leash, Winchester” he spits but Dean’s fist makes him fall on his butt this time.

“Dean !” you call, afraid he will go to a fight.

“STOP !” Sam shouts. “This is funeral, let’s cool down. We’re leaving… We’re leaving” he repeats with his hands open at shoulder height. “Dean. Now.”

           Dean grabs your arm and follows Sam outside, his face his stern and you can’t read how much he’s mad at you. He opens the door to you, and you sit in the backseat with your heart in the back of your throat, it was your turn to be shotgun.

           You wipe the few tears that overflow your defenses in your sleeves during the ride, trying not to think too much about how it hurts to know he’s mad at you, trying to keep your thoughts logical, and not indulge in stupid fantasies.

           Sam tried to talk about the event but Dean just cut him with a grunt that means shut up, put some music, and focused on the road.

 ***

             By the time Dean’s precious car enters the garage, you’re still not sure what to think, and what to do. You look at him in the rear-view mirror, but there is nothing you can read, his bright eyes are lost in front of him.

           When the engine stops, you get out of the car in a sigh, looking at your hurt hand. You know you shouldn’t have reacted like that, but to be honest, you really have no control of your emotions lately.

           Dean just walks out of the garage without a word, that’s when you realize he’s not just pissed, but furious. Your stomach contracts in pain and fear. The idea of Dean, your Dean, that man you would die for, being angry at you, thinking bad things about you, it makes you nauseous.

What if you had lost him ? In the bathroom, you were hard on him but he was so sweet, he always is with you… Now you obviously crossed a line, and you don’t even know which one.

You don’t even remember why you were so hard on him… Oh yes, because he’s too friendly, too close.

What kind of reason is it ?

           Sam waits for you, forbidding you to finally cry like you desperately need to.

“Y/n…”

“I know, I’m sorry Sam” you sigh, trying to escape a talk you really don’t want to have.

“Just talk to Dean…”

You let out a dark chuckle.

“No, Sam. I’ll just let him alone, he’s obviously mad at me.”

“You know Dean practically as much as I do… You know he’s hurt” Sam says and it’s like a punch in your heart.

Why would he be hurt ? Nothing makes sense. Maybe after he told you how rough the night was for him, he hoped that you would just be here for him, and not make a scene… Dean doesn’t open up often, but when he does, he needs you to be there.

           Maybe Sam is right, it’s time to make things about him, and not you. You could die for him, you could go to Hell for him… So you can face his anger.

 ***

           Entering your room, you sigh. Thinking of Jody’s words, you rub your face.

           His bathrobe is on your bed from the las time you wore it, just before you left for the funeral. Now you think of it, you always wear it.

One of his t-shirt is there too, and another on the chair, you know there are at least three others on your closet… How did you end up with half Dean’s clothes in your bedroom ? Oh, right, it’s because you’re always in his room, and change here when you decide to stay for the night after the third movie ended and he fell asleep during it.

           You look around. When you hanged this photo of him on your wall, you managed to convince yourself that it was to annoy him, because he doesn’t like it : he was sleepy and makes a weird face on it. But he got used to it, and you never removed it from your wall. That seems weird now.

           And this little bowl on your desk… Looking at it, you realize it is filled with only Dean : Theater tickets from when he invited you to watch Star Wars, the button that got ripped from his flannel and that you never fixed, an identity picture you stole from the last fake idea he made…

           You have an old tape player here, you bought it when he made you one, with songs he thought you would like, and your Ipod is abandoned on the side of it since then…

           Everything you have here is linked to Dean. Maybe you have to admit he’s way more important than you think, maybe you missed something.

           You sigh again, he deserves better. You owe him an explanation, and if he’s angry, you’ll listen to him anyway. He’s Dean, and he’s everything to you. It’s impossible to explain, but you can’t let him be hurt if he is.

 ***

             You knock, waiting with apprehension. Thinking maybe he will grunt, yell, ignore you. But he just opens the door with a stern face, staying in the door frame. You’re not welcome, and that alone hurts.

“What do you want Y/n ?” he asks harshly.

Your blood run colds, you search his beautiful green eyes, but he closed the gate to his soul.

“I’m sorry for… you know making a scene.”

“It’s okay” he states, starting to close the door.

“Dean, wait…” you half panic, but when he turns toward you again, you have no idea what to say. “Dean…”

“I know my name” he says.

And his ice-cold words make you mute. You look down.

“Sorry” you mutter.

“The last t-shirt you took is one I like, please bring my robe when you give it back” he adds, closing the door.

 ***

             Your tears fall on the t-shirt in your hands, you did lose him for good. But why ? How did you manage to screw the only thing that matters ?

           Dean is not unfair, so there is a reason he’s furious. But in the din of your heart breaking, you can’t think clearly. Maybe he realized your friendship wasn’t healthy, but why did he agreed to watch movies back in the bathroom ? Maybe he guessed you love, no, like him…

           You sniff in the t-shirt, his smell somehow calming you. You already miss him so bad it hurts, living without this friendship will be close to Hell…

           But you deserve what’s happening, or –better- you never deserved him. It’s Dean freaking Winchester, this man is a diamond soul wrapped in a masterpiece body, more precious than the stars… And he gave you his friendship. What did you do to thank him ? Reject his touch, embarrass him, and involve him to a fight for nothing.

 ***

             You put the neatly folded t-shirts and bathrobe next to him on the kitchen table, trying to avoid looking at him so he doesn’t notice your eyes are red from crying all night.

“Hi, thank you” he says, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Sorry for keeping them” you mutter, still hoping a little that he will add something, maybe even something nice, but his mouth stays shut.

             His mouth stays shut all day.

           Walking in the too big bunker, you try not to cry again. It’s silent, you don’t dare playing music like you sometimes do, or going to the Dean-cave to watch a movie ; what movie anyway ? The only ones you said you would watch, you want to do with Dean. You can’t focus on reading and you already checked social media twice, not interesting, he is not on it…

           You miss him. You miss him like crazy, and your heart weights two hundred pounds. You will be erased easily, Dean lost people so dear to him, get rid of a bad friend shouldn’t be a problem. That’s at least some consolation : you hurt him but it won’t last. For you in the other hand… It’s like there has been no sunrise today, like night never stopped. You saw the daylight outside, but it didn’t reach you at all.

And when night falls for real, sadness invites a friend of his : fear wraps its ice hands around your neck, whispering in your ear : What if he went out ?

           Dean going out was never an idea you liked, because you’re possessive maybe, and like to have him spending evenings with you. You fought that idea with all your strength because it was just a childish whim, but it never faded. So you always made sure he had something funnier to do at home, and it worked almost each time.

           But now he’s mad, you suddenly feel the anxiety sharpen its blade. And a new thought hatches in your head…

The idea of him making love to someone terrifies you.

Why ?

… Because you are in love with him.

I love him so much…

             Your head falls loudly on the kitchen table and you whine at the screams of your heart. It hurts, it hurts more than a demon punch, more than a monster breaking your bones, more than losing your family… more than anything.

           Loving Dean… You don’t even deserve to feel this way about him. You will never be anything close to good enough for him.

Stupid.

           A noise makes you lift your eyes shyly off the table and the fear and the sadness tighten their grip on your throat.

Dean is here.

           He finally got out of his bedroom to eat something, opening the fridge, he doesn’t look at you.

“Did you eat something today Y/n ?” he asks, his body mostly hidden by the big door.

“Y-yes” you try to lie, but your voice breaks and he closes the door to finally look at you.

He searches your face, but when you feel tears threatening to soak your cheeks, you look down and put your hand on your forehead to hide, pretending you’re just resting your head on your fingers.

“I’m sorry” he states in a sigh, like he knew for sure he was the one making you cry… Like he did it on purpose.

“You did nothing wrong” you whisper, knowing your voice will betray you again.

He sighs deeply, staying there, in the middle of the kitchen, and you pray he will just leave soon to his room, because holding back the tears is becoming impossible. But he stays here, you can feel his presence even if you don’t see him, and hear his breathing in the deadly silence.

           After a very long minute, you clear your voice a little and lift your head, unable to hide the pained frown on your face.

“It’s okay, Dean, you don’t have to stay here, I just… I just have a headache” you lie.

Usually, you would talk to him, he has always been your best friend, but right now what can you say ?

I love you…

That’s insane.

“Listen…” he starts low, rubbing his face. “We can’t… We can’t go on like this.” His words are like broken glass in your ears, you don’t even know what he is talking about. “I will… I will leave for a few days, weeks… I…”

“What !” You can’t hide the panic, anger slowly replacing sadness in your chest.

“It will be better for the two of us” he states, hurt all over his perfect face.

But nothing can be better without him, you already didn’t bear him being away when you didn’t acknowledge your love for him…

“Better ?” you almost snarl. “What is this even about Dean ?” You get up, feeling your blood boil as you lean on the table with both hands. “I’m sorry I made a scene but… What the… Why the hell are you so mad at me !”

“I’m mad because you find it so repulsive to be with me, that you punch people who insinuates it !” he raises his voice now, his right hand open toward you, the gesture he has when he’s about to consume with anger.

Your eyes widen.

“What ?”

“You know what I’m talking about Y/n ! You…” he looks at the ceiling biting his lower lip, like he was weighting his words. “What is the problem with Jody saying we are always together ? Huh ? WE ARE !”

When he finally yells, you close your eyes hard, like when someone hits you, and the tears you’ve been so cautiously holding back fall heavily on your cheeks. But he doesn’t stop, pointing his finger at you.

“What is the problem with people thinking we are together Y/n ! We… We fucking act like we were for months ! Now you know how terrified I am by what we have, you know me ! You know everything Y/n ! I told you fucking everything ! GAVE you everything !”

Tears appear in his eyes and he takes a deep breath, wiping his cheeks with one hand.

“Just… Make up your mind” he says low, anger suddenly vanished from his voice to leave there just sadness. “I-if you’re so repulsed by the idea of being… I… You can’t look at me like I was your future, then lock yourself in a bathroom because people noticed.”

“Dean…” you have no other words.

“Sammy keeps joking about me being so slow to make a move…” he lets out a dark chuckle then shakes his head. “I have no idea what you want from me… I have nothing left to give you. I… I try to read you, but…” a big unique tear falls from his eyes again.

“I think I love you” you bite your lip at what just escaped it.

“Well until you know…” he whispers like that wasn’t a scoop, making you gasp. “I can’t go on like this.”

He turns to leave but you run after him, unable to let him leave you like that, still stunned by his words.

“Dean ! I do… I do” you sob. “I’m sure !”

You grab his shoulders and stand before him, searching his face for a moment before letting your head fall on his chest to sob, like you’ve been dreaming of all day.

“I’m sorry… I do… I love you like crazy…”

He puts a hand on your neck and you feel his chest shake a little, like he was holding back a sob or a scream. He smells so good…

           And you both stay here for a moment, you’re unable to look up, terrified by what you could see in his eyes, trying to proceed what he just said, what it means… You’re playing memories in your head, and it’s like you saw them with light for the first time… Dean wanted to kiss you this night after the movie, when he took your hand in his on your way to the car… He wanted to kiss you.

           You take a deep breath and look up, immediately finding his piercing green eyes staring back at you. And, gathering your courage, you lift your body on your tip toes, shyly putting your lips on his.

           You didn’t know you were craving for it so much.

When he bends his head slightly to crush his plumb lips on yours, you heart skips a beat, and a new fire burst inside you. He cups your face, nibbling at your lower lip with his tongue joining his teeth. You take a shaky breath, your lips parting slowly.

You can feel anger still irradiating of him, his hands roughly grabbing the side of your face to deepen the kiss. His tongue is conquering, his fingers could bruise you.

“I know you’re a proud woman, and… I really like this about you” he almost groans between burning kisses. “But this was…”

He doesn’t finish, lifting your thighs strongly to wrap them around his waist. Your fingers are in his hair and you let his smell invade your every thoughts.

           Will you really make love to your best friend ? Will you really welcome him between your legs ? Let him sink inside you… Your stomach shake, and you a burning feeling strikes your core powerfully, your inner walls clench.

“Dean… I want you” you let out in a moan, the only feeling of his body keeping your legs open making you see stars.

           He starts walking, somehow managing to hold you and kiss you, his hands digging in your ass cheeks, and the delicious steady dance of his footsteps making your crotch brush his lower stomach.

           When he enters his bedroom, closing it with his foot behind him, you put your forehead on his, pushing it back slightly to make him look up and reach his lips. His unbelievably soft lips.

           He throws you on his bed, managing to place you in the middle of it, before he crawls on top of you.

           Dean, your Dean… crawling up between your legs, his lips swollen by your kisses, and his eyes devouring you. You never felt anything more intense. Tears fill your eyes : Sex, you know, but love ? You weren’t even that nervous on your first time.

           His lips reach your neck, he kisses, licks, nibbles at your collarbone and jaw. He’s feasting. And you want to explore this body you love so much, but your hands are glued to his head for now, unable to really realize that this man laying between your legs is actually Dean.

“Those evenings with you…” he full on groans now. “Those nights having you close, smelling you…” he’s opening his belt, his delicious mouth still on your shivering skin.

“I…” you know you have to say something, but everything that comes to your mind seems dumb. “I wanted you to touch me… But you…”

He sits on his ankles to take off his flannel and shirt, and your words are lost.

           Throwing it across the room, he let his body fall on yours again, only keeping his weight from crushing you with a hand next to your face.

“But I ?” he asks when your shy palms finally dare to explore his chest.

“But you…” it’s your turn to kiss his neck now, stealing a moan from him. At this sound you feel another earthquake down your core. “You’re Dean…” you pant. “You’re Dean freaking Winchester.”

“What does that even mean” he groans low.

But he lifts your shirt, and you feel like a virgin, your shaking hands helping him to get you out of your close. You lose your voice, unable to tell him what it means exactly, to tell him how impressive he is, how brave, how heroic, how beautiful… To tell him how ridiculous the idea of him wanting you seemed, how he deserves the world, how scared you were to love him…

           It’s not your body that makes you shy : he knows it already. Those scars, he saw them when they were still held by stiches, the little fat around your belly, he held it so often in his hands, during fight, while patching you up, during your nights in his arms… What makes you shy is that need, that hunger irradiating of him, your craving for that intimacy with the man you love.

           You close your eyes a second, just to bath your senses in his touches, in his smell ; and when you open it again, he’s tugging at your pants.

           You gasp when your panties roll down with it.

           You gasp when his teeth nibble at your inner thighs.

           You gasp again when he kisses your folds.

“Dean !” you cry out.

He hums, his tongue tasting you softly and your eyes roll inside your skull.

“Finally” he mutters before another lick, surer, more firm. “Finally.”

           You once read that sexual pleasure was strongly increased when love was involved, it left you wondering, you never knew love after all…

           Now you’re already shaking, trying to hold back the jerks of your hips, while Dean is soaking his mouth and chin on you, his tongue and lips sharing your clit.

“Dean !” you grab the sheets, looking down at him.

           But before you can fall of the edge, he crawls up your body again, kissing you fiercely, making you taste yourself on his lips. You never tasted yourself… And you blush at how much you like it.

           One of his hand grabs your thigh strongly to keep it up on his hip, and the other finds your hand.

           Staring deep in your eyes, he intertwines his fingers with yours, an expression of awe on his features. You can’t stop staring at him, at how that fearless warrior is now gentle. Dean needs love, he needs touches and he craves for that tenderness he barely received in his oh so dark life.

“I love you” you whisper.

“I love you” he answers with his lips grazing yours, and your heart grows the size of the galaxy.

           The hand holding your thigh let go for a moment to slip between you, and the motion itself rekindles that coil in your belly.

“Shit…” he groans, letting his head fall on your shoulder.

“Dean ?”

“I don’t have a condom…”

“Shit !” your voice echoes him. “I… I’m on birth control and I’m very clean… You ?”

“I am too but if you don’t want to…”

“I want !” you answer a little too quick. “I… I really need you.”

           He lifts your head, a tender smile on his face.

“Oh now you need me ?”

Before you can say anything, the tip of his cock teases your entrance and you gasp, clinging to his back, your finger enjoying the firm moves of his muscles. He pushes in slowly, shallowly thrusting, letting your body time to adjust him inch by inch… It’s already so much, and your head digs in the pillow in shaky moans.

“Fuck…” he whines.

           After another minute of grinding softly, of kisses on your open mouth, of whispered curses, he bottoms out.

           In a loud moan, your hands grab his ass but meet his jeans, still up on half of it, so they roam the curve of his lower back, and the sensual dance of it. He’s there, on you, in you, and you can feel everything. His chest becomes sticky from sweat, and drag your hard nipples in the slightly up and down movements of it.

           He’s making love to you. Dean. Your Dean. His moans in your ear, his fingers squeezing yours, his cock twitching inside of you…

           You let your knees fall apart from each other, enjoying the weight of the man you love caging you with his huge body. And you lose control…

           You cry out and he groans in return, starting to thrust stronger, faster. Your walls are fluttering hard, your whole body burns… And you come in a strangled gasp, both losing track of the world completely, and perfectly aware of his gasps, and the ropes of cum coating the deepest parts of you.

“Y/n !” he groans in your neck, his hips still grinding on yours.

           It is true : Sex is really different when love is involved.

