#more apple pie! less homicide!

[ellsbclls]

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of  Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here. 

Your secret hideaway. 

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response.  “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare. 

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you. 

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice.  “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way. 

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her?  “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?  

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb.  “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach. 

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking. 

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening. 

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake. 

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss. 

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines. 

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse. 

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears. 

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill. 

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open. 

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene —  opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you. 

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you.  “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings​

[chandelier-s-notebook]

If anyone wants to be part of a taglist for Assassinate But Nah, feel free to message me/send an ask/or mention it in reblogs.

Taglist: @sleepysnails @causeimfabulous

Ao3 link

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Thanksgiving weekend Ranboo takes Tubbo to one of his sibling’s matinée drag shows. Tubbo enjoys himself, but he can’t help but know in the back of his head that this person is used by the Jays.

The two boys slip backstage after the show. “Hey Eret!” Ranboo throws his arms around her shoulders.

“Ranboo!” Eret sees Tubbo over her little brother’s shoulders. “Who’s your friend?”

“Tubbo Jacobs.”

Eret flinches imperceivably. “Jacobs?”

Tubbo knows Eret recognizes him. “Mhm.” He stands his ground. “You might have heard about my dad?”

“I think I have.” Eret stares Tubbo down. “Editor of the Houver Mailer, yeah?”

“Yep.”

Eret gives Tubbo a wink, less playful and more a warning than anything though. Ranboo is luckily oblivious to the exchange and simply sits down and starts talking to Eret.

Tubbo doesn’t sit, instead he takes a look around the room. He wanders over to Eret’s dresser. Under the frills, and the sparkle, and the headdress he spots a few envelopes. He files that away for later and sits on the floor next to Ranboo.

He falls easily into the siblings’ conversation. Eventually, Eret sends Ranboo away to pick up their food delivery.

Eret stands up and brushes away the frills on her vanity stand. “Jacobs?”

“Yes?”

She hands him three letters. “The third is for your father, the other two are for you.”

“Understood.” Tubbo pockets him. For Karl, got it. “Ranboo isn’t my mark,” he says.

“Oh.” Eret lets out a breath and his shoulders slump in relief. “Good. I don’t want him to see your stuff.”

“So he doesn’t know about yours?”

“Of course not!”

Tubbo melts into the couch. “He won’t see my stuff. That’s just dumb. Besides, I’d like to keep Ranboo.”

Eret barks a laugh. “You seem like a good kid Tubbo. From what I know about you, I wouldn’t mind having you around as Ran’s friend, But if you think you can keep him, you’re delusional.”

“I know.” Tubbo pats the pocket where he put the letters. “A boy can dream.” He abruptly sits up. “Even with the assassin thing?”

“Tubbo if I met you in any other circumstance you wouldn’t be an assassin.”

“If you met me in any other circumstance I wouldn’t have been shaped by the world to be like this.”

Eret smiles sadly at the teenager on his floor. “Just use your skills to kill the guy that comes after him because he’s your friend.”

Ranboo chose that moment to come back with the takeout. “I have spaghetti!” He notes Tubbo rolling on the floor in laughter. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing big man.”

After eating with Eret, Tubbo and Ranboo spend the rest of the afternoon at the bowling alley.

Tubbo has never been bowling. Ranboo has been bowling at least four times every year for his whole life.

Tubbo has a higher strike radio than Ranboo. Must be the precision training he’s done while working for the Jays. Tubbo brushes off Ranboo’s amazement.

Ranboo really starts to become Tubbo’s friend. They share a lunch period and four of six classes. They would joke around in the back of the classroom; nudging each others’ shoulders and sharing secret laughs.

Tubbo doesn’t ever remember being this happy. He honestly hopes it’s because he buried his childhood when he started working for Schlatt at ten, -- learned how to use and clean a gun on his first day -- and not that he didn’t have happy memories. In any case, it had been a hot minute since he’d had someone his age to play with.

No. Tubbo was a teenager now.

In any case, it had been a hot minute since he’d had someone his own age to hang out with. Tubbo applauds Ranboo’s strike.

Fuck. This isn’t real. He’s going to kill Thomas Rough.

He has to kill Ranboo’s best friend Tommy.

Fuck.

Tubbo has been trying hard to remember that this kid is Thomas Rough, his mark. But it’s so hard when everybody around him calls him ‘Tommy’ and Ranboo excitedly tells Tubbo about how much he thinks they’ll like each other when Tommy comes back from Oak Park Academy.