           He stays here for a minute, his body slowly stilling, panting hidden in your neck, your loving hands in his sweaty hair, softening inside you like he didn’t want to leave, ever, and almost crushing you…

           After a while, he finally move, probably earing your breathing whistle a little, and lays on his side, facing you, an arm still wrapped around you.

“People will talk about us” he says low.

“I don’t care…” you smile, your guilt probably visible on it.

“Now you don’t care that people know ?” he chuckles softly, pushing a strand of your hair out of your face.

“I was the one that wasn’t ready to know… I am now. I am in love with you.”

He pecks your lips.

“And I am with you, now, please… will you stay tonight ?”

“Yes.”

“Forever ?”

“Sure.”

_____________________________

***FEEDBACK IS GOLD***

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[spidercakes]

Since you like mob AUs, here’s a prompt u thought of: Peter is dating Beck or whoever, who doesn’t treat him right. What Peter doesn’t know is that his bf is a mob boss. Mob boss tony kidnaps peter out of revenge towards beck or for info or whatever. Soon he realizes peter has no idea what’s going on, and decides to keep him. Peter isn’t too upset about that.

I finagled with the prompt a little bit, Tony deliberately kidnaps Peter because he has no patience for domestic violence and is basically offended that Beck sucks. The rest is true to the prompt!

Warming: mentions of violence, mentions of domestic violence, age difference, this is more preslash than anything.

*

Tony feels bad that poor Peter looks so damn terrified but snatching him off the street seemed less... invasive than his other options. Plus its easier to leave less evidence that way and while he doesn’t give a shit what Beck thinks he doesn’t want to deal with him deciding to harass the hell out of him about his kidnapped boyfriend either.

He leans into the table and Peter immediately leans back. Tony sighs, “you know you deserve better than that piece of shit, right?” he asks. The kid has to know, he has to. Tony has looked into him because he had to wonder how the hell Quentin Beck, smart but ultimately an unhinged jackass with a temper, landed someone so... amazing. Peter is smart, his credentials prove it, his social media is all related to various social issues he cares about so he’s compassionate, and he’s stupid attractive. Like Beck deserved someone like that even before considering the whole ‘beats his boyfriend’ thing.

Its not that Tony has morals, he doesn’t really because they aren’t useful to him, but he’s got his limits. They’re few and far in between but domestic violence lands on his rather short list so that had made up his mind. The fact that Beck would be missing Peter is mostly an afterthought to Peter being removed from a shitty environment.

“As opposed to what, you? You literally snatched me off the street!” Peter says, voice shrill but its ballsy nonetheless. More ballsy than half the supposedly tough criminals he roughs up on a regular basis. By now most of them would be begging, but not Peter. But then surviving what he did gives a person a certain kind of strength, Tony knows.

“No, not really. I’m mostly here to mess Beck’s business up, and your lack of presence does that but I might as well kill two birds with one stone by telling you that you should get out. I mean I get it if you can’t, all things considered, but I’m well connected myself so if Beck think he can outdo-”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Peter asks, voice still several octaves higher than normal.

Tony frowns for a moment as something occurs to him. “There’s no way you don't know...”

Peter rolls his eyes looking semi hysterical, “well clearly I fucking don’t because I have no idea what this is and I’d really like to go home, please,” he says, voice cracking as he starts sniffling towards the end.

Across the room Rhodey gives him a look. “Keep it to yourself Rhodes,” Tony tells him.

“Just saying,” Rhodey murmurs.

Peter turns to face him, frowning. “Did he say something?”

“Not with words. Twenty five years of friendship has led to me being really, really good at reading his body language. As for home do you have anywhere else you could go that isn’t back to Beck? Seriously, that guy is a piece of shit. And a mob boss. That’s what this whole thing is about. He keeps messing with my business and I don’t really take kindly to that,” he says, sparing Peter the details. Mostly because he doesn’t want Peter to think he’ll become the details.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re a real charmer in comparison,” Peter mumbles.

He doesn’t expect Rhodey to be the one to snort but he does, “yeah he’s a murderer but he’d never hit his significant other,” he says and the unshakable confidence in his voice is touching, really. Peter slumps a little in his seat and the poor thing looks desolate. He’d try and comfort him but he’s sure he wouldn’t be any good at it given that Peter is probably, and rightfully, afraid of him too.

The last thing he expects is for Peter to burst into tears though he supposes they’ve come later than normal. Usually he doesn’t do this sort of thing, target family, because he finds it distasteful but on the rare occasion he breaks that general rule they usually cry four seconds into it, not several minutes into it. He sighs, “aside from the kidnapping thing, what’s wrong?” he asks.

Rhodey’s eyebrows would have hit his hairline if he had one but instead he just looks at Tony like he’s a god damn moron. Which, in hindsight, his question does sound really stupid. “You kidnapped me,” Peter says, voice gone back to that shrill tone he’d had before. “You fucking kidnapped me and you’ve been nicer to me for the last twenty minutes than Quent has in the last five years,” he finishes right before crying even harder.

He looks at Rhodey, who squints and lifts his hands into the air in a ‘what the fuck’ motion. Great, so he can’t expect any help from him apparently. Some right hand man he is, Pepper is going to replace him soon if he keeps it up. “Look, you don’t need to go back. Its not as hard to make people disappear as cops think it is provided you know what you’re doing. Peter Parker doesn’t even need to exist and Beck isn’t competent enough to find whatever fake name you choose, trust me on that.”

Peter sniffles harshly but calms a little at least. “I’m no- not running away,” he mumbles.

“Taking necessary precautions isn’t running away, I know you know Beck better than I do and I know he doesn’t back down easy. He will try and hunt you down,” Tony says but not unkindly. He gets it, really, he does. He and his mother lived it.

Peter considers this a moment before he sits up a little straighter, still crying but the tears are silent. “You said you had connections. Do you have any way I can stay in New York and avoid Quent?”

Not exactly given that that’s a tall order. “Stay here as long as you want, we can work out the details later when you’re in a better position to land on your feet. And when I get the time to consider the logistics of that. I highly doubt Beck will bother you here though, I have a reputation and even he’s not stupid enough to test me.”

*

Peter knows Tony has to be dangerous, it comes with the whole mob thing and Tony isn’t shy about referencing violence at all. Peter doesn’t think he’d be shyer if he actually had to follow through on his words either, there’s just something about the easy way he talks about inflicting pain on people that Peter thinks is experienced. He has yet to see any evidence of it though and its been a month, he’s had time but Tony has been nothing but kind to him to an unusual degree if the reactions of everyone else around him is any indication.

Everyone from his business partner, Pepper, to Rhodey seem to find Tony’s fascination with him odd but Peter doesn’t so much mind if he gets to benefit from it. He’s wanted to leave Quent for a long time but he’d always suspected that he hadn’t reached his peak of violence and that’s partially why he stayed. The other part was not knowing where to go and he knew damn well that Quent wouldn’t just let him go. 

So it was kind of convenient that Tony showed up when he did and he’s held up his end of the bargain. Peter hasn’t had to deal with Quent since Tony pulled him off a random street and he doesn’t mind that he has to take Natasha with him everywhere he goes. Its inconvenient but he’ll take that over having to deal with whatever Quent would try if he managed to find him again. Or gain access to him, he’s sure Quent figured out where he went by now when he hasn’t really been shy about it.

And that’s how Peter knows in his heart of hearts that Tony’s reputation isn’t just to be believed, but to be actively feared. Quent is mean and possessive and Peter never thought he could just walk out of their relationship but thanks to whatever it is that Tony does to people he managed.

“What?” Tony asks, probably sensing Peter staring at him.

“Why are people so afraid of you? I’ve never even heard you raise your voice,” he says. He’s seen Tony pissed off and he’s got a habit for mumbling in Italian but he doesn’t seem much for raising his voice even when actively livid. Peter finds it hard to be afraid of him even if he knows he should be.

Tony laughs a little, “you haven’t heard me yell because I’ve purposefully never yelled around you, not because I don’t. And people are afraid of me because I’m single minded in my goals and have a nasty habit of achieving them no matter the cost. They’ve grown wise not to get in my way.”

And there it is again, that slightly threatening nature but its hard to reconcile that with the guy who, after kidnapping him, immediately told him he deserved better than the treatment he was getting at home. Its hard to believe someone can sit on extremes that large, that someone would offer a perfect stranger a home and protection for literally no reason in one second and then do some kind of great violence the next. Rhodey said Tony was a murderer and that statement was confident, fact, but Peter just doesn’t see how Tony could do it. But then apparently he’s gone through the trouble of making sure Peter didn’t have to hear him yell.

“Why would you do that?” he asks because he knows Tony has some surprisingly kind reason for doing that.

He shrugs, “I figured after being yelled at as much as you have you probably didn’t like hearing people yell now. Probably triggers a stress response so we all freak out when you aren’t in the room.”

We all. Peter frowns because it isn’t just Tony, he’d made that order to everyone and he knows they’ll all listen, even Natasha even though she’s the most likely to tell Tony no. Partially because of sibling rivalry and also because she seems the least afraid of him next to Rhodey. “You told everyone not to yell in my presence because you didn’t want to stress me out? I can handle yelling, I’m not glass.” He doesn’t know why he’s prickling to this when its actually incredibly kind of Tony, and so unexpected the way all his kindnesses have been.

Tony doesn’t look ruffled though, instead he looks almost a little proud. “Oh I know you aren’t glass, and this isn’t a question of whether or not you can handle something. Its more making sure you don’t need to, not when you’re clearly still waiting for the shoe to drop. After that you can be fair game if you really want it,” he says, lips twitching up a little.

Peter loses that sharp edge of feeling he’d had and relaxes. “Thank you,” he says softly, “you don’t need to do any of that.”

Tony shakes his head though, “basic care, its not an issue and its always kind of a funny test of self control. You don’t understand Italian though, so I do most of my venting that way.”

So Peter has noticed. “I have a hard time reconciling this with someone who’s supposedly dangerous,” he says, blurting it out accidentally.

Tony doesn’t take offense to it, he just looks Peter up and down. “People aren’t as simple as we like to think and being capable of murder doesn’t make me incapable of not being a dick. I wouldn’t hurt you, I don’t have reason to, but I’m known as the Merchant of Death for a reason.”

Merchant of Death, he’s heard that before but he can’t remember where. Doesn’t matter know because he can figure out what that means at least in part. “Why do you keep doing that, reminding me that you’re like... dangerous or whatever?”

“Because I don’t want you to be surprised,” Tony tells him. “Its a lot easier to make sure that doesn’t happen if you know what to expect.”

“Why does that matter to you though?” It shouldn’t, Peter isn’t his responsibility and he’s surprisingly caring for someone who has no reason to be. Peter has had friends that went less out of their way to accommodate for him than Tony has with zero connection to him.

“People fear me, but that doesn’t always mean that they won’t test me. Apparently Beck didn’t even tell you how he made his money and that’s a bad idea, keeping someone in the dark like that. God knows what would have happened to you if I had more bad intentions than screwing with your ex’s life.”

Peter frowns again because its hard, figuring out what the hell is going on in Tony’s head. “So you’re being honest with me in case what, someone else kidnaps me? Because that seems unlikely.” What are the chances he’d be kidnapped by another mob? He didn’t even know he was affiliated with the first one in any way so it seems a bit much to be kidnapped by a third.

“Or worse, yes. And its not as unlikely as you think, none of us are exactly pleasant to piss off and I’ve got an impressive talent for pissing people off. Everyone who’s around me is a target but you’re the only one who refuses to carry a gun.” Right, Peter had forgot about that. He hadn’t anticipated reacting so strongly but given the circumstances he thinks his meltdown wasn’t as bad as it could have been and Tony dropped the idea of him carrying around a gun for protection real quick.

“My uncle Ben got shot and killed in a robbery gone wrong when I was a teenager,” Peter says. “And I didn’t like guns before that either. Or anything lethal.” Expect Quent, if Tony’s hinting is to be believed but then he’s always had a thing for bad boys. Women? His taste is normal and results in pretty good relationships in his experience. Men? He seemingly can’t pick them any worse than he has previously and Quent is a whole new level of garbage for him.

Tony looks him over for a moment, “you should learn some self defense though, if for no other reason than it being generally useful. Natasha would probably be happy to teach you.”

Peter wrinkles his nose, “can I get someone less terrifying?”

He doesn’t expect it when Tony cracks up laughing but it looks a lot nicer on him than the air of seriousness that usually taints his presence. “She might be the least scary we’ve got,” he tells Peter and starts laughing harder at whatever face he’s making.

“If that’s the least scary you’ve got I feel so bad for anyone who tries to fuck with you.”

*

Peter doesn’t take to self defense well and Natasha clearly doesn’t know what to do with that, but that makes it kind of fun to watch. “None of this is difficult, what is so confusing to you that you?” she asks Peter, who is on the floor breathing hard.

“Nothing, he just doesn’t want to hurt you,” Bucky says from the other side of the room where he’s watching. Tony raises an eyebrow but Bucky only shrugs.

Natasha rolls her eyes at Peter, “trust me, there’s no way you can do any real damage to me. First of all you’re weak, second of all you have almost no skills, and third, I have a high pain tolerance anyway. Get up and stop worrying about doing damage you can’t even do,” Natasha tells him.

Its easy to see Peter isn’t suited to this, at least not the way Natasha is teaching it. “Just give him a basic lesson in self defense moves, none lethal ways for him to buy himself enough time to get out of a given situation,” Tony tells her. “He’ll be resistant to learning much else.” Peter has made it clear he has a distaste for hurting people in any manner but especially the kind of brutal manner Natasha is used to and desensitized from.

“You can get out of a situation faster if you stab them,” Natasha tells Peter specifically and he does that thing that he does sometimes when he’s reminded that he’s in an environment that’s more violent than he agrees with.

He gives Natasha an unimpressed look with a surprising amount of steely strength in his gaze. “I’m not stabbing people because you think that’s the only way to get anything done,” he snaps. His response clearly comes as a surprise to Natasha and Bucky but not so much to Tony. He’d been that immediately brave off the bat with him and he didn’t lose his confidence when he found out who he was. Peter has a quiet kind of strength that Tony admires and Natasha doesn’t know what to do with given that people don’t often test her. She’s unnerving at the very least, its why Tony chose her specifically to be his lead enforcer. That, and people are stupid enough to underestimate her because she’s a woman.

Natasha looks him over for a long moment, “alright, then.”

For the next hour Natasha does a slightly better job teaching Peter how to break holds and other simple self defense moves that he picks up on a little faster than how to properly maim someone. Peter doesn’t like it any, that much is obvious, but he does pay attention to Natasha and does his best to pick up what she’s trying to teach at least until Natasha gets bored enough to dismiss him.

“What, don’t like that this one didn’t immediately think he could take you out?” Tony asks her as she walks over. Across the room Bucky snorts and laughs probably because he’s seen people try and fail about a million times. Hell, at this point he’s failed at it a million times too. He might have trained her but she’s better at killing people than he is, try as he might. Probably because he actually likes people and seems to feel the fallout of having killed someone in a way Natasha doesn’t. Tony isn’t sure if she’s good at compartmentalizing or if she actually doesn’t feel anything about it and he doesn’t care either, her skills suit him.

Her lips quirk up a bit at the corners and she shakes her head. “No, actually. Its refreshing to have someone in here who immediately knows I can kick his ass and have something to teach. I approve,” she tells him.

Tony frowns, “what?”

“Of Peter, I approve. We all do, but Rhodey seems to think you’ll listen to me the best for whatever reason. I think you’d listen to him but what do I know, I’m only your sister,” she mumbles, shaking her head and walking off.

“Not that you admit that out loud often,” Tony calls after her in a teasing manner.

“Like you admit you’re related to Howard often either, you should understand,” Natasha tells him, grinning at him as she leaves the room.

“God, she’s fucking unsettling when she smiles,” Bucky says, coming up beside him.

Tony looks him over and he’s got that stupid lovestruck look on his face like he always does. Tony rolls his eyes, “just ask her out, god. What the fuck are you waiting for, Judgement Day?”

“You don’t even believe in God,” Bucky points out.

“Yeah, exactly. You’re waiting for a moment that’s never going to come so make your own moment. And what’s this about approving of Peter?”

*

Peter doesn’t expect the clothes, or the shoes, or anything else Tony must have done research on to get right. Everything is exactly the kind of thing he would have picked up for himself if he had the chance and its sweet, if a little unnerving at the same time.

“This is cute,” Natasha says, picking up a dress as she walks in without bothering to knock. He’s learned that she’s a bit of a pest when she likes people, but it takes her a lot of time to warm up to them.

“I can’t imagine you wearing a dress,” he tells her. All he’s seen her in is all black outfits that looked a bit like she was ready to rob someone and after mentioning her style choices to her once he discovered they were purposeful, and also a bit of a joke. She’s got a weird sense of humor but Peter can deal with that.

“I wear dresses all the time, you just don’t see me in them,” she tells Peter, grinning. “You should wear this later,” she adds, handing him the dress.

He takes it, frowning. “O...kay? Am I supposed to be going somewhere?”

She nods, “yes, on a date with Tony because he’s never going to ask you and we’re all tired of waiting around.” Peter must look more confused and it makes Natasha roll her eyes. “Look, normally I stay out of anything that isn’t a stabbing but the fact that you guys are a good match is clear and I doubt another good match for Tony is going to just show up. He’s difficult to get along with.”

Peter has never found that to be true. “I don’t see how he’s even still single. I mean yeah, maybe the guy runs a mob and he’s like... a little overdramatic and whatever but he’s really generous.”

Natasha laughs, “no, he’s not. He’s mean, cruel, sometimes even delights in it, and generally speaking an arrogant asshole. Usually you have to know him to get past all that but its like you skipped that and went straight to part where you find out he has personality traits that aren’t threatening to kill someone. And he listens to you.”

She says that like its important but Tony listens to everyone. “I don’t see why you didn’t try and get him and Rhodey together if that was a concern.” Rhodey knows him better than anyone, that much is clear so it seems to Peter that he’d be a better choice.

Judging from the look on Natasha’s face its not as good an idea as he thought it was. “He’s married to Pepper. We need to work on your observation skills if you didn’t notice the ring. Its not exactly like its hard to see,” she says. Now that Peter thinks about it he had noticed a silver ring, but hadn’t clued in to the fact that it was on his ring finger. Maybe Natasha has a point about his observation skills.

“What makes you think Tony even has an interest?” He knows he’s an unusual case but he’s not a total dunce in the observation department so he knows its because he’s got this thing with domestic violence, has no patience for it. He’s not so sure his... appreciation goes beyond that.

“You tell him ‘no.’ Trust me there’s nothing Tony values more than people who aren’t afraid of him. Even if he’s acted like a total Bond villain in an attempt to seem all dangerous or whatever. You should know that I’m actually the dangerous one, Tony’s like a grumpy puppy. He seems mean but he actually just wants a treat,” Natasha says, grinning.

Bucky is right, it is unnerving when she smiles. “What makes you think I’m interested?”

“The fact that you took this long to ask that,” she points out.

Alright, he’ll give her that. So he smiles a little, sitting on the edge of his bed, dress still in hand. “He does kind of act like a Bond villain. You know people are afraid of him because no one points it out,” he says, snickering.

Natasha snorts and starts laughing and just like that its like he’s like he’s broken through some kind of barrier that makes Natasha chatter and a hell of a lot weirder, but not in a bad way. Peter finds her less intimidating when she’s not staring through him like she can see his thoughts, and he also finds he likes her sense of humor when he’s not just getting bits and pieces of it.

“You don’t think this is too soon, do you?” he asks her as she leaves.

She shrugs, “probably, but the good news is that Tony has a bad habit of being one hundred percent in or one hundred percent out, he doesn’t do middle ground well. So if you let him, he’ll be more than devoted to you and you know what that looks like,” she says.

Yeah, he does so he nods. “Okay.”

[adiwriting]

(gif by the lovely @darlingnotso)

PSA: As I’ve stated before, I will be putting money towards the Navajo Nation COVID-19 Relief Fund every time that I post Malex fic. 

********Please don’t reblog*********** 

This is going to be the last Sunday Morning fic for awhile. Leaving it untagged with the hopes that it remains just for my followers and doesn’t attract more harassment. If you want to comment, reply or DM me please instead of reblogging.

Week 16

When the puppies start barking at their usual 6:30am time, Alex instantly regrets all of his life choices. His head is pounding, his leg aches, and his stomach is a mess. It doesn’t help in the slightest that Michael is plastered to his side, hot as hell, and making Alex sweat. 

“Why did we get a dog?” Michael grumbles, nuzzling his nose into Alex’s neck and making him feel even worse. 

“Why did you let us get four?” he asks, pushing at Michael’s body. “And why the hell are you so hot?” 

“‘s cold,” Michael says, throwing his arm over Alex’s stomach. 

Alex pushes him away. “You’re a thousand degrees and I already want to die. Roll over or something.” 

Michael groans and Alex swears he hears him curse under his breath, but he thankfully rolls over and Alex feels like he can breathe a bit as cool air hits his overly heated skin. The relief he feels is only temporary though as his mind then zeroes in on how much his stomach is swirling and twisting. 

The puppies continue to bark. It’s too loud and the sun streaming in through the window is too bright. Everything is just too much right now and Alex needs it to stop. The mattress shifts as Bell jumps up onto the bed, making the world spin and Alex’s stomach does a dangerous tilt. He’s not even sure if he could make it to the bathroom fast enough to throw up if he had to, and so he prays he doesn’t need to. 

Michael loves him, but he doubts Michael would love it if Alex threw up in their bed. 

Bell pushes her head against his shoulder, demanding cuddles. Any other day, Alex would be more than willing to give into her demands. He loves cuddling with Bell in the mornings. But right now, he can’t focus on anything aside from not vomiting. She gives up and moves to do the same to Michael, who lifts his arm up and allows her to crawl on top of him and lay down. 

“Please tell me you’re as hungover as I am,” he complains, closing his eyes against the sun and willing the world to stop. He regrets not springing for blackout curtains when Michael was redoing their bedroom.  

Michael chuckles and it makes the bed shake, causing Alex to groan. “No, but I had about five beers and six shots less than you did,” he says. 

Alex cracks his eyes open just enough to give him a doubtful look. 

“Hey, I’m not the town drunk everyone thinks I am,” Michael protests. “And somebody had to make sure that everyone got home okay. Liz and Max were a mess. Only one of you guys who held their liquor with any dignity was Maria.” 

That’s probably fair. Alex doesn’t remember a lot of last night after the first two hours. Isobel had challenged him to a drinking game that he outright refused to lose on principle. But even the first two hours, he could tell that it was going to be one of those nights. He can’t blame his friends. It’s been a long few weeks of one alien drama after another but yesterday had been a surprisingly drama free Halloween night for them and they’d all just let loose. What he can remember of Michael though, is that he’d taken things slow most of the night, taking on the role of caretaker for everyone. 

“You had fun though, right?” he asks, worried that Michael had perhaps seen it as his duty to take care of everyone else instead of partaking in the fun himself. Part of the argument for having the party at their place was so that they could both enjoy the party rather than having to worry about getting home or taking care of the dogs. 

“Yeah, it was nice,” Michael says with a smile, running his hands over Bell, who looks perfectly content. Alex is jealous. He knows that there are few places more comfortable than Michael’s chest, but right now the thought of being anywhere near the furnace that is Michael sounds awful. 

“Don’t tell Isobel I said that,” Michael adds. “I already told her we are not having Thanksgiving here under any circumstance… Which probably means I should start working on making that table I’ve been wanting to build for out back, because I’m pretty sure my protest means that we’re having Thanksgiving here.”

Alex laughs before it causes his head to pound even more and whines. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.” 

“I bet,” he says. “I’m not sure why you thought you could out drink my sister. On her lightest days she polishes off two bottles of wine a night.” 

“Because she gets annoying and smug when she wins and I refuse to put up with it,” Alex says and Michael just laughs. “Is Bell still wearing her wings?” 

Michael runs his hands over the fairy wings that Bell had worn yesterday as part of her Tinkerbell costume. They’d dressed all the dogs up in Peter Pan costumes to match their namesakes. It had been adorable, if Alex does say so himself.

“She didn’t want to take them off,” Michael says with a shrug. 

“Oh yeah? She tell you that herself?” he teases. 

“As a matter of fact, I tried to take them off last night and she whined and moved away, so yes she did,” Michael says. “And the puppies were asleep when I came back inside so I left their costumes on as well.” 

Alex reaches over tentatively, careful not to move too much of his body so that he doesn’t reignite the nausea, and pets Bell. “She does make a really cute fairy.” 

“Of course she does. She’s the most beautiful fairy in the world,” he agrees, lifting his head to kiss Bell’s nose. She licks his face in return. Michael turns to look at him, “Look at what Rosa taught her yesterday when they were both hiding out in here.” Michael looks back at Bell and says, “I do believe in fairies.” 

Bell howls twice as if to say, ‘I do, I do.’ 

Alex smiles, holding back his laugh for fear of making his stomach twist even more. Bell’s howl causes the puppies to go crazy from their spot in the kitchen though and suddenly everything is far less cute. Alex’s head pounds and he’s back to hating the world and wanting to curl up and die. 

“I guess I should go walk them since you’re clearly useless today,” Michael says. 

Alex throws his arm over his eyes and doesn’t bother arguing. 

He hears Bell protest before the bed shifts again, making Alex suck in a breath as he fights against his body’s urge to hurl. “Why don’t you try and shower? I’ll bring you breakfast in bed when I get back from walking them.” 

“Can we spend the entire day in bed?” Alex asks, hopefully. 

“I’ll even let you pick the movies we watch today,” he promises, placing a kiss to Alex’s forehead. 

“You smell like a distillery,” Michael says. 

Alex has a flash of Isobel breaking out a bottle of whiskey as they played Two Truths and a Lie with Maria. He’s sure that he’s got liquor coming out of his pores at this point. He doesn’t even remember the last time he drank this much. Perhaps the one time he’d gotten plastered before shipping off to Iraq the last time? The time they’d gotten into that nasty fight over Alex’s decision not to tell Michael he was being deployed again. Michael had had to hear it from Maria and had been none too pleased. 

Michael flips on the light and Alex whines. “I regret all of my life choices.” 

“Surely not all of them,” he teases. 

“Why didn’t you stop me last night?” Alex asks. 

Michael snorts. “Oh, I tried. Several times. You told me that you were a grown ass man who didn’t need a babysitter.” 

Alex grimaces, he doesn’t remember saying that, but he’s sure he probably did. “Sorry.” 

“You’re fine,” he says. “Max was way worse and far less cute while telling me to back off. You’re good.”

“It doesn’t sound like you had a good night,” Alex says, pushing Michael despite his earlier words, wanting to make sure that he truly did enjoy himself and wasn’t miserable.

“I promise, I enjoyed myself,” he says. “Rosa and I had a nice long talk. She’s gonna start working at the junkyard for me. I wouldn’t mind having somebody help run the office side of things. She loves her dad but needs some independence.” 

“That’s understandable,” Alex says. 

“Yeah, then Liz and I nerded out over science before Max stole her away. Kyle, Maria, and I played poker and I won $150. And I ended up watching Hocus Pocus for the first time and making cookies with Rosa once everyone got too shitfaced to form coherent sentences.” 

“You’ve never seen Hocus Pocus?” Alex asks, shocked. 

“Okay, first of all, why does everyone react like that when I say that? I watched it last night with Rosa and it was cute but it does not deserve that reaction out of people,” he says, grumpily. “And second of all, you know that I didn’t have any of that shit growing up.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Alex says, kicking himself for always doing that. Always reacting to experiences Michael says he didn’t have growing up with shock. Alex knows better. He himself grew up in a home void of normal childhood experiences. But he had the Ortechos and the DeLucas to help give him happy holiday memories. He always assumes that Michael had that in the Evans family, but he’s regularly proven wrong. 

“Hey, listen, go walk the dogs,” Alex says. “I’ll hop in the shower. After breakfast we can watch all the holiday movies you never got to see growing up.” 

“Can we start with Home Alone?” he asks, that light, happy tone back in his voice. 

“Of course, followed up by A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving,” Alex promises. 

Forty-Five minutes later, the entire family is piled in their bed, warm and comfortable. Alex is slowly eating the pancakes that Michael prepared him, keeping his plate away from Peter’s thieving paws as best he can. His stomach is starting to settle and his headache is muted thanks to the ibuprofen that Michael left for him before he took the dogs on their walk. Home Alone is playing on the TV screen and Michael is curled up with a sleeping Bell and John, smiling soft and content. 

And right here, in this exact moment? Life feels utterly perfect.

[popculturebuffet]

House of Mouse: Mickey and the Culture Clash (Commission by WeirdKev27) or “What the Hell, Clarabelle?”

Hello, hello, hello... I wish I could say I was in good spirits but i’m tired, have covid induced chills running down my spine.. and oh yeah there was an armed insurrection i the captial last night that showed just how broken this country was. And while Monster Bash would still be relevant... I couldn’t do it. I admit to being unable to do an episode where the millitant racist nutjob who harms people runs off into the night, and does much worse in later episodes, while the people she harassed are arrested the night after a bunch of millitant, racist, sociopathic, selfish nightmares sieged the captial, killed a woman, raised the fucking maga flag over the buildling and took pictures like they were goddamn heroes.  We got a stark reminder, not a wake up call, not an opening a REMINDER of just how badly broken our country is last night, and it wasn’t till this morning I found out just how BAD it was. The deaths, the flag, the fact josh fucking hawley, MY STAT’ES SENATOR and registered piece of shit, raised  A FUCKING FIST IN SOLIDARITY, which gives me the crippling fear his stupidity and unabashed racisim and support of a cou could mean riots at best and attempted uprisings at worst and who knows what kind of hate crimes against those of color and those in my own queer community. I am afraid, tired, and I am pissed and I feel we could ALL use something wholesome, warm and far removed from the shit going on. And in my hour of need to figure out something like that to put on the schedule.. Kev brought up a wonderfufl idea.  Every month this month till the end of it Kev is going to comission one episode of a show near and dear to both our hearts that has it’s 20th birthday this month. House of Mouse. He was intitally going to request Pete’s One Man Show, which is one of my faviorites, but was ironcially one I already planned to cover next month to celebrate both the show’s anniversary and Pete’s Birthday. But since he was happy to wait till then to comission it, he instead asked for another classic and one with easily my faviorite character on the show: Moritmer Mouse. 

One of the best things House of Mouse did was bring back Mortimer Mouse. Introduced in Mickey’s Rival, Mortimer was an ex of minnies who showed up for one short to be a dick to mickey before running off and leaving Minnie at the mercy of a bull he pissed off. He also weirdly kept electrodes and a car battery in his pants. The short itself is.. not great mostly because Minnie dimissies Mickey rightfully being pissed someone is hitting on his girlfriend in front of him, making jokes at his expense, and generally being a pillock as being jealous... which yeah, yeah he is. Most of the time jealousy and supscison of your partner is ugly, gross and damaging to a relationship.  You should trust them unless you’ve been given good reason not to, and if your paranoidly jealous about every friend she has she could be attracted to.. get some fucking help. Seriously, I need to, not for this for various other problems, but get some therapy to help with your trust issues or if your just being the kind of dick who naturally assumes men and women or men and men or women and women or men and nonibinary persons, or women and nonbinary peeps and so on and so on cannot be friends if they could possibly be togehter romantically... grow up.  I say all of that because those are serious underlying issues and I didn’t want it to seem like for a moment I was supporting them... and because sometimes i’ts OKAY to be jealous, to either just feel a little jealous of someone, or to you know be irate because your girlfriend’s ex is hitting on her in front of you and she’s being entirely receptive to it. 

So yeah i’ts really hard to feel bad for minnie’s bull attack or find the ending sweet after Minnie was you know, what ramona said for an entire short. However my point for this rant, besides giving out about the short again because I clearly didn’t enough in my Mickey Birthday Special, is that Mortimer is still pretty great. He’s a frat bro in the 40′s sense sure, but the idea of a local douche hoping to swoop in and woo minnie away, who has an oddly specific sense of humor and a bizzare, memorable and wonderful walk, seriously the short is worth watching for mortimier’s “I got two car batteris in my pants’ walk, is a good one. While he’d naturally show up in comics and what have you Mortimer just sort of vanished. But clearly someone on the House of Mouse staff, and Mousewerks before it, agreed because Morty was made easily one of the best and most recurring characters in the HOM, and often more prominent than Horace or Gus. While he still tried his old “I’m gonna do your common law wife act” a few times he was mostly there to be an annoying douche when the ep needed one and to be taken down a peg by everyone in the house. And that VERY MUCH includes Mickey. That’s also part of why I love this show bringing him back: It gives Mickey someone besides pete to give out too on a regular basis. He’s still his charming self about it but it’s lovelyt os ee Mickey sarcastically roast someone. And I honestly attribute the main factor of his sucess on the show to VA Maurice LaMarche. While his original VA, Sonny Dawson, was fantastic.. it’s Maurice who very clearly made the character his. While others like Jeff Bennet have taken over since i’ts Maurice who gave him his signature “ha-cha-cha” catchphrase, swagger and signiture voice. And no i’ts not lost on me that one of Maurice’s OTHER best roles is another cartoon mouse.. and I now very badly want him to meet Pinky and the Brain. But yeah, Maurice just oozes the smarm that defines mortimer for me, oozes condescinon and assholery and he, is., glorious. He was a faviorite as a kid, he’s a faviorite now, and Disney needs to use him more.. and also have Maurice voice him for wonderufl world of mickey mouse, though Jeff Bennett is not bad at all I just prefer the master at the role. 

So obviously, after the nightmare of an evening america had yesterday, an episode not only about how wholesome mickey and minnie are but about Mickey teaming up with Mortimer was EXACTLY what i needed. So pitter patter, this is Mickey and the Culture clash. As always for house of mouse i’ll be chonking it up and since this one starts right with the wraparound, and sicnce you know I spent a godo few pagraphs going over mortimer and he’s only IN the wraparound this episode... let’s start there

Mickey and the Culture Clash: Don’t Go Changin, To Try and Please Me So we open the episode and the review proper with Mickey performing a banjo sernade for Minnie, their song in fact. It’s a really sweet scene.. that’s quickly ruined by Clarabelle being an asshole, who says i’ts a bit crude. Minnie counters that while “It’s not mozart”, it’s nice and she clearly likes it and the gesture. Instead of you know leaving it there like a good friend, like she’s SUPPOSED to be to Minnie in most continuities, Clarabelle.. takes the things she said and her having to run out to wrangle pluto out of context, painting it as her thinking he’s not sophisticated and then running out because of it. Oh and she tops it by pointing to a classified add from a MM looking for sophisticated companionship. 