Tubbo isn’t ready to lose this. He rolls the ball down the lane, “Strike.”

But he’s also ready to go back to being Toby Maron, son of homicide detective Captain Maron, older brother to local fencing champion Lani Maron. Tubbo just needs to finish this job, then he can go back to that.

Ranboo gets another strike and shots Tubbo a toothy grin.

Tubbo wants to rebel. He wants to keep his new friend. And Thomas Rough feels more like his friend than a mark. Even if they’ve never met. Even if Tubbo feels like he knows his as well as he does Ranboo.

Tubbo spends dinner alone, eating a pizza out on the fire escape. He had given Karl his letter, and the man left immediately after reading it.

The first letter from Schlatt. He skims it. He picks out the important information, then rips it to shreds. Just Schlatt telling him to not lose sight of the mission. And because it’s thanksgiving, Schlatt mentions how thankful he is for having scuk a skilled young hitman.

Fuck that guy.

The other letter is from Lani. She thanks him for everything he does and for making sure she got a normal childhood, out of servitute from the Jays. She wishes him a happy thanksgiving and asks if she can have his slice of pie.

Karl had two slices of apple pie in the fridge. Tubbo slips back into the house and nabs the two slices. He eats them both out of spite. First, so Karl doesn’t get a slice. Second, because if Lani gets two slices then so does he.

Tubbo is only thankful for few things. He’s thankful that he’s got the ability to push through the shit that is his circumstance. He’s thankful that Lani gets a normal childhood, not that the Jay’s don’t affect her life as well. He’s also thankful that he has a friend.

Tubbo sits on the fire escape conflicted. He’s been over this, and either way he doesn’t get to keep Ranboo as a friend. He can’t see a way out.

Tubbo may have been working with the Jays for six years, but he only vaguely knew about the Craftsmen. He should probably get on that.

He pulled out his phone and started where all good research starts: Wikipedia.

Last Updated April 23, 2021

The Craftsmen are a crime family currently led by Philip “Philza” Wright, and his two sons Techno “Blade” Wright, and Wilbur “Sooty” Wright. The Craftsmen have been in Houver for multiple generations run by the Dabria Family. Kisten Dabria, the only child born to her parents, the past leaders of the Craftsmen, married Philip Wright in 1998. After the death of Dabria Sr. Philza and Kristen grasped power and took control of the Craftsmen.

Philza, Blade, and Sooty now run the family while Kristen runs a local bakery and has escaped the Craftsmen influence, as much as she can with the leaders literally sitting at her dinner table each night.

Techno “Blade” and Wilbur “Sooty” were born into the family and have been aiding their father willingly for as long as anyone can remember. They both had normal lives and graduated from Griante Bay in 2017. Blade was on the mathletes team, winning the trophy for the school every year, and Sooty was one of the school’s star performers in their drama department.

[. . .]

There are rumors floating around about a third son, but those have never been confirmed.

And there it was. That was Tommy for sure. Thomas Rough. Thomas Wright.

[interrogatethecat]

Fried or Scrambled?

word count: 1.2k

written for the prompt "Discovery" for Their Love Was Real.

There were a lot of things Castiel Novak knew about his boyfriend of three years.

For one, Dean loved pie. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for it. His favorite kind was apple. Whenever they were out, whether it was at a restaurant or at the store, he would get a slice.

For another, Dean thought it was hilarious that Castiel was a disaster in the kitchen. Castiel knew this because one time he tried to make Dean a pie, which resulted in him nearly starting the kitchen on fire. Dean had laughed until he couldn’t breathe, and then pulled a sheepish Castiel into a kiss.

Dean also loved his job as a mechanic. He always came home smelling of sweat and oil. Even after a shower, the scent of Bobby’s Auto still lingered.

When Castiel pressed kissed to the side of his jaw, Dean would move to expose his neck. He didn’t have a favorite song, instead, it was a tie between Traveling Riverside Blues and Ramble On. He knew almost every word of A New Hope. Assembling furniture from IKEA made him want to commit homicide.

Yes, there were a lot of things Castiel knew about Dean.

What he had not known was that Dean was ticklish.

the rest + tag list below the cut, or on a03 here.

They were laying in bed on a rare, lazy day, where neither of them had work. At some point during the night, Castiel had wrapped himself around Dean like an octopus, legs tangled with Dean’s, one arm thrown over his chest and the other resting on his shoulder. His head was buried in the crook of Dean’s neck.

Castiel didn’t ever want to move. He was comfortable, so very comfortable, curled around Dean, who was still fast asleep.