It just paints Clarabelle not as Minnie’s friend or a chatty gossip, but as a heartless bitch who has no trouble implying one of her best friends would cheat on her boyfriend TO HIS FACE, and is fine wrecking a perfectly lovely relationship just to have more to talk about. Seriously she starts gossiping to everybody on top of it just in case you thought Clarabelle was a decent person in any shape this episode. She’s the one thing about this episode that dosen’t work despite being integral to it.. well two but hte other thing is a small, end of episode gag we’ll get to. This.. this is an integral part of the plot. It also relies on Daisy and Donald being absent for the episode for what I can only assume is their annual sex decathalon because otherwise the second she heard about her friend doing this, before reassuring Minnie, Donald would be holdiing her while Daisy beat the absolute shit out of her for hurting thier closest friend and not bothering to take a look into anything when leveling such a rough accusation at Minnie. In a really stellar, really well paced episode, Clarabelle being so heartless stands out. It’s also, might as well get this out of the way, teh final episode not inlcuding the two holiday specials.. and it’s a good note to go out on otherwise, I just can’t ignore the obnoxious cow in the room.. in both senses of the word. 

So yeah Mickey’s trying to be fancy, and Mortimer gets a good dig in about him reading “You having trouble sounding out the words”, but once he hears what’s going on, or rather once he realizes mickey things Mortimer’s personal add is in fact his girlfriend cheating on him, he decides to help Mickey. And to his credit for this con.. Mortimer actually thought things out on how to trick his rival, and his plan here is douchey as hell but incredibly genius: he offers to help mickey and while that’d normally be suspcious he offers a genuine, and very mortimer explination for helping him become a bit more sophisticated to win minnie back: if Minnie finds a handsome, sophisticated guy to date, what chance does MORTIMER have against that? At least with Mickey, in his deluded egocentric view of things anyway, he has a shot at beating him. 

So Mickey classes it up a bit, taking some sopshitcated stances when announcing and trying to woo minnie by talking in ye olde english. When that fails, she just finds it silly but charming, Mickey finds Jose.. hitting on her.

Just.. I expect better from you man. Woo ladies all you like as long as your respectful but I expect better than to hit on someone else’s girlfriend.. which granted he has but given the last time we saw him do that, he nearly got stabbed a bunch and the last time he agressively hit on a woman he got punched in the beak as he should, you’d THINK he’d of learned something. Seriously once again Donald is only missing because this time Daisy would be holding Jose down while Donald hit him. Or possibly they’d take turns. Point is Jose REALLY shoudln’t be doing this and knows better.. marginally. But.. it is in character enough so ti’s not as bad as Clarabelle the homewrecker. 

So Mickey tries being fancy and goes on to do poetry instead of letting O’Malley and the Alley Cats play.. which is a nice running gag the series does as they NEVER get to play.. which while funny is a shame since I love the Aristocats. So then we finally get what Mortimer’s been playing at, he swoops in, claims MICKEY dosen’t need HER, and uses the same personal add to trick her. See, while what Mortimer’s doing is vile.. unlike clarabelle I can repsect it at least. I don’t condone it and i’m glad he gets foiled.. but as a bad guy plan it’s pretty clever and for someone like Mortimer whose usually pretty incompitent.. it’s pretty suprising he could pull this off. It’s still pretty damn low and scummy, no question, but props to being able to outwit and nearly outplay two people who deal with your crap on a regular basis and still convincingly conning both.  Thankfully while he tries to take Minnie out Mickey, in a great visual gag, puts two and two together, and busts out their song, with Mickey and Minnie heartwearmingly reuniting on stage as seen above. Then we get that gag I mentioned not liking: Mickey gets Morty back by planting a false marriage proposal from Moritmer to Clarabelle, again under MM and he gets carried off.. HAHA HE’S BEING FORCED INTO A MARRIAGE HE DOSEN’T. LAUGH. LAUGH AT IT. The gag just really hasn’t aged well, as otherwise it’s clever Mickey used Mortimer’s own trick against both him and the person who caused all of this but really.. Clarabelle gets no real compuance. At worse sshe finds out she was tricked.. but she again you know tried to break up her close friends relationship for shits and giggles. But .. it’s at the very end of the episode and very easy to ignore, so it dosen’t really bother me too bad, and compared to some gags of the type i’ve seen, it could be MUCH worse.  Overall this wraparound is one of the series best and a good one to go out on. it has a simple premise, a brilliant antagonist plot, some great bits from all involved, and even a great Belle and Beast cameo. All in all a really good wraparound only hampered by a sexist and dated ending and Clarabelle being portrayed as ...

She’s the worst, in the world. Okay onto the shorts.

Mickey’s Piano Lesson: That was a Fun One

It really was. It’s a simple premise: Minnie wants MIckey to do a piano recital and he decides “I don’t need practice i’m mickey mouse. “ And it’s REALLY nice to have a short that has, rather than aw shucks mickey, shenanigans mickey. While thanks to the new shorts we’ve had tons, it’s still nice to get one in the House of Mouse era, and it’s just fun to see Mickey take the usual donald roll of letting his overconfidence punch him in the face> It fits both though: Both are everyman and while I lean towards the duck, to no one’s shock, Mickey is just as capable, and his lack of practice comes off less like the angry and hostile way donald would dismiss it and mroe just loveable procastination. And as someone who REALLY struggles with procastination I related to this short, as Mickey does everything else he’d rather do from bathing the dog to skydiving till Minnie, in a great bit informs him everyone from the president, to several dignitaries from other countries, to a televised audience will see. We then get two really great and really beatuifully animated bits as MIckey wrestles with the notes on thep age then fights with his piano as he performs, still pulling it off but destroying the thing and rightfully earning a glare form his girlfriend. Just a fun, slapstick short with a great premise. 

Dance of the Goofys: Scary Children Set to classical music, this one has a bunch of goofys as Fairy’s, who are making the flowers go and the one who sleeps in ends up saving the king from a horrifing looking little brat. He reminds me of Montanna Max a bit.. speaking of which Creer Summer recnetly announced Elmyra won’t be in the reboot. And while this does make me fear actually good characters like Fifi, Montana Max, and more will be cut like the animanics reboot and I do feel for Cree not getting to be involved and hope they find another roll for her as, given her status in the industry she deserves better.. THANK FUCKING GOD. I’ll go into this in another review I have planned for the future but unlike the cuts made to animaniacs this was a REALLY good decision i’m really greatful for. Thank you crew thank you. 

Back on topic, it’s just a fun, really beautifully animated short about the goofies and hteir shenanigans with a really great high concept. 

Maestro Minnie: Brahm’s Lullabye: Simply Irresitable Another simple but clever and lovely to watch one, and one I like quite a bit more. Minnie is conducting some living violins to Brahm’s Lullabye to get a baby Violin to sleep, and we get some really beautiful shots of her as she does so.. only to get comically interuppted by other insteruments turning up the noise. Not much to say on this one as it’s short and simple.. but sometimes short and simple is just what you need and the fun premise nad really beautiful especially for tv animation at the time visuals really sell this one.  ONce again, good stuff. 

Overall: This was a REALLY good note to go out on. While as I said the Clarabelle stuff can eat my entire ass, everything else is really damn good and I highly recommend checking this one out. Next time, in about a month, we’ll be looking at Pete’s spotlight episode for his birfday. While you wait tommorow we have my first look at legend of the three cabs. But for now, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. 

[rpbetter]

Hi Vespertine. Sorry to add to the pile, I promise I will send in some writing related things to compensate later. I also misgendered that user in a comment by accident with she/her. I blocked them, but they still looked at my blog, and they made a post that said by using the wrong pronouns, which they thought was intentional and meant to hurt them, I purposefully called them a hysterical woman stereotype. Obviously that wasn't true. I was just going off a comment someone else made on my blog where they used she/her, and I thought I had to correct myself. It was a case where good intentions, even if I was not happy with the user's behavior or expected to talk to them again, I was still going to use the right pronouns, but my intentions were warped by someone with an agenda. I'm sorry to hear you're getting the same heat. I didn't use my rp blog to interact with the user or talk about them because I was sure something like this would happen, either by them or other people like that callout blog, and I think other people had the same idea. I dodged a bullet there, but I'm still paranoid. I'm paranoid I'll hear a notif and see my rp blog in a callout for this, because someone hunted it down, or a callout for trying to talk to the person who started all the drama. Nobody should be scared to talk about someone on their own blog. Nobody should be scared to talk openly, in general. Nobody should be called out for trying to talk with someone either. This culture of fear is so disturbing to me.

Hey there, Anon!

Oh, I would love that, but you totally don't have to, of course. Don't feel bad for adding on, I'm here for anything at all, and honestly, with the job I'm doing IRL right now, it's really hard for me to concentrate well enough on finishing any of the advice posts (at least, to be the quality y'all deserve). It's a hot topic, it's included so, so, terribly many people in the RPC. It's also one that's generating some great, needed conversations. So, it isn't like you're adding to anything bad, annoying or distracting me, or contributing to the inflammatory side of this.

Hell, it's got to be really nice for some of the people in messages I've received to see proof that they weren't alone in this experience. I can keep publishing the hate anons for exactly that reason, and I can promise people they aren't the only ones (in this or in any such horrible behavior), but it's different to see it coming from a third party! So, thank you for that.

Though, I am deeply sorry that you were treated to more than a ringside seat in this debacle.

It's not very encouraging to be thoughtful and respectful of other people when literally nothing you can say or do will result in anything other than more twisting of your words, and that's a big problem I have with this shit. Things like actual transphobia, intentional misgendering, actual infantalization and shit treatment of ND people, actual harassment, etc. etc. etc. matter. It's just more trivializing of real problems for the sake of blowing nonexistent bullshit up, and that is immensely disgusting to me. The fact that you damn well know someone out there has had the reaction to this behavior of, well, fuck you then, fuck trans people is really upsetting.

Like, yeah, let's be real, if you require social rewards to do the right thing, you have some problems lol but at the same time, you know who does require social rewards to develop themselves? Young people. And the RPC is largely comprised of people in their early twenties who, for a variety of possible reasons, are still at that point

Furthermore, no, it's not anyone's job to be good representation at all times, especially when that performance comes at a cost to themselves, but maybe don't go out of your way to be the person that is the necessary push in the wrong direction of someone's formative experience with people of your community. If it's costing you nothing to not clown on serious issues, but is costing the entire world another bigot for you to clown on serious issues, the choice should be a bit obvious here. Whenever you're in a safe place - physically, emotionally - and capable of that kind of logic, exercise it, damn.

It's definitely a better course of action than playing out skewed activism by vilifying innocent people, more worthy of one's effort than losing their collective shit over a very easy mistake. One that I'd say was even less avoidable in your case. AGAIN, how, exactly is anyone supposed to know this shit when they're blocked? When they aren't subverting the blocks they, themselves, put in place? I know for a fact none of them are looking at the information of the people they choose to try to drive out of the RPC, but everyone else is supposed to make zero reasonable assumptions, check and recheck blogs they have made an effort not to visit for good reason. Sounds absolutely reasonable and sane!

So, you know what? I'm going to be even more offensive here and talk for a moment about why these mistakes are reasonable.

When we see a post and reblog it, it's not unreasonable to assume that the OP had knowledge we didn't. Since we blocked the offending party, but they're discussing them. OP uses the incorrect pronouns, we end using the incorrect pronouns as well. This is not malicious intent. It isn't intentional at all, it's just having a discussion. A discussion that wouldn't have even transpired if they hadn't taken it upon themselves to (what a coincidence) take personal issue with a RPer they repeatedly took out of context and decided to shame for it, before proceeding to get an even bigger stick and pot.

When we decide to block a blog, it's our responsibility to stay off of it. Not go looking at it for any reason. That is now off-limits. When someone blocks us, it's also our responsibility to respect that decision, no matter how outrageous it was, no matter what we might need to verify. That's the issue with blocking when we don't exploit how easy it is to get around blocking on tumblr; we've cut ourselves off from any further meaningful communication, including passive communication like rules and posts. Kind of like how you cannot expect an apology to mean a damn thing when you've blocked everyone you harassed, then made that apology in a post on your blocked blog. Don't put up walls you expect people to see through, then get upset when they can't see through them.

As a community, the RPC is primarily afab. That's never a problem to bring up when someone wants to be angry about their female muse not getting equal attention and so on, but it's a problem to discuss any other time, about any other problem. Dealing with the things that we're socially raised to ascribe to as afab people is that problem. It's reflected in our behaviors, interests, and speech. We may not want to live in a gendered world, we may eschew that, but we were raised in a gendered world and it shows. One which has a lot of complications for being that, like almost everyone feeling safer around afab people by default of the All Men Are Bad, All Women Are Harmless bullshit.

We not only know that the RPC is primarily afab, we tend to assume comfort, especially in hostile situations, by assuming those pronouns in others.

And it so does not matter how much any of us like it, some people have more masculine or feminine tones. Even in text. That means neither that someone's gender identity should be disregarded nor that this text-based presentation is correct, but like every other unfair thing that exists, it's a thing. Like you, Anon, you genuinely come across in tone as primarily neutral, slight lean toward masculine. Even if I wasn't inclined to do so, not knowing you and all, I'd use they/them for you instinctively because that's what your speech is giving me. That isn't any more unreasonable than ascribing another set of pronouns based on the same information.

Oh yeah, I know, lurkers, the difference is that they/them is the appropriate choice when one does not know. I know that logically, but people aren't always operating like robots, weirdly enough. We default to a lot of instinctive behaviors, and we aren't always operating at the top rung of cognition either. Being human works like that, it's really that simple and not malicious if you're not reading that into it.

As we're all aware, it is being read into, and your experience is exactly why; you now feel worried every time you get a notif, you've been outed as a supposed transphobe, and while it is incredibly fortunate you stopped this from transpiring on your RP blog, it still transpired somewhere and has had a negative effect. If they find they correct thing or set of things, they can get so many more people to dogpile you over it. Get enough people to do that, make someone miserable enough, especially people who are already going through a hard enough time already, they'll leave.

It is a terroristic act, and it has the effect of all terroristic acts; people are afraid to exist outside of shifting bounds (that shifting is a part of the terrorism). They can't have an opinion, write any muse/topic they wish, be honest on their own blogs, support the "wrong" topics, muns, or blogs. Attacking people for a mistake, not allowing them to address it either, just furthers all of that. It's showing the community what happens when you aren't on the "right" side, even if that isn't even the case. They certainly turn on their own quickly enough.

So, of course, it's a culture of fear and it is disturbing as hell. No one has any right to make someone feel unsafe over fiction or a hobby or a difference of opinion. Everyone has the right to say whatever they want on their own blogs, to talk openly, and yes, to try to talk to others without feeling at risk.

Even if what someone says is genuinely unpleasant. This isn't the way one handles it. By all means, have a problem with something, have a problem with someone, but grow up and talk to them openly, without bringing everyone you can dredge up to join in. I have no issue with people arguing, I have an issue with bullying. If it's your whole goal to harass people without consequences to the end result of deactivation and lockstep behavior from everyone else, that's what you're doing, folks. Bullying.

If you can't win an argument, especially one your own ass began, in any other way than this, you're not engaging in an argument.

[marvelatthehottotties]

James Buchanan Barnes - Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks for taking a peak at this! Don’t be afraid to give us feed back! Co-written by @keliza​

Prologue Masterpost for the series

Warnings: Second hand embarrassment, bullying, sketchy frat dudes

Words: 3,092

 A college freshman. Once again, the low end of the food chain. The bottom rung. Things tended to cycle like that, so you could stay humble. It was your job to learn from it and realize that there was no such thing as the top of the food chain. There was always going to be someone higher than you whether you realized it or not. The end of elementary school was the high end. Then it was middle school. Then high school. A never ending cycle that continued on. Once you finished college it would be you planting right back into the workforce on the bottom rung, like swimming upstream. 

Everyone was just a salmon, hopping those little waterfalls. The only issue was you were scared to jump every time that jump happened. You could see the waterfalls were so close and everyone was jumping. But you could also see the shadows of those grizzlys looming, waiting with open mouths to crush you and devour you. Bears didn’t care if you were a big or a small fish, which made being a small fish especially hard.

This was an exhausting process, but the fear of being left behind made you jump finally and you were free to swim again, comfortable now that the bridge was crossed. 

And here you were, this waterfall had appeared much faster than you had expected. 

Peter had dragged you to a college party. Apparently, he knew some of the people, which honestly blew you away as the majority of the kids here weren’t kids at all. Everyone here looked like they had credentials, like they were legally allowed to drink, not just kegging to get the alcohol. 

Peter. The scrawny pipsqueak that had grown up next door. The one your mother loved and your father hoped would one day be his son. Peter and you wouldn’t love each other like that. He’d always eyed the popular cheerleader. The perky homecoming queen. And you…. Well you just couldn’t tear yourself away from the fantasy men in your novels. You were rarely attracted to people. Well, real people anyway. The kind you had a chance with.

This battlefield was different. You need to jump this waterfall and just swim on but the anxiety of not knowing anyone was creeping up your throat.

“Excuse me,” an enormous, sculpted man with an accent chirps. He flashes you a flirty smile as he slides around you. In your horror (had your eyes seriously deceived you?), you stumble backward and away from the punch table, careful not to bump into the couple unabashedly making out in the corner. 

The man’s arms rippled as he made a few drinks and quickly returned the way he came, shooting you another overly friendly smile. A horde of drunk girls squealed as he returned to them, passing off the second drink to a dark haired guy nearby and the girls converged like vultures on him. 

You glanced around. The couple nearby wasn’t quite as desperate as the highschool students in their antics. It was softer, looked tastier. You darted your gaze away, feeling like you were intruding. Where was Peter, he’d been in the bathroom an awful long time now.

The pit of nervousness was filling you, sinking harder as it grew in your gut. You looked about for anything familiar, struggling to find something.

The Stark house was something straight out of a magazine. Perfect for the well off lawyer and his family in town. Nothing like your own family home. Soft and quaint, quiet even. This was loud and sharp and modern. It was too cold to be familiar in the way you wanted. It offered no comfort. 

Neither did these older people. Most of them couldn’t be more than five years older but you still managed to feel out of place. Like a child at a PTA meeting. You wanted to go home so badly, but Ned, who’d driven, also seemed to be missing. 

“Looking for a drink?” Someone asked, you glanced, because it was loud enough to hear over the music. You were surprised, however, to see a stranger making direct eye contact. A tall, dark and handsome guy with a crooked nose and an even more crooked smile. It made your gut drop nervously. 

“No, thank you,” you managed, politely. “Just waiting on my friends.” Your hands tighten harshly on your purse strap as the guy steps closer.

“You sure? I’m making one myself, it’s no trouble.”

“That’s kind, but I'm the designated driver, can’t drink,” you lie. The guy gives a shrug at you.

“Are you even old enough? To drive? You look pretty young.” You give a non committal shrug and start glancing around, praying that Ned and Peter would appear. This man was making your skin crawl and you think it might be better to look for an out.

Nearby there are some college guys spinning someone in a desk chair. The kid looked like he was gonna be sick. Plenty of hollering sounds as he does hurl and give a drunken smile after. 

“Ew,” the girl from the couple behind you hisses. So, she’d managed to notice as well. She grabs his hand and drags him away, leaving you with the dark haired guy.

“Brock,” the guy offers, and moves closer. You dance away a bit, uncomfortable with how close he now was. “Hey, sorry. I’m not some bad guy, just making conversation.” He doesn’t step back. Dread is sinking in your gut and you pick anxiously at the sleeve of your sweater.

“I should go look for my friends,” you start, voice dropping to prevent from it shaking. 

The guy takes a step towards you, and you do the only thing you can think of as alarm fills you. You were not well known for being bold. You dart quickly only to knock into someone else so hard you nearly tumble back. You’re terrified as you look up into the face of another man. His eyes are hard as he glances over you quickly, then they dart to the guy directly behind you. 

“Brock,” rolls a voice from the guy who’s hands are now on your waist, steadying you. Despite the casual way he says the name, it’s got a warning to it. “Why are you over here trying to scare girls?” He was helping you? 

“I was just going to come looking for you,” you blurt before he’s even done speaking. Glancing up at this man, hoping he’d roll with your lie and focusing less on the fact that his hands were so warm. He adjusted immediately.

“Steve’s around here somewhere. Sorry for leaving you. Do you want to go sit?” He asks. His hands resting ever so gently on your shoulders now. You nod.

“Ain’t she a little young for you, Barnes?”

“My cousin is none of your business, Rumlow.” Brock looks pissed as he locks his jaw. You grasp the new man’s hand hard and without any hesitation, he leads you toward the stairs. “Let’s get some air on the upstairs patio, kiddo.” 

Kiddo! Kiddo! Your savior thinks he saved a kid! Not a damsel? This was straight out of a romance novel and the lead (who was incredibly handsome) just called you his cousin and kiddo. Oh, but he smelled like motor oil, and that made your toes curl. 

God was cruel.

“I’m eighteen,” you interject as he drags you up the stairs. When he flashes you a smile you catch your toe on a step and nearly die on those stairs. The guy hooks an arm under you to drag you up, however. Your cheeks heat as mortification fills you. But he’s so close…

“Mhmm. Focus on one foot at a time, okay?” 

Kill me.

And you manage to make it up the stairs without too much more trouble. He navigates around the bodies with ease, meandering away. Finally, he arrives out on a balcony with you. A few people linger around. You took a moment to take him in. Hair pulled up in a little bun on the back of his head, a wide jaw, cute nose and cool blue eyes. Not to mention he had grease streaked on his arm. Whatever vehicle he was working on before this, he hadn’t showered between and it gave him a delightful metal smell. Complete with his tattered tee shirt and stained jeans and boots, he looked like he’d rolled right out of a novel. 

“You’re gone five minutes and you’ve already got a girl?” Someone sighs. You snap your eyes to a tall, slim kid who’s lounging on one of the designer patio chairs. He brushes some of his soft blond hair from his eyes.

You were suddenly aware that you were still clinging to this poor man’s hand like my life depended on it. “Ah! Sorry, I-I didn’t… I didn’t mean to-”

“Relax, doll, you’re okay,” he chirped and lead me over. “This is Steve.”

“Hi, Steve,” You greet meekly. “Thanks for getting me out of there but I should be heading to find my friends Peter and Ned,” You try to excuse.

“Getting her out of there?” Steve repeats, and his awkward expression regresses into a stone cold one.

“Yeah, Rumlow’s ass was harassing her. Meet my cousin. I’m adopting her.” Your cheeks flare. Worse than being friend zoned. I swear. 

“Brock?” Steve repeats, eyes flaring. 

“Sit your ass down, Steve, it’s taken care off. Why don’t you sit down with us?” The last part is directed at you. “Your friends can come find you.” You almost deny it, but your savior… you want to learn more about him.

“I don’t want to intrude,” you offer.

“Non-sense,” Steve calls. “Sit.” You slowly sink down on a patio sofa, your hand relaxed in the guys hold. You notice the twitch of thick muscle beneath his shirt as he moves to settle beside you.

“So, what’s your name?” The cute guy asks.

“(Y/N),” you answer.

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N). I’m Bucky.” Your heart flutters uncomfortably in your belly. It was rare you reacted this way, but he’d been so kind. When Bucky settles beside you, his knee pressed against yours and you’re so caught up by it you don’t notice the knowing look Steve passes to Bucky. Or the grin that Bucky sends back to him.

“Have you graduated?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah, I start at Avalon College this fall, do you guys go there?” 

“Stevie does, I don’t.” 

The casual conversation ate away at the wild adrenaline that sunk your gut. The nervousness easing in the presence around. Only the bitter awkwardness was gaining on you. 

“So, what do you do?” Bucky glances down at the front of his tee shirt and you catch the name of the local mechanic shop. When he looks back at your embarrassed face, he flashes an amused grin and throws an arm over your shoulder. Being so close to the warmth of him. “Mechanic?” You manage to squeak. How had you not noticed the bright white lettering on his black shirt. It hid the grease stains pretty well. Probably do to his pearly white smile, or his sinful smirk.

He threw an ankle over his lap and twisted. “Yes, ma’am. What are you studying at school?” It felt so intimate how close he was leaning in. 

“Uh, undecided,” you offer. When you glance at Steve, he’s trying to hide his big grin, warm eyes gentle on you. 

“What are you doing at a party like this, it doesn’t seem like your normal scene.” He asks.

“My friends Peter and Ned dragged me with them. I’m usually the third wheel. To be honest they may have forgotten I’m here.” Steve frowns at me. “I guess Peter got invited by Tony earlier this week.”

“They don’t sound like very good friends,” Bucky rumbles, eyes narrowed coldly. It makes you gulp and retreat into the cushions a bit. 

“No! They’re wonderful. They support me as much as I support them. They’re just easily distracted, you know?” Bucky still frowns at this answer and shakes his head.

“And leave you alone long enough that Rumlow starts to follow you.” You shift uncomfortably. 

“You know, I’m going to grab a drink,” Steve offers awkwardly. “Do you want anything? Water? Juice?” He asks you. 

“Uh, juice if they’ve got it,” you reply. He stands and leaves, not bothering with Bucky’s. You try to push the thought behind you. That he’s getting you something non-alcoholic for you. You teeter between grateful, and irritated. Was he doing it because they thought of you as a kid or because he wanted to make sure you weren’t taken advantage of?

You start to squirm away from Bucky a bit, as Steve leaves. “I’m gonna check my phone real quick,” you offer. He gestures for you to go ahead and watches as you drag it from your back pocket. 

“Hey, Bucky!” You hear someone call. Light and airy, like a goddess. You lift your head from the lock screen to see a gorgeous blonde, approaching. Legs looking extra long in her leggings and heels.

“Hey, Lindsey,” You don’t like the twitchy nature she inspires in Bucky. His hand twitches by your shoulder, like he almost dragged it away as he moved to sit up straighter. Apparently he thinks twice about this move and sinks into a more natural position. She’s not even looking at him as she struts toward the chair on the other side of him.

A little voice nags in your head. They have history. You can see in the way he tries to act nonchalant. If you hadn’t seen that nervous (or eager, you can’t quite tell) shift, then you wouldn’t be able to tell. He keeps his voice even and his eyes never waver. You admired him silently for being able to hold his nervousness at bay like this.

“Who’s your little friend?” She smiles sweetly, a perfect facade to her real intentions. You briefly wondered if she was being sincere but the wording made your brain stutter with hesitation.

Bucky took a short intake of breath that you could feel against his shoulder as he switched from lounging next to you, to tucking you against his ribs. His expression chilled to something akin to the one he gave Brock downstairs. “What do you want?” He rumbles, voice still even. Her face flutters a bit, not expecting his reaction.

“Wha- excuse you? I was being polite!”

“No, you’re being passive aggressive. What do you want?” Her expression sours from offence. 

“I came by to talk to you, James,” she hisses the name and it only makes him roll his eyes at her. “Rumlow said she’s your cousin. Looking a little comfortable there to be a cousin.”

“You always listen to what Rumlow says, Linz?” He didn’t bat an eyelash even though you were squirming uncomfortably. She turns her eyes on you, they burn into your soul.

“Can you give us a minute, hon? You’re kind of intruding on a private conversation.” Her hand drifts closer, reaching toward Bucky’s knee.

“Me?” You squeak. You wish it’d been hissed out but your lack of confrontation, shoved you down. Never in your life had you felt so offended. Were there really girls like this still? 

Bucky’s hand tightens over your shoulder and his ankle slips from his knee. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s sitting straighter now as you’re practically crushed to his side. His hand would be more exciting if the pettiness you feel rising in you wasn’t so raw. “Yes, you.”

“No, not her,” Bucky rumbles low. “She’s not going anywhere if she doesn’t want to.” To spite her, you deliberately bite back nervousness and place a hand on his thigh, near his knee. You hope it looks natural enough. You think it does as her hand falls away from where it hung in the air. 

“I don’t want to,” you promise, your voice still soft. You cannot believe you’re being this bold.

“This is between us!”

“She was here first.”

“Fine,” she sighs, and moves. She turns towards Bucky more. It sends a bolt of unease through you. “James, I wanted to talk about getting back together with you. Don’t tell me you don’t want to, too.”

“Lindsey,” he states, and for a moment, you fear he will cave. His arms draw away from you, he leans close to her. “After this, you can go fuck yourself.” He says softly. Too softly. He’s mocking her. A little thrill floats through you. Amazed at how good this felt. She shoots a shocked look at him. Then you. Then she became furious.

“JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES! YOU’RE A FUCKING PIG!” She squeals in absolute outrage. As she flies to her feet. He tilts back against the cushions, expression ever cool. You couldn’t read him at all. “I’M SO SICK OF YOU TREATING ME LIKE SHIT! SHE’S LIKE FIFTEEN! THERE IS NO WAY SHE’S FUCKING LEGAL!” She twists towards you and on reflex you snatch up Bucky’s hand and squeeze tight. “Don’t worry, he’ll break your heart and leave you just like the rest of us, sweetie.”

“That’s nice,” you manage to squeak. She fumes, deciding to storm away, you hear her as she flies down the stairs, screeching insults along the way. “Wow,” you whisper to Bucky, flushing from the onlookers. Your savior snorts and bursts into laughter.

“Sorry about her,” he chuckles. “Guess we're even now, kiddo.”

“Does that mean I have to leave now?” You ask.

“No! No, you can stay as long as you want.” He shoots you a beaming smile.

“There won’t be any more exes, right?” You ask, only half joking. The mechanic throws his arm over your shoulder and tugs you against him, ruffling your hair playfully.

“Don’t worry, (Y/N). I’ve got your back. You’re too pure to let anyone bully you but me.” You peek up at your new crush in surprise. 

“Yeah, but wait until the rumor mill gets ahold of the fact that we’re cousins and lovers,” you shoot back.

“Ah, fuck ‘em. Haven’t you heard, incest is in right now.” And his wink flutters your heart even as his words disgust you. This reminds you vaguely of the uncomfortable crush you had as a child on a distant cousin. The crush that you only ever spoke of once to Peter… when you were drunk. This crush would never be more than that, but for now, you’d let Bucky tug you a little closer than necessary, forgetting to check your phone all together.

tagging: @tomisbaeholland​

[yehet-me-up]

Frozen North ~ Night Four

PAIRING: Chanyeol x reader

GENRE: Horror/Suspense/SPOOP in general/light romance (because who else would I be?)

WORD COUNT: 2,164

RATING: PG13 (nothing gruesome, but knowing me there will be swearing)

SUMMARY: You run a late night radio show dedicated to telling scary stories and urban legends, the creepier the better. Listeners call in and share their own, creating a small but loyal community of folks like you who love this sort of thing. One night, a man calls in with what sounds like an all-too-real story and before you know it, you’ll do anything to make sure he’s safe.

Frozen North Masterlist

You and Yoora agree to meet up for coffee on campus before your first class of the day. The winter morning is icy cold and you bundle yourself up in your North Face parka, knit beanie, and gloves and head off for the cafe at Suzzallo.

She looks almost exactly like her photos - perfectly groomed bob of shiny black hair, high cheekbones. A nervous smile plays on her lips as she looks around the room, clutching her mug of coffee. You give her a small wave and thread your way through the mass of students and she sags with relief.

'Thank you so much for meeting me,' she starts before you've even sat down.

You take off your hat and gloves and shove them in your bag, pulling out your phone and placing it face up. There's not been a second in the last few hours that you haven't had it close. Sleep didn't come easy, in fits and spurts. Wild dreams tormented you, of Chanyeol and what he was going through. 

How you wished you could reach through the phone and pull him into the warmth and safety of your bed.

The thought makes you blush in the heat of the cafe. 'Of course, I want to help.'

Yoora pulls out her own phone and shows you the call log. 'I've been trying him for days. We just had lunch on Sunday. Monday he didn't answer which, knowing how he works like a man possessed, isn't unusual. By Tuesday I was worried and by Wednesday I knew something was wrong.'

You nod in agreement. 'The first call on Tuesday sounded almost like a joke or, I don't know, a new twist on a story. It would hardly be the strangest thing that's happened on my show.' You unlock your phone and look through the call log. 'He called me before that, actually. But I didn't think anything of it.'

Her brows pull together. 'Really?'

Turning it so she can see you point out the FaceTime call that came through just before you started on Tuesday. 'Yeah, it's weird - I don't know Chanyeol. Even though we both go to U dub we've never crossed paths.'

'Why on earth would he be calling from an Alaska number?' she asks, distraught. 'What is going on here?'

You sigh and rub your forehead. 'I could try calling him, see if it goes through? I've tried a lot over the last few days. It seems there's no predicting when he'll call. He never answers.'

Yoora nods. 'You go first, with your Alaska number. Then I'll try his cell. If neither go through, I'm going to the police.'

Dread curdles in your stomach and you agree. Hitting the call button, you squeeze your eyes together and pray that this is all some sort of horrible dream. But it rings, endlessly like always, before giving the same message about a voicemail box.

With a shake of your head you watch Yoora do the same. She chews on her lip, looking as haunted and sad as you feel. After a minute she hangs up. Looking resolved, she slides her phone back into her purse. 

'I'll let you know what happens. Thank you, for letting me know. The recordings will help I'm sure.' She reaches across the table and rests her hands on top of yours. 

'The show is on at eight. I'll have my phone with me the whole time. If something happens, I'll be there.'

With a nod she grabs her still-full coffee and strides off. 

For long minutes you sit there, spinning your phone around on the table. The noise in the cafe is endless but you don’t hear it. All you can think about is this man who came into your life, who feels connected to you by the thinnest of ropes. But it matters. Even if you don’t know why, he matters more than anything.

Determined, you stand up. With a grunt you knock into someone standing right behind you. A male voice curses softly. When you turn to apologize you gasp, embarrassment turning your cheeks red.

‘Professor Langford? I’m so sorry,’ you start.

He gives you a friendly wave and shakes his head, gesturing to the coffee spilled across his wool coat. ‘It’s nothing, truly. I should have been looking where I was going.’

You grab some napkins from the condiments station and hand them to him. He good-naturedly blots at it and gives you a reassuring smile. But there’s something off. Tension radiates off him, a nervous energy that makes you step back, bumping the back of your chair.

‘What are you doing in this fine cafe today?’ he asks, a hungry look in his eye.

Swallowing, you try to not let your confusion show. ‘Just meeting a friend for coffee.’