Though he had been told time and time again that it was creepy, Castiel loved watching his boyfriend sleep. Dean’s chest rose and fell with each breath, forming a calming rhythm for him to match. In sleep, his face was smooth and free of tension in a way it rarely was when he was awake. He was beautiful.

Castiel adjusted himself ever so slightly to give himself a better look at Dean’s face. His eyes trailed over the smattering of freckles on Dean’s nose and cheeks. The previous night, he had mapped them out with his lips, along with every other freckle or birthmark on his body. Dean had complained that it wasn’t fair that Castiel didn’t have any freckles. Castiel had laughed and promised they’d figure something else out.

He lightly brushed his fingers down Dean’s arm, feather light as he drank in the sight before him. When his fingers ghosted over the inside of his elbow, Dean jerked awake, sitting up abruptly.

Castiel startled. “Dean?”

Dean tried to get his bearings.

For a moment, Castiel was afraid he had done something wrong. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, much less overstep. Are you alright?"

Dean flopped backwards. “I can’t believe it,” he grumbled. “Of all the days you had to do that, it had to be today?”

Castiel’s brow creased. “What did I do?”

“You found my ticklish spot,” Dean huffed.

“Your ticklish spot,” Castiel said.

“Yeah.”

“So if I were to….” Castiel moved his fingers over the inside of Dean’s elbow again.

Dean pulled towards the other side of the bed, but not before a laugh forced its way up through his throat.

A grin began to form on Castiel’s face.

Dean looked over at him and his eyes widened. “Don’t do this, Cas. With great power comes great responsibility,” he pleaded.

Castiel had other ideas.

Dean started to scramble away, but Castiel was faster. Before Dean could get far, he was pinned to the bed, Castiel on top of him. “Cas—“ His next words were lost when Castiel found his elbow.

“We’ve been dating for years, Dean. We live in the same apartment. How did I not know about this?” Castiel asked.

“It’s— a well— well-kept— secret,” Dean choked out between laughs.

Seeing Dean like this— cheeks pink with laughter and eyes bright— was incredible. It was another side to him that Castiel rarely saw. This side of Dean didn’t have any cares weighing on his shoulders, no burdens holding him back. His laugh was almost musical.

It didn’t take long for Castiel to decide he was going to be taking advantage of this “well-kept secret” frequently.

In his wonder, Castiel’s grip on Dean had loosened, enough that Dean was able to shift his weight ever so slightly. When Castiel realized what he was doing, it was too late; Dean was already swinging around, and suddenly he was the one pinning Castiel.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Dean said. “This means war.”

Castiel smirked at him. “Bring it. I know your weaknesses.”

“Careful, sunshine, or you’ll be living on ramen noodles for the next week,” Dean threatened, without any real bite.

“You know me too well,” Castiel complained.

Dean grinned widely. “Point for Dean.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Castiel said. “I’ll tell you about one of my ticklish spots, as long as you make breakfast this morning, and don’t cut off my food supply.”

Dean considered his offer for a minute, then stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

Instead of taking it, Castiel flipped them, now back on the top. They teetered dangerously over the edge of the bed when he shook it smugly. “Deal. Point for Castiel.”

Dean sighed. “Dammit. Alright, lemme up and I’ll make coffee and eggs.”

Castiel got off of him and let Dean sit up.

Before he stood, Dean pointed an accusing finger towards him. “And not a word to my brother about this.”

Castiel simply smiled. “I’m not making any promises.”

Dean glared at him, then deflated. “You’re lucky I love you,” he said, standing. “Fried or scrambled?”

Castiel’s smile widened.

It took a moment for Dean to realize what he had said. “Uh,” he fumbled, “I—“ There was a short “oof” as Castiel cut him off with a forceful kiss.

“I love you, too,” he said when they broke apart. “And fried, please.”

The shell shocked expression on Dean’s face melted into something soft and happy. He seemed to have lost the ability to move, eyes fixed upon Castiel’s face as though he were the world.

Something in Castiel’s chest flared warmly.

Dean leaned back in for another kiss. That turned into another, then another, and another, until their lips were almost raw, but in the best sort of way.

At some point, they had ended up lying back on the bed. For a few moments, they simply smiled at each other, giddy.

Castiel’s stomach ruined the moment, growling loudly.

“I remember you saying something about eggs?” He prompted.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, but made no attempt to get up.

“If you’re not in the kitchen in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to tickle you,” Castiel warned him.

“Jesus, alright, Cas, I’m going.” Dean rolled his eyes as he slid off the bed. “You’re going to use that as blackmail all the time, huh?”

“Probably,” Castiel said.

Dean groaned as he left the bedroom.

“I love you,” Castiel called after him, marveling at how easily the words fell from his lips.

“I’d love you more if you weren’t blackmailing me,” was Dean’s muffled response.

Castiel laughed.

It was a good day.

tag list: @theirlovewasreal @holmesemrys @fanfic-corner @lovingherwasgay @destiel-is-canon-i-guess @top13zepptraxx

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[kittymaverick]

Mystery Case Files 21: The Harbinger commentary and review, part 2.

outSpoiler free review first: Holy SHIT GRANDMA studios, talk about knocking the ball out of the park. Not only was that a solid good MCF game to start off with, you’ve now set up the expectation for the next game so high, I’m honestly a little afraid for you. Like... do you know how high the bar is now that you’ve hinted about the content of the next game? Right, coming back to Harbinger for a second. Barring one tiny little slip up which I think was just something that got lost in translation (English is like that), the lore of MCF managed to stay intact, which needs to be applauded. At one point, I almost questioned if there might be almost too many references, especially with that happens to the references in the game itself. (Yes, I, the MCF nerd and fanatic, actually had that thought). I still flip-flop a bit on whether this was a good execution, or a good but shaky execution. For one thing, the way it’s executed... wow, that’s some heavy stuff emotionally. Which is why I’m questioning if that’s “good”, because I suppose there was a line of emotional heaviness I didn’t expect we’ll cross in MCF, but GRANDMA took it there. And so far... part of me is guiltily okay with it, but wow... The studio’s art style does suggest that a detraction from from MCF’s usual Elizabethan English Horror Story with a side of Soul Steampunk and Celtic Druidism would not necessarily be a bad thing. That GRANDMA chose otherwise though, and stuck with a very, very MCF story (albeit more limited to the Celtic legends part), takes guts. What I do wish we’ll get, after the next game, is a story line that’s a GRANDMA original, sort of like Eipex’s the Black Veil, because I think the studio has potential in creating something that’s more them without pulling away too much from MCF. Anyway, that’s the spoiler free review part. Back to my spoiler filled commentary!

Aisling: I know I act suspicious, but I’m just a psychic! MD: I know I’m just a detective, but people keep dying around me, so hey, we’ve got that in common. Aisling: James gave me this cube by the way-- huh? *Emblem of MD appears* ...I’m sorry, that ancient celtic emblem... has a bloody hat. It has a bloody hat. I’m DYING.

Realized I jumped back too far to do this retroactive commentary. Oops.

MD: Okay, well, maybe he isn’t dead yet. We could probably dig him out-- *Nigel turns to bone* MD: ...Never mind. He’s beyond saving. Someone get the coroner!

Six thousand mirrors in the room, and not one shows your face. MD: A technique I have perfected over the two decades of my career. Didn’t save you from getting married to a homicidal madman though. MD: ...I don’t think he picked me because of my looks to begin with.

...Hey MD, I know paper work wasn’t exactly involved and all, but did you actually divorce Charles, or did you just betray him? MD: *DEATH GLARE* You know what, pretend I never asked. MD: You’d better.

MD: Let’s see what skeletons Nigel has in his closet. You know, the last time you found skeletons in a closet, quite literally... MD: Shut up, I was trying not to think about that! (This happened in Key to Ravenhearst. The Skeleton was Charles and Victor.)

Okay, so James was a MCF fanboy, Marge you met on one of your American trips, Nigel was a Fate Carney, John worked on a restored Ravenhearst. I don’t want to say her Majesty might have under exaggerated the number of keywords there were going on here... MD: Oh no, she definitely made it out to be less important than it seemed. She also definitely sent me in because the report she’s going to get out of this is going to be spectacular. The idea that HRM might be the ultimate MCF fan in-universe tickles me with delight. MD: And fills me with utter dread.

Nigel’s shadow puppet theatre: I got fired from the carnival! Boo! MD: Nigel, getting fired from Fate’s Carnival probably saved your ass. Temporarily, until whatever is going on here got you. MD: .................... What? Oh... MD: Yeah. Oh geez I’m looking forward to the case after this now! 8D MD: Why is it that the more I’m tortured, the more gleeful you are?

*Telephone rings* MD: Hello? Marge: HELP ME SOMETHING IS HERE AAAAHHH Well shit. MD: Yeah, she’s done for. Let’s go see the body.