He scans you up and down, assessing. ‘You seem upset, is everything alright? Is this thing with Chanyeol getting to you?’

Something dangerous hovers in the air, an unease you can almost taste. ‘Why do you ask?’

Professor Langford blinks, coming back to himself. He coughs and dabs the coffee once more before balling the napkins and depositing them in the trash can next to him. When he faces you again he seems almost like himself. 

‘Just curious, that’s all. It is my area of interest, after all,’ he says with a half smile.

‘Yeah, you’re right.’

He gives you an awkward nod. ‘Well, see you in class.’

You stand there and watch as he hurries out of the cafe, pushing out into the light snow that falls in Red Square. With a shake of your head you carry on with your day.

The text you’re hoping for finally comes in while you’re walking to your last class of the day.

Yoora 3:47PM: the police won’t do anything You 3:47PM: oh my god, really? Did you play them the recordings? Yoora 3:47PM: yes, i was there for hours. They say it’s nothing conclusive. That he’s 27 years old and there’s nothing but our word to say there’s something wrong with him You 3:48PM: unbelievable Yoora 3:48PM: hopefully he’ll call in tonight. I can’t take much more of this. You 3:48PM: he will. I know it. We’re going to figure this out

An anxious energy eats away at you as you bustle into the station. Plans, questions, anything you think might help all swirl in your mind. Maybe someone will call in who knows him? Maybe he’ll be able to tell you where he is?

Suse gives you a sympathetic hug when you swap out at the turn of the hour. ‘No luck?’

You sigh and run your hand through your hair. ‘Nothing. His sister and I met up and tried calling again. No answer. She took everything to the police and they refuse to help. They said there’s not enough evidence.’

‘What the fuck.’ She looks to the ceiling, hesitating and chewing her lip. ‘Okay I have an idea. It might be nuts but-’

‘I’m desperate Suse,’ you say, holding her shoulders. ‘I’ll do anything. I know in my gut this is real.’

Something she sees in your face convinces her and she nods, pulling out her phone. After shooting off a text she slips it back in her purse. ‘He’ll be here in twenty.’

‘Who will?’

She leans in and whispers. ‘Jimmy’s sister had this sketchy ass boyfriend who kept calling and harassing her so he downloaded this program that traces calls. It’s not exactly… legal. But I think if your Chanyeol calls in tonight we should be able to get it hooked up to the computer and figure out where he is.’

You nearly crush her you hug her so tight. ‘Oh my god, Suse. I don’t even - that would be incredible.’

She hugs you back before smacking your butt padded by your parka. ‘Don’t thank me until we find him. Now get in there, you have a show to run.’

It takes some convincing before Daniel allows Jimmy to set up his laptop in the listening booth, but eventually he caves. He wants this resolved as badly as any of you. For over an hour you and Jimmy wait anxiously while you attempt to carry on your show as normally as possible.

Several people call in saying they wish they could help with Chanyeol. A few people know him - from class, from the underground rock scene in Seattle, from various jobs over the years. No one has a bad thing to say about him and you wish over and over that you could hear his voice again. That you could see him in person. You wonder if he lives up to the hype, something within you says that he will exceed it.

When the calls taper off you transition to your prepared content. Two people call in with snippets from stories they’re working on. You do a piece on the rumored Thirteen Steps to Hell in Maltby, Washington’s cemetery. When you wrote it you felt the familiar thrill in your veins. Of excitement. Of wonder. Of fear, licking up your spine and reminding you of the terrifying and unknown myths and legends of the world.

But now, in the cold studio with your cell phone clutched in your hand, it doesn’t feel anything like you’d planned. The only thing you feel is afraid and full of want. For relief and for this to be over and for him to be safe.

Through intermission and on into the usual Friday open hour discussion on favorite international urban legends your phone is deadly silent and you want to scream and throw it at the wall. Suse and Daniel in the booth give you tight-lipped smiles and nods of encouragement whenever you turn to them, dread inhabiting your stiff movements.

But just before the end of the night, at 11:45, your phone buzzes.

CHANYEOL WOULD LIKE TO FACETIME

‘Fuck -’ you say on the air, trying to hit the accept button with frozen shaking fingers.

Jimmy does his best to recover as well, unplugging his link from the computer and pulling out an iphone cord from his bag. Frantically you lift the phone to your ear and motion for someone to come take over the mic while you answer. Suse bustles into the room and says something about taking a break.

You hardly hear her. Every atom of your being leans towards the phone, grasping for a sound - his voice, wind, wolves, anything.

‘Chanyeol? Are you there?’

A scuffling comes through and then: ‘I’m here.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ you practically sob.

Hands brush against yours where it holds the phone and then Jimmy sits back, giving you a thumbs up. He types frantically on his computer and Suse breathes against your other ear, resting a reassuring arm over your shoulder.

‘How are you?’

He grunts. ‘It’s so cold here. I feel like I’m losing myself. It’s so dark and I just - all I dream about is ice. And wolves. Red eyes. Blood. I just want to be warm.’

You ask him the first question that comes to mind, anything to keep him on longer, to bring him back to himself. ‘What’s your favorite Radiohead song?’

‘Radiohead...? How did you know I like them?’

‘It’s a long story, Chanyeol,’ you sigh. ‘Tell me, please.’

‘I guess… Creep. Definitely my favorite.’

You smile. It’s yours as well. That spark of energy in your chest ignites again. Something like fate and just as insistent. ‘Why do you like it?’

More shuffling. ‘I like how I feel when I sing it. I need words, lyrics, to know how I feel. It’s the only language that makes sense to me sometimes.’

‘I know what you mean,’ you says softly, looking around that the booth. In the cocoon you’ve built from the world over the past few years.

‘What’s your favorite?’ he asks, the low rumble of his voice crossing your skin all the way through the phone, wherever he is.

‘Mine is-’ you start, but your words are interrupted.

‘Enough!’ someone says near the phone. A female voice this time.

Chanyeol grunts and you hear a crash. The line goes dead and you want to scream. The silence in the room is so pervasive and heavy you can feel the air vibrating. Jimmy next to you is still and you nervously look at him.

‘Anything?’ Suse asks, saying the words you can’t bring yourself to.

He nods, unable to look away from the computer. ‘You’re not going to believe this. It’s coming from fucking Seattle. Three blocks from here.’

~~~~~~~~~~~

Tagging @yeoldontknow​ @enthusiastt​ @itskindofafairything​ @gogh-suck-it​@nshitae​ <3

[lefaystrent]

Could you write a short story where Virgil is out at a store, Deceit and Remus spot him. Virgil is like F social interaction. Then is only rude because he really didn't feel like being noticed by people who recognize him. (Patton could be another costumer, Roman a cashier who is working there when not acting, Logan getting supplies for a science class at school)

A Storm Rolled into Town

Fandom: Thomas Sanders,Sanders Sides

Pairings: none

Summary: It’s not likeVirgil meant to become famous anyway. It just sorta happened. And now he’sshopping in some small-town mom-and-pop store on a weekday morning. Despitewearing the hood of his jacket up and perhaps looking the more conspicuous forit, he can sense that someone somewhere in this store is watching him.

Word Count: 2150

________________________________________________________________

Virgil Storm was born with eyes inthe back of his head.

Not literally. It was mostly justanxiety and paranoia working in tandem to create a 360° zone of caffeinated caution.A necessary skill when you became part of the famous crowd. All it took was onecrazy person with a knife screaming about how you’re meant to be together, andthen you’re fucking dead.

Not that Virgil had been assaultedby anyone.

Yet.

He has had experiences witha couple of stalkers before that were quickly handled. It’s amazing how whenmore than a handful of people know your name and can buy your merch, theirsense of entitlement turns you into a thing to be owned.

It’s not like Virgil meant tobecome famous anyway. It just sorta happened.

And now he’s shopping in some small-townmom-and-pop store on a weekday morning. He had to make a pit-stop on his longdrive back home to Florida. Sure, he could have gotten home faster if he’dridden in a plane. He could also set this store on fire or go jump in a lakewhile strapped to an anvil. Doesn’t mean he’s going to.

The point is, Virgil is very awareof how famous he is, and despite wearing the hood of his jacket up and perhapslooking the more conspicuous for it, he can sense that someone somewhere inthis store is watching him.

Virgil glances down the aislebehind him, but there’s nothing. Again.

He lets out a huff of air andcontinues to peruse the candy section. He’s got a craving for something sour,but he’s not looking to get accosted here.

He swipes up a packet of gummy wormsand goes around to the chip rack next. Virgil subtly peeks around the store,noting the two guys manning the register counter. They look young, maybe aroundtwenty. They’re more talking and laughing rather than working. Other than them,there’s this one nerdy looking guy in a tie and glasses over by the stationary.The store seems empty otherwise.

Virgil picks up a large bag of sourcream ‘n onion and nearly screams when there’s a mustached face poking out inthe space left behind.

“Boo!” the man says.

“Fuck off!” Virgil growls andthrows the chip bag right at the face.

A series of snickers come back fromthe candy aisle that Virgil had just vacated. Pissed off and heart racing, hewhips his head around to see some guy in a bowler hat.

“I do believe the phrase ‘got you’fits this scene well,” Bowler Hat says.

“You didn’t ‘get’ anything,” Virgilhisses.

“Oh? So you didn’t just jump likeyou’d seen a ghost?”

“He definitely jumped, Dee! He evenpeed his pants!” Mustached Man cackled, coming out from behind the chip rack.

“I didn’t—” Virgil went to defendhimself but found it pointless. These guys just seemed like assholes. “Justleave me alone.”

“Oh poo, have some fun would you?”

“Now Remus, let’s not annoy him toomuch. Wouldn’t want him to storm out.”

Storm.

He made it very clear that he knewVirgil’s last name. If the pointed pun didn’t say as much, the smarmy grin onBowler Hat’s face surely did.

Virgil tried not to show how muchthat got to him.

“So what? You know who I am. Bigdeal. Buzz off and let me shop in peace.” If these two kept harassing him orworse, Virgil could always threaten to call the cops. Then again, cops took afew minutes to respond, and it only took less than a second to die.

New plan. Virgil could throw downthe chip rack and then run for his life. And if that didn’t work, he carriedpepper spray on his person for a reason.

“What brings someone such asyourself to our neck of the woods?” Bowler Hat questioned, not leaving Virgilalone in the slightest.

Mustached Man jumped up beside hisfriend, leaning an arm against his shoulder to loudly whisper, “I bet he needsto hide a dead body!”

Virgil’s eye twitched. “Yeah,because that’s the only reasonable explanation, right?”

Mustached Man nodded in agreement. “Nothingelse to do around here.”

“It does get rather dull here,”Bowler Hat mused. He brushed his gloved fingers over his chin.

Seriously, who the hell were theseguys? And were they intentionally being low-key threatening? Perhaps not, butthat’s how they were coming across anyway.

“That’s nice.” Virgil smiled in away that showed his utter contempt. Better than showing his fear. “Now if you’redone bothering me, I’ve got things to buy.”

He would have liked something morethan just the gummy worms, but he no longer felt hungry enough to risk hislife.

Virgil walked away, his stepspicking up speed as he heard Mustached Man barking at him.

He was never stopping anywhere everagain.

________________________________________________________________

Roman sat at the register counter,bored out of his mind.

“Patton, my loyal companion. Remindme why we’re here again?”

“Because we get paid to be here.”

“Ah.” Roman nodded, eyes narrowedin deep understanding.

Then he slumped over with a whimperingwhine. His head banged against the countertop.

“Awww, cheer up Ro-Ro! We’ve only gota few more hours left of our shift!”

“My shackled soul is unmoved byyour comfort. They are but mere words in the face of unforgiving oppression.”

“…so what you’re saying is that youneed a pun, right? Or maybe a hug. A combination of the two? A pug. Oh!Doggy!”

Roman snorted as Patton’s train ofthought derailed. He sat up to stare at his coworker and long-time friend.

He snapped his fingers. “Focus,Puffball.”

“Oh, right,” Patton said,refocusing. His expression became determined. “Go on and get all the angst out,kiddo. I’m all ears.”

“Retail suuuuuucks,” Roman concluded.“My creative spirit yearns for a place I can spread my wings and thrive! I ammeant for bigger and better stages. You see this face? You hear this voice? Alltoo good to be squandered away in Backwoodsville, Tennessee.”

“We don’t live in Tennessee.”

“My point is that I am a work ofart, and yet I am left collecting dust in grandma’s attic. It is a crime! Theuniverse should give me a break already.”

From the stationary aisle, afamiliar voice contributed to the conversation, “Perhaps if you put nearly asmuch effort into publicizing yourself to the entertainment community instead ofwhining, you wouldn’t be stuck where you are now.”

Roman slammed a hand on thecounter. “No one asked you, Microsoft Nerd!”

Logan smirked and resumed hisshopping. They knew each other of course. It was hard not to recognize everyonewhen you worked in one of the only stores in town. Plus all three of them hadgone to high school together.

Patton patted Roman’s shoulder insympathy. “I think what Logan’s trying to say is that you’ve got loads of potentialand I’m sure someone’s going to notice one day.”

“That is not what I said at all,but go off I guess,” Logan stated.

Roman flipped him off. Somehow, despitehis back turned to him, Logan must have sensed it and returned the gesture rightback to him.

Patton swatted at Roman’s hands. “Don’tbe ugly!”

“That’s impossible for someone likeme.” Roman grinned.

Patton sighed. “What am I going todo with you?”

“Love me, of course.”

Patton giggled.

“Hi,” a clipped voice cut in. Romantore his attention away from the agony of his life to regard the customer athis counter.

Roman hopped up from his seat andshifted flawlessly into his customer service spiel. “Hello! Ready to check out?”

“Yeah,” the man nodded, his hoodfalling back a bit at the movement.

Roman smiled. He recognized thejacket brand and was about to compliment the customer’s taste.

Their eyes met briefly and Roman’sheart exploded.

Virgil Storm.

Virgil freaking Storm was standingat his register counter.

No. No it couldn’t—

HOLY SHIT!

“That’s it,” Virgil Storm said,tossing a pack of sour gummy worms onto the counter. He briefly glanced overhis shoulder as if to look for something. He wasn’t really paying attention toRoman, so he didn’t catch being ogled.

Oh god, Virgil Storm was standingat his register. No matter how many times Roman looked, Virgil Stormstood there, and all Roman could do was ogle him.

Roman suddenly found the candypacket very interesting.

If he kept his head down, nothingbad would happen, right?

“Uh . . . that’s it,” Virgil saidagain, and Roman realized that he’d been standing there frozen.

Willing his limbs to unthaw, Romanmechanically reached for the candy and ran it over the scanner. A beep sounded,and with a stiff arm, he punched for the total.

“Your total is . . . a number.”

“What?”

Roman couldn’t even look up farenough to check the screen. How could he? When one of his idols stood beforehim. He owned all of this man’s albums, for God’s sake!

“Yes,” Roman said, as if thatexplained everything.

“Okay . . .” Virgil said. Heshuffled, presumably getting his wallet out or something. Internally, Roman wasscreaming to Patton for help, but sadly his friend had never mastered telepathy.In fact, he had no idea what Patton was doing right now. He wasn’t sayinganything, that was for sure. Did he even recognize the celebrity in their storeright now?

“Here,” Virgil offered a five-dollarbill.

Roman blinked at it. Wasn’t VirgilStorm rich? Why was he using cash when he could use a card?

Carefully, lest he mess up andforever embarrass himself, Roman reached up and took the bill from him. Theirfingers weren’t even close to touching, but Roman still felt like he’d steppedon a live-wire, a shock racing through his system.

Roman had dreamed many a time ofcasually running into his idols. He imagined nearly daily of becoming likethem, of leaving his mark, of impressing those that he looked up to. He wouldbe suave and graceful and witty, a dazzling star in the making who would sweepthem off their feet.

Instead Roman hunched in on himselfand began to cry.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” VirgilStorm asked him, and that somehow made everything worse.

Roman covered his face with hishands and sniffled. “I’m just feeling a little emotional right now.”

How mortifying.

A hand rubbed at his back. “Sorry,he’s having a quarter-life crisis,” he heard Patton explain.

Roman threw up his arms,tear-streaked face be damned. “PATTON! That’s not why I’m crying.”

“It’s okay Ro, it happens to a lotof people. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I knew retail work was hell, butgeez,” Virgil commented.

Patton nodded in sympathy. “Hereally wants to be on Broadway someday.”

“Patton,” Roman gasped in admonishment.“You can’t just be telling V— telling people about my silly dreams.”

“Why’s it silly?” Patton asked. “You’reso talented! You’ll make it, I know you will. You’ve just gotta keep trying.”

This could not be happening rightnow. Roman wanted to curl up in the employee’s bathroom and die.

“Broadway, huh?” Virgil asked.

Screw going to the bathroom. Roman coulddie on the spot.

“Ridiculous, huh?” Roman tried tolaugh at himself. If he laughed at himself first, it’d hurt less when everyoneelse did.

Virgil shrugged. “Not really.Someone’s got to do it, right?”

Oh.

No rejection.

Just a practical sense of hope.

Someone’s got to do it, and thatcould be him.

Roman blushed and gazed down at hisfeet. “Thank you . . .”

“No problem. Just uh, feel better Iguess.”

It was clear Virgil found this situationawkward but was trying to be considerate. For that, Roman was extremely grateful.

“Dee! Remus! What are you doing inhere? You know you’re banned!” Patton hollered, moving around the counter. Hehad his stern face on and a broom in hand. The two troublemakers would do wellto run while they still could.

They watched Patton chase Dee andRemus off.

“Does that happen a lot?” Virgilasked Roman.

“Only about every other day.”

Virgil didn’t say anything, soRoman went ahead and finished the transaction.

“Here’s your change,” Roman saidmeekly, handing the correct amount back to him.

“Thanks,” Virgil said, pocketingthe money. He picked up his gummy worms yet hesitated.

“Something else?” Roman wondered.

Virgil scratched the back of hishead. “To be honest, I wanted to get more stuff. But those guys were beingcreepy . . . But they’re gone now, so . . . would it be weird if I went to getmore stuff?”

Roman’s lips twitched up into asmile. “You didn’t judge me, so I’m not going to judge you.”

Virgil smirked. “Thanks.”

___________________________________________

General Tag List: @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @randomsandersides @gamerfreddie @unring-this-bell @analogicallythinking @lilygold23 @levy-the-b00kw0rm @tacohippy56900 @accio-hufflepuff-power1 @just-another-rainbowblog @georganabanana @grey-says-heck @crookedlyoptimisticdestiny @thesynysterunknown @idont-know-what-im-doing @idioticsky @fadingglowcloud @whizzie72 @theinvisiblespoon @greyyy523 @opaque-puppet @just-fic-me-up @wowimsogoddamnoriginal @sos-fandoms @loganeatsbooks @trust-is-overrated @theitalianalchemist @im-crunchie @mourning--star @4amanxiety @hogwarts-my-love @enby-phoenix @justanotherpurplebutterfly @internet-or-sleep @absolutesandersidestrash @seaspider10 @nonasficcollection @satanblessi @an-absolute-failure @analogical-mess @noisyeggpizzapatrol @hamilsandersfam @cefinitely-rolo @thgjclw @knight-shives @no-no-no-no-6 @savingshae @rabbitsartcorner @buddypallady @midnight-tragedyy @007ardra @fandomloverangel @dorkoverse @mirrorz-n-starz @idunnosong

[votederpycausemufins]

Chapter 18: Chat Noir

this is cross posted on Ao3 (my username is causemufins)

Marinette can't sleep because of another threat from Lila.

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

    Last night, Marinette had talked with her parents about her newly discovered akuma fear. She admitted it had been there for a while, but she put on a brave face for most of the time and hadn’t noticed it. Her parents were understanding and reminded her his she ever needed them, just to speak up. It had helped her mentally and she was able to relax.

    That was, until her phone buzzed with a message. She had thought it would be one of her friends, but no. It was Lila.

    ‘You know, After what you did the other day, I wasn’t sure I even needed to teach you a lesson. But it’s just too good to pass up.’

    There wasn’t anything else, but that message alone was enough to rattle the designer. She sat in bed, unable to get to sleep. And Tikki still wasn’t around. It was just so lonely without the kwami around.

    So Marinette just stared into the darkness. It was lonely just lying there. It was late enough she didn’t want to bother anyone by calling them. But then again, maybe she should. There was a chance one of them would be awake.

    The designer just started to reach for her phone when there was a knock on the door to the balcony. She looked over towards the sound and just stared, not wanting to get up. She wished that Chat would just let her sulk in peace. But after a second bit of knocking, Marinette reluctantly sat up and went over to the balcony.

    “Hello Purrincess. Is Chloé here today?”

    Marinette shook her head. “No, why are you asking?”

    The hero shrugged. “She was a bit harsh last time I was here. Besides, I wanted to talk with you and you alone.”

    She was slightly wary after previous conversations, but since Marinette was looking for someone to talk to anyway, she quickly relented. “Yeah, sure. As long as I can talk about some things afterward.”

    Chat considered the request before agreeing. “Sure. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Lila. I heard about what happened at your school before you got akumatized.”

    Marinette’s eyes narrowed. Sure she had a few friends on her side now, but there were enough people that still stood with Lila. But surely Chat wouldn’t be one of those people, right? He had seen the effects of the trouble she caused first hand. He wouldn’t defend her after all the akumas. Or so she thought.

    “Well, from what I can tell, the times you’ve tried to show everyone she’s lying haven’t worked, and this most recent time got you akumatized so… maybe it’s a lost cause? It would probably be better if you just stopped.”

    Marinette was quiet for a few moments. “Well, that was actually related to what I wanted to talk about.” Chat perked up, likely hoping she would agree and say she was done with it all. “I’m not going to stop. Someone else in my class has already tried convincing me of that, but I can’t listen anymore. What with all the threats that haven happened and all the akumas connected to her, either way there’s going to be more akumas, it’s just easier to stop them if people know she’s a liar.”

    Chat hesitated before asking about the threats. “She threatened me in the bathroom her first day back from her supposed trip, threatened Alya when she confronted Lila about the lies and apparently physically hurt Alya as well, and threatened me again tonight about something she’s going to do tomorrow.”

    “So, it’s not just lies? I thought that was all it was.” Chat said quietly, but Marinette heard him anyway.

    “Even if it was just lies, it was hurting people. Do you know Kagami? She was akumatized because of a number of Lila’s lies. From what I can tell, she lied her way into Adrien’s house and took a picture of them, which could be considered harassment, and sent it out pretending the two of them were dating. Kagami said she was upset about how she was taking advantage of Adrien and was admittedly a little jealous about him being with someone who treated him poorly.”

    “I… didn’t realize the whole story.”

    Marinette gave a small shrug. “I guess that makes sense. You’re not involved until the akuma fight happens so you don’t know about what’s going on other than things you’re told. I’m in Lila’s class and friends with most of the people she affects so of course I know better.”

    She was a little confused at the look on Chat’s face when she said that, but it wasn’t something she was able to place. “Anyway, with Lila’s threat, it’s likely there could be an akuma around my school tomorrow. You know where that is, right?”

    Chat gave a nod. “Yeah, same place Chloé goes, so I’ve been there plenty from akumas. At least she’s improved since being a hero.”

    “Yeah, well, I’m glad I had someone to talk to.” Marinette thanked Chat, hoping she got through to him. At least it was probably better than talking to Adrien. “Hopefully I don’t have to see you tomorrow.”

    “Well, I’ll probably visit you here tomorrow night purrincess. Just to make sure you’re purrfectly feline.”

    Marinette rolled her eyes, but had a small smile anyway. “Thanks Chat. I’m glad to know there’s someone else who has my back.”

    Chat gave a little wave before using his staff to help vault him to a different roof and start running off to his home. Marinette watched him go before yawning and going to bed, hoping for the best in the morning.

[ms31x129]

Woohoo! Time for Chapter 4! I had to make a another DJ! I felt compelled! I hope I have ideas for 3 more! @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK  AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 4: Leave Your Demons At The Door  (Click on the name for AO3) or if you like Tumblr just clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below.

{Summary:

After seeing the past through Dana Scully's eyes, Jackson decides he needs a cold one. With the letter remaining in his possession, he finds a motel room to stay for the night and heads out to check out the nightlife. Of course, the past decides to hitchhike a ride. Jackson's internal conflict reaches a fever pitch when he steps into his birth parent's past at a time when they were fighting the future.}

“All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.” -James Thurber

Jackson entered the motel room and tossed his knapsack off his shoulder, its buckles scraping along the surface of the small table as it came to a halt. Not ready for any type of sleep, he flopped on top of the bed with an arm cradling his head and flipped blindly through the channels to drown out the noise of the rest of the motel.

A lonely emptiness ate at his soul like the dying feasting on its last meal. There was nothing scarier to him than the idea that he could be sentenced to a purgatory of existing like this, nothing and no one with whom to speak. No compassion, no remorse, his soul had darkened to the point of charred coal without a hope for recovery. So why not embrace it? Why choose to be alone in madness?

Guiltily, he had found pleasure in cruelty, a joy in its power as a boy growing slowly into a man. Not for the first time, impossible questions riddled his mind. What if inside he was one of them? A bomb waiting to detonate; his existence serving its purpose to end it all. He thought he’d never be pure enough to make it through the gates of heaven anyway.

Why toggle the light and dark? He wondered while rubbing the barely there stubble along his chin. What was he afraid of besides loneliness? What was there to fear when you were the monster?

The springs of the sagging mattress creaked out a warning as he rose up and headed out to clear his head. At least he could find company in the loneliness of numbers.

The streets he walked were nothing like any he had traveled before. Yet they were etched in his head with a sharp knife, a scalpel scoring information deep into his DNA like some strange work of art. As he passed storefront windows and busy restaurants, there was a familiarity there that tickled at his brain akin to recognition. The insistent feeling led him to a bar and his height and a little illusion granted him a bar stool and a beer.

“You’ve got to train for that kind of heavy lifting,” said the bartender as the used beer glasses clinked, clanked, and stuttered against the highly polished, lacquered wooden bar. After several drinks, Jackson was barely able to steady his arm enough to prevent them from crashing to the floor. “Having a bad day?”

“You could say that,” Jackson sighed, chasing down a hiccup with what was left in his glass. “You come here often?” he smarted back.

“I’m the owner of this establishment actually,” she returned as she wiped up the last of the spilled beer. “Tonight’s been busy so I’ve been helping out.”

The other bartender finished doling out the last of the drinks to the customers and joined her to help clean up. He pointed at Jackson hunched over against the bar. “You look familiar... and I never forget a face.”  

He didn’t reply, afraid of it getting him tossed out, instead pointing at the bar for another round.

“So what brings you here?” The older woman asked, her short blond hair wisping over her forehead like bangs. She said it casually, but Jackson got the sinking feeling she was either testing his age or his blood alcohol level. Both of which were enough to refuse him any more service. It would only take a closer examination of his ID to uncover it was created courtesy of a man in a long trench coat in a dark alley.

The two bartenders were waiting for an answer and his depression overruled his logic. He opened his mouth intending on just feeding another lie to strangers who cared nothing for him, but carelessly started to ramble instead and the room spun without him.

“I’m part of an experiment to conceal the truth about the coming apocalypse,” he scoffed, wondering if that were even true anymore while he fingered the condensation on the beer glass. “Contagions, on a global scale to wipe out the planet except for the chosen few. I’m the atomic bomb: the savior and the sinner, and I can choose to destroy or save every man, woman, and child on this planet.”

Jackson chuckled to himself at how crazy his tale already sounded. His hands and arms were now animated as he spoke, staring at the bartenders straight in the eye.

“So of course they killed my parents. I’ve been forced to leave my girlfriends, drop out of school, I’m more of a bad joke than a friend. I’m Jackson, but they call me William…”

The man had the same look plastered on his face that most people had at hearing anything remotely “out there.” The older woman just look resigned, as if she’d heard this same shit on a different day. Maybe she had. Nothing surprised him anymore.

Noticing they both were still waiting for him to finish his spiel, he dove right back into the bullet point version of what he called his life.

“I realized I was part of the X-Men when I was just a kid,” he huffed at comparing himself to hero’s when he felt like a manifestation of evil. He leaned back with his hands gripping his knees, blowing a stream of air through puffed cheeks. “And now I chase after threads of sanity, trying to find who I really am, armed with a letter and a prayer hoping to find the courage to go to my birth mother, hoping she still wants me and has some answers. I’m shouting to the heavens or whoever is out there on the other side of my one-way sonar that the sky is falling. It’s goddamn Armageddon: earthquakes, flooding, fire, and disease.”

Jackson shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Knowing anyone else—anyone “normal” would consider this insanity, yet they were the building blocks of his life. They were what made him him . Saying them out loud as if he were confessing to his mom’s priest at their old church on Sunday mornings felt like a slap in the face.

“I’m the shitstorm of alllll time.”

“Well, that sure makes me feel better about myself,” the woman joked as she closed out his tab. “Looks like 86 is your lucky number, kid,” she told him, effectively ending his rant.

Jackson got the joke. She didn’t believe him and thought it was all some big hallucination from his consumption. Through her stimpering chastisement, she was throwing him out and refusing to serve. The depression and irritation at not being taken seriously yet again sunk from his heart into his stomach.

“You know, I’ve come to realize that one is the loneliest number,” he said, sulking with an arched brow and bathing in self-pity.

“That’s where I know this kid from,” the male bartender interrupted. “You remind me of that Spooky Mulder man. The woman passed him a curious look.

“You remember the FBI agent? Used to come in here years ago with his pretty redheaded partner.”

The female bartender smiled and nodded, a glimmer of recognition danced across her face and she added, “I hope the poor bastard realized she was crazy about him and grew a pair to finally ask her out.”

“Spooky Mulder?” Jackson questioned. That was them. Goddamnit! he thought, realization dawning. Once again following in the shadows of their history; literally it seemed.

“Yeah, I remember him bringing in his partner, what was her name?” she asked the other bartender.

“It was the same as the famous baseball announcer.” He snapped his fingers while Jackson gaped at the irony of it all. “Vin Scully—Scully was her name. Brought her in here after saving her life out in the arctic or some shit. Or she saved his life? I don’t know if they ever got that straight. Anyway, they would drink in here sometimes.”

The woman examined Jackson’s face. “Now that you mention it, he kind of looks like them.”

Jackson was afraid the jig was up. He tossed a couple fifties on the bar and stood, using the barstool to steady himself as he blinked twice to bring his doubled vision into focus.

While stumbling towards the door, a gang of bikers were making their way inside, marking out their turf like a wolf pack. They were rowdy and demanding, pushing the crowd aside as they grabbed their barstools and ordered drinks, harassing the patrons. Another younger, inexperienced bartender tried to settle them and it only appeared made them angry. One pulled him by his collared shirt to whisper something in his ear. Another one held out a knife, fingering it like he couldn’t wait to use it, while another man displayed the holster of his gun. If this was a bar frequented by the FBI, they were taking the night off.

Jackson’s heart pounded within his chest with what felt like a force hard enough to crack a rib as it yearned to beat free of its cage. His senses went on high alert and every color in the bar glowed brighter, every noise louder, smell stronger. With every movement anyone made he was prepared to react.

The song “Glitter and Gold” played through the bar’s sound system. Adrenaline and anger spiked in his veins like he had a double shot of caffeine. They were going to pay for their drinks and their disruption.  

In a dopamine rush, Jackson covered his frame in illusion, a monstrous form he invented as a child. Everyone froze at the sight of Ghouli before them. The eyes of the witnesses of Jackson’s transformation bulged and he could hear their strangled cries of mortal terror. Bulbs burst from the fixtures until there was barely enough light for shadows. The darkness fed his rage. Even the stars and moon seemed to cower behind clouds through the window preparing for Jackson’s storm. Everyone, everything, was now his prey.

Through the mirror at the bar, Jackson caught a reflection of a young boy with utter terror taking over his once innocent features, and his mother with her arms wrapped around him ready to give her life for his survival. In that moment, something inside Jackson snapped, or finally broke free perhaps. He heard it like a twig cracking in his mind, a subtle deafening sound. He ran. The bikers fled fearing he was headed their way, but Jackson was running away, not towards. Running to feel the sweet pain in his lungs, lactic acid building in his muscles, reminding him that he was real, he was human.  

Jackson “the monster” was no more. The old him really had died in the depths of the water on that cold night at the docks.

Now outside, the cars zoomed as they passed him, the drivers never taking notice of the monster running down the street, half human half Frankenstein as his illusion faded. People were too busy hurrying back to a welcoming home, eating their sirloin steaks and mashed potatoes with their family, making sure the children ate their vegetables. Somewhere parents beamed happily as they knelt down to tuck their kids into bed with a story in hand...

Would he ever know that comfort again?

Depression and self-loathing, like liquid death swarmed inside him, the blackness flooded and choked him begging his body to choose his future.

Heaving and gasping for breath with his avatar long gone, he slowed and finally stopped, leaning on his knees as he hunched over and concentrated on not vomiting. The sky spun and he heaved out the night’s libations. He wasn’t much of a successful drinker to begin with. Somehow he ended up on the damp ground, not certain how it happened, but he could feel the frigid water seeping into his jeans. His hands rested back into the soil as his feet dangled off the curb and into the street.

That monster was not him and it would not return.

[mittensmorgul]

8.14, Trial and Error.

Or, a concise jaunt through Dabb's pet themes that will carry us into s15.

With Dean finally finding a home in the bunker, the family themes really begin to kick in. Not only the stuff tied to their personal legacies, but also Dean's... veneration (not exactly the right word, but close enough) of Mary's memory. In an episode where we begin by finding a family that made not one, but THREE demon deals-- (which I already detailed in regard to Dabb's pet themes in this post a couple years ago: https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/169622891355/im-watching-814-again-and-its-like-a-concise), with the final deal made by Ellie had been to heal her mother of Parkinson's disease, with the worst bit being that Ellie had NO IDEA about the 10 year clock that set on her life before the hellhounds would show up to drag her to Hell.

So we have mother themes already, in an episode where Dean set Mary's picture on his desk in his room when he arranged his room just so.

I mentioned in the last few episode writeups in this series that I wanted people to remember Sam and Dean's respective mindsets going forward, because this is where that all gets torn up. So we're officially back on the job, getting down to the business of closing up Hell forever. Which again, as I've said, seems like a really good idea on the surface. What could possibly go wrong, messing with the Natural Order in such a drastic fashion? I mean, we're just trying to lock up all the evil, right? Gotta keep people safe, and without demons harassing people on Earth, people will be safe... in theory...

Well, one problem with this is the COST of doing the thing... I mean how many things with OBJECTIVELY GOOD AND WHOLESOME conclusions also end with the person doing the thing, in Kevin's loose translation from the tablet:

KEVIN And it's just a few words of Enochian, but... [KEVIN gives a piece of paper to DEAN.] DEAN Oh, here we go. KEVIN ...the spell has to be spoken after you finish each of the three trials. SAM T-trials like, uh, like "Law & Order"? DEAN hands SAM the piece of paper, SAM grabs it out of his hand. KEVIN More like Hercules. The tablet says, "Whosoever chooses to undertake these tasks should fear not danger, nor death, nor..." A word I think means getting your spine ripped out through your mouth for all eternity. DEAN Good times. KEVIN Basically, God built a series of tests, and when you've done all three, you can slam the gates. SAM So, what – God wants us to take the SATs? KEVIN I-I guess. Uh, he works in mysterious ways. DEAN Yeah, mysterious, douche-y ways. All right. Where do we start?

And hoooboy... first off, does God actually want you do complete these trials? Or are they simply a CHOICE that is POSSIBLE to make, even if it might actually be a very, very bad choice? I mean, God also technically gave the angels a choice between "watching over humanity and creation and serving as the guardians of the world" and "starting the apocalypse and burning it all down." And a horrifyingly large number of the angels really believed the apocalypse was what God wanted them to do... (and the AU angels demonstrated that God... didn't actually care one way or the other what they chose, because it wasn't some sort of test  they could pass or fail, they'd just have to live with the consequences of their choices... even if those consequences were MISErABLE for EVERYONE). Just as we will see with Cas's choice to help do the EXACT SAME THING to Heaven under Metatron's guidance by the end of 8.23, and what the horrific consequences of that apparently well-intentioned choice. Did God want them to do that, as well? To shut the gates of Heaven? And look what happened with THAT one? Metatron performed that spell, and was therefore the only angel who did not fall as a result. He effectively left himself in charge of Heaven, the only one able to control the doors in and out. So what would've happened to Sam if he'd completed the spell to close the gates to Hell? And can we all shudder at the parallel here for a moment and once again be grateful Dean stopped him from finishing that?

Good.

Plus there's that other consequence of performing the trials... the whole "getting your spine ripped out through your mouth for all eternity." Which makes it seem pretty clear, despite Sam's insistence that he wants to survive completing the trials, like there is a zero percent chance of actually being able to survive completing the trials, you know? No matter how you slice it, that seems like... a nonsurvivable situation... And yet, it's one of Sam's arguments to Dean at the end of the episode when he decides to complete the trials instead of finding another hellhound for Dean to kill...

DEAN Sam, I didn't pass the test. SAM But I did... And I'm doing the rest of them. DEAN My ass you are! SAM I'm closing the gates. It's a suicide mission for you. DEAN Sam... SAM I want to slam hell shut, too, okay? But I want to survive it. I want to live, and so should you. You have friends up here, family. I mean, hell, you even got your own room now. You were right, okay? I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't – I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it. DEAN Sam, be smart. SAM I AM smart, and so are you. You're not a grunt, Dean. You're a genius – when it comes to lore, to – you're the best damn hunter I have ever seen – better than me, better than dad. I believe in you, Dean. So, please – please believe in me, too.

But Dean... He saw it clearly from the start:

DEAN Because of the three trials crap – God's little obstacle course. We've been down roads like this before, man – with Yellow-Eyes, Lucifer, Dick friggin' Roman. We both know where this ends – one of us dies... Or worse. SAM So, what – you just up and decided it's gonna be you? DEAN I'm a grunt, Sam. You're not. You've always been the brains of this operation. SAM Dean— DEAN And you told me yourself that you see a way out. You see a light at the end of this ugly-ass tunnel. I don't. But I tell you what I do know – it's that I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand. 'Cause that's what I have waiting for me – that's all I have waiting for me. I want you to get out. I want you to have a life – become a man of Letters, whatever. You, with a wife and kids and – and – and grandkids, living till you're fat and bald and chugging Viagra – that is my perfect ending, and it's the only one that I'm gonna get. So I'm gonna do these trials. I'm gonna do them alone – end of story. You're staying here. I'm going out there. If landshark comes knocking, you call me. If you try to follow me, I'm gonna put a bullet in your damn leg.

BUT THIS DOES NOT MEAN DEAN'S ON A SELF-DESTRUCTIVE PATH HERE. We have repeatedly been shown that in s8-- but especially since Cas got out of Purgatory-- that Dean is kind of the opposite of self-destructive and nihilistic. He's REALISTIC. versus Sam's fantasy of idealistic. Dean doesn't see it as a "suicide mission," and he's anything but suicidal. That's obvious from the last few episode. He ENJOYS his life, he's THRILLED about having found the bunker, having his own room, this incredible legacy (how many people does he tell "yeah, we're legacies" to over this period? It's hilarious how proud and happy he is about this), not to mention his relative "lightness" since processing through what he went through in Purgatory. He's not self-destructive, he's just accepted his life and is realistic about it. He takes pleasure where he can find it, he's spending a lot less time denying the things that make him happy (like LARPing with Charlie or making him and Sam some really good food or even decorating his own room at the bunker). He's just accepted the fact that he doesn't even WANT a different life. He LIKES his life hunting, and is realistic about how he'll meet his end as long as he continues hunting.

But this is in stark contrast to Sam. Sam hears Dean's lil speech about dying with a gun in his hand and he sees it as hopelessness or resignation, when to Dean, it is not that at all. BUT IT WOULD BE TO *SAM*. And Sam really has difficulty processing Dean's emotions and desires through his own personal sympathy filter, because they just do not compute to Sam. What to Dean equals "comfortable acceptance of reality and the life he chooses because it makes him happy," to Sam sounds like "I'm willing to die because my life is otherwise meaningless." And it really misses the whole entire point.

But what SAM has always wanted for HIMSELF was that perfect life Dean described to him EXACTLY there. Normal family, normal life, living to old age and never having to hunt again. To Dean, that sounds like TORTURE. But in Dean's mind, Sam COULD have that life without Dean, without Dean dragging him back into the life like he literally did in 8.01, which Sam had been RESENTFUL AS FUCK over. He WANTED to hold on to that normal life! He was able to do it for a year, and even after Dean came back from Purgatory, Sam did not want to go back to hunting. Even when he DID reluctantly get back into hunting, it was filled with "you wanted me in the game, so I'm in the game," and repeated reminders that as soon as they found Kevin, and then when they found him it shifted to as soon as they closed the gates of Hell, that he would be retiring from hunting for good. REPEATED. REMINDERS.

Dean doesn't want out of the life AT ALL. He THRIVES on it. He doesn't know how to be anyone else, and doesn't want to try to be... but he's also not running toward the nearest cliff, you know? And as we go through this season, we'll watch Sam's attitude in reaction to the suffering the trials put him through, and watch him come to grips with the reality that there is no surviving these trials, no matter how much power of positive thinking he applies. But hooooBOY he's gonna keep trying to win here...

Let's also take a moment to reflect on just how... mistaken... the Winchesters' instincts can be regarding their plans. Because I think this has bearing on their entire choice to undertake the trials, as well. They go to the ranch knowing at least one person there made a deal. They BELIEVED it was primarily a deal to make themselves rich, but then the first hellhound victim dies, and they learn that he'd sold his soul for 10 years of love with his wife, who reverts to a state of confusion and can't even remember why she'd fallen in love with her husband in the first place. And... ew. So Sam quickly realizes that at least one more person sold their soul at that ranch, and begins suspecting the three happily wealthy (if socially stunted) members of the family. They don't at ALL suspect it's the quiet, nice youngest sister who lives a "normal" life after her family became inordinately wealthy. She sold her soul hoping that wealth would solve all her family's interpersonal arguments, but instead it just made them worse. But the surprise was the final soul-deal-- Ellie, who literally worked in shit all day in the barns because she loved the animals and loved her work, even if she didn't care for her employers. She sold her soul to save her mother's life. Entirely altruistic, if misguided.

After all this s8 nonsense, which is in turn s13 and s14 nonsense regarding the choices they all make re: possession by Michael, going to the AU to save Mary and Jack, Cas going to Heaven and making his deal with the Empty, whatever Dean was doing with the Drama Coffin, and whatever Jack's personal trials will entail after he returns from the empty in s15... well... what are we willing to trade for the people we love? Even when that's put up against the framework of potentially saving the universe?

Because let's remember again what Ellie traded her soul for... to save her mother. And wasn't this the exact offer Chuck made Dean in 14.20. Do the terrible thing, end your own life, but it will save your mother. And in the face of that choice, Dean refused.

[vsag23]

Venus in Scorpio. Mars in Libra.

Are these two planets in “detriment?”

What do you mean “detriment?”

Misusing their power, weakening their energies through negativity, trying to be who they are not?

Us modern folk hate this kind of psychologically invasive vocabulary. But Planets—teachers of soul lessons—do best offering certain courses, and not others, where the message just isn’t getting through. Rather than Scorpionic paranoia, shadow-processing, and control, the goddess Venus would rather be a harmonious diplomat, a pleasant partner in love with both her senses and her beloved. And rather than throwing his energy into a million relationships and uncertain directions in choosing not your own adventure, but everyone else’s distracted, parallel universe plotlines, Warrior Mars would be on his own quest, doing his thing rising to the top of society or riding the wild and primal machine of his beast wherever it lead.

Even though the God and Goddess are in ‘detriment’ during this Saturday’s New Moon at 26 Scorpio, whose sabian symbol speaks to the dangerous, but voluptuous potential between the Masculine, the Feminine, and the 50 Shades of Grey between: A MILITARY BAND MARCHES NOISILY ON THROUGH THE CITY STREETS

Enraptured, what clamor will you use now to reveal and ravage your soul contracts?

God Mars occupies Goddess Venus’ sign of rulership Libra, and Venus travels Mars’ sign of rulership, Scorpio. We call this unique alignment “mutual reception,” and it means the planets reinforce each other and blend their themes together, sharing a common goal, a unified purpose, which seem to be question gender, identity, and the medicine weapon we call sexuality.

Will the God and Goddess rescue each other now, or will they sabotage attempts at transcending duality, or will they collapses together as they make love, only to rise and grind again into that greater understanding?

Mars in Libra: Why didn’t you text me back? I mean especially after the way you kissed me – that wasn’t a surface, ‘let me get to know you’ kiss, that was a kiss you wished you would have said yes to in another lifetime, in hindsight, end of life review, because a different life, a deeper love, a meaning, would have erupted into being.

Venus in Scorpio: You don’t have to be so dramatic.

Mars in Libra: Dramatic?!! I prefer being romantic, but you love that sort of underworld drama queen thing, creating stories about me before you even think to ask a question, I’m a make-believe-image inside your projection. And How many Arrows have you unleashed into my breath – what I “should have our could have been?”

Venus in Scorpio: How many Hooks have you used to shape me into your manipulation? I can’t just wear some mask of happy-go-lucky couple when we’re working shit out!

Mars in Libra: And what about all those Suckers you used to feed off me?! You’ve grown in so much influence and power because of connecting with my friends!

Venus in Scorpio: You’re right, I have. I forget to express my gratitude for that.

Mars in Libra: Because you’re so busy being suspicious. We can’t even go out and have a chill time because there’s always some hidden layer, some crime investigation you have to make into your mission.

Venus in Scorpio: Look, you wanted the open relationship. I did not sign up for that.

Mars in Libra: You did. You wanted us to do the handfasting for 6 months, even though you knew you wanted a monogamous relationship, and I wanted freedom to appreciate whatever love blossomed in my presence.

Venus in Scorpio: You handfasted because you wanted to make promises you ‘thought’ you could keep, and I handfasted because I let you sleep in my bed. Again. And Again.

Mars in Libra: Between your legs

Venus in Scorpio: Into my head.

Mars in Libra: We’re talking about the Heart here.

Venus in Scorpio: We’re talking about why it’s ok for you to have so many lovers, and how, somehow, that does not take away from the depth of our connection, and our possibilities to really make some impact in the world together. We’re so much stronger together than on our own, but then you’re flirting over here, or on this trip over there, and making this excuse over there, but as long as it all ‘looks good,’ to everyone, then that’s enough.

Mars in Libra: I’m really attracted to the genius and beauty of many different people.

Venus in Scorpio: That sounds nice. Can’t you just make a decision, about anything, like choosing to be just with me?

Mars in Libra: I’m choosing to be in this conversation, although I feel like you’re setting a trap for me.

Venus in Scorpio: You don’t have to get upset.

Mars in Libra: “I’m not getting upset! I’m trying to keep the peace around here! Why do we have to process everything all the time? Can’t we just have fun and enjoy sharing our companionship without so much drama?

Venus in Scorpio: I’m feeling harassed. I told you when Jupiter was in Scorpio, all these ego-inflated jerks in politics and Hollywood, like Harvey Weinstein, were going to be exposed, all the skeletons come out of the closet. There’s no more hiding and no more shame now. And I’m also going to stand up for my rights as a woman!

Mars in Libra: Yeah, but you don’t know what’s like to be constantly intimidated by every woman I approach

Venus in Scorpio: You don’t know what it’s like growing up being a woman? All the ways we have to hide our beauty to prevent attention we don’t want, while every media bombards us with more ways to look younger and sexier and ‘get the guy.’ Try traveling as a single woman in India and see what it feels like to be prey in the eyes of another. Try to be a female athlete in a man’s sport, or CFO in a world of corporate suits who make you feel like any slight mistake you make will be scrutinized by microscope and threaten any position of power you may have thought you had.

Mars in Libra: I really hear you. Don’t you feel that I support you?

Venus in Scorpio: You can’t just strip down the soul to all its naked vulnerability with everyone. I feel like you’re afraid, so I can’t trust, but you wanted to rush. Didn’t we talk about being twin flames, didn’t you say I was “the One?”

Mars in Libra: Maybe it’s just a quicksand dance to speak of ‘twin flames?’ There’s so much expectation in that.

Venus in Scorpio: Is every label a limitation or does it give us a structure to build our foundation?

Mars in Libra: I feel I’m supposed to be some version of “masculinity” that makes you feel so ‘feminine,’ when you don’t even know what that means. I’m not ‘macho enough,’ or muscular enough, or protective/providing enough? You can’t say you want all these things and then you want some gender equality. Why don’t you protect me, curl me into your womb, your bedtime spoon? Gender and sexual preference are both so hyper-conditioned growing up, from the clothes were given in the crib to the toys under the Christmas Tree to the sports we are or are not pushed to play. I’m sick of just being the product of my parent’s and my society’s conditioning. Couldn’t we just give our kids all the options without pushing our own agendas and our dystopian dreams?

Venus in Scorpio: I know. I’ve often thought that the most intense transformation we could have on this planet is to reinstate sexual rites of passage, like so many indigenous cultures have. Most of our screwed up relationship dynamics are because we get almost zero education on how to love and how to make love.

Mars in Libra: And our first sexual experiences are drunk or under pressure to be liked, and they lack any sacredness or real intentional heart-connection. The only education we get is about STD’s and its all fear based.

Mars in Libra: Could it be that: sexual harassment and predatory behavior comes form a lack of integration of one’s masculine and feminine….being able to experience the balance of that…so an Image an Ideal is projected outside of oneself, and then behavior towards that becomes distorted, becuz it’s the unprocessed feminine, the aenima in the man, or the unintegrated masculine in the woman, the aenima?

Venus in Scorpio: I wonder how much of this harassment of women would stop if more men would just allow themselves to be penetrated.

Mars in Libra: You mean….physically, down there…?

Venus in Scorpio: Of course. All men need a spicy dose of Kali right up their ass about now. Why haven’t we done that yet? You say you’re so open, but what are you afraid of? Didn’t you once tell me you gotta lose control to find freedom? Does it mean you’re gay if you like anal sex? No, it means you like a particular sensual experience.

Mars in Libra: I get what you’re saying. I mean the problem with Gender, Sexuality, all of it is that every label we put on it limits our freedom to just experience. It’s why I always hated the term “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” so loaded with 6 trillion different meanings. Just be what we are, and if there’s someone else in the mix, then we better learn how to communicate transparently what our agreements are, and to be direct with our desires and our boundaries.

Venus in Scorpio: Easier said than done. It’s more complex when you start sharing resources with another, whether that’s finances, home, or bodily fluids.

Mars in Libra: I’m not co-dependent. I’m interdependent.

Venus in Scorpio: Yes, right. But I do often wonder about 20 years, 50 years from now…Will we look back at the Binary of Gender as a kind of dinosaur experience? A remnant of 20th century humans that lingered far too long into the 21st century?

Mars in Libra: I mean with wild revolutionary, surprise surprise innovative mad scientist Uranus in Taurus for the next 8 years, we’ll live so virtually that we can ‘wear’ whatever kind of body we want…including the opposite sex, both sexes, new hybrid sexes, animal bodies, mythical creatures….and we’ll be able to have these simulated lovemaking experiences through Virtual Reality – these already exist.

Venus in Scorpio: Mars, let’s stop all this process. Shut up and Kiss me

Mars in Libra: What took you so long, goddess? Just let me in. All the way. In.

source: https://findyourpowerplaces.com