*Gibs collects collectibles before going to body* *I die laughing because that’s my priority too*

MD: Oh no Marge I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you in time... ...Yeah right, says the person who doesn’t want to get their hand on the black stuff. MD: Look, my sorrow doesn’t in anyway override my desire for hygiene, okay? Reminds me of that one time I called some detectives from the last century dandies for refusing to stick their hand into a barrel of rainwater...

MD can I point out how you’re making detailed sketches of MARGE’S BODY in your journal? MD: Look it’s this or pyromania, okay? Don’t judge me. Also, I’m starting to think people that meet you on your cases shouldn’t bother locking their diaries. You always manage to crack them open.

Marge: Oh James is such a darling, I should get him to marry my daughter, then I’ll be such a happy mother-in-law. .............................. MD: ...................... Well, um, I guess Marge was a cougar on the inside, maybe? MD: Yeah, let’s phrase it like that (Restrain desire to make crude NSFW jokes...)

Marge: DAMN THAT GIRL FOR STEALING MY BOY. Marge, seriously, there’s officer Davis. I’m sure he’s just as nice! MD: And not on anyone’s death list. For now. MD: Don’t say that...

Davis: Well, I guess that’s one more evidence against Aisling. HOLD IT! MD: This note here shows clearly that Marge intended to frame Aisling for an attack on her! And the diary entries clearly document how much she hates the suspect. Therefore, the evidence shouldn’t be permissible-- Davis: Yeah, but Marge is dead, and there really isn’t anyone else in town left. *Record scratch* MD: ....It could be... you? Davis: Harhar, look here’s the evidence, go talk to Aisling. MD: Urgh, fine. It’s okay, MD, I was rooting for you there at least!

Aisling: Death, death is all around us! *Flees* MD: Okay, Aisling, that’s really not helping and only making you more suspicious! But since you’re away, I’m going to rifle through your trailer. Um, now who’s suspicious???

Hm, you know, this place would have been great for a holiday spot. MD: I don’t know, given my records with holidays... ...True, you’ll probably end up doing exactly what you are doing now. MD: That said, I think I’ll take a slice of apple pie since no one’s looking. Does the agency pay for your food on your cases? MD: They’d better because I’m giving the recipes to Her Majesty if they don’t...

Aisling: I came here to save John but he’s locked upstairs, please help! MD: Um, if you had let me come with you... maybe some time could have been saved? Aisling: But what if I get killed first then? MD:........ She’s got a point. MD: Dammit, fine...

Hm, so John’s ancestor worked on the original Ravenhearst... We’ll probably need to open up the original game to see if that was the guy that fell from the construction site. (My guess is it’s not, because that carpenter was originally meant to be Rose Summerset’s husband, so it should have been Summerset. Plus Rose’s kids were the twins and Victor.)

Oh damn, a model of Ravenhearst-- MD: Hm, it’s missing a weather vane. ........... MD: Look, just because I burn the place down several times, doesn’t mean I don’t care what it looks like, okay? Can you point out the window that you escaped out of by any chance? 8D MD: *sighs* This one...

Aisling: John, NOOOOOO. MD: Right, gotta cut him down quick! He might still be alive. *Proceed to spend over minutes solving puzzles* MD: I swear, this happened very fast in actuality... Never as fast as the plot demanded though...

*Puts weather vane on model* *Model turns into a raven* MD: ???????????????? Okay, I need to take points off for THAT ridiculous transformation and animation. XD

Aisling: I can’t take this anymore! MD: I know this is hard, Aisling-- Aisling: Here’s the next slab, btw. ....This mood whiplash... I’m dying.

Um, so apparently the banshee wasn’t trying to destroy the world, but was trying to restore herself, which... you disrupted. MD: Look, Allison and her friends needed rescuing okay? I couldn’t just sit idling by. ...If that was disrupted, then how DID Aisling turn human then??? MD: .....Let’s save that mystery for another time because I feel a headache incoming... (Fix edit: It seems to imply that the ritual was only disrupted, not failed, so Aisling did get her skin back, though now she doesn’t remember being a banshee...)

Aisling: I’m a banshee? That’s... That’s impossible. MD: Well, I’ve been through a lot to say most impossible things are actually probable in reality, though if you somehow don’t remember me shoving you back into the cave, um, then I’m grateful. Once you do, please don’t kill me. BTW, your turn on the cube of mystery!

Aisling: Well, if I’m a banshee, I guess I should go back to Dire Grove. We can catch the next ferry. MD: You know that’s a really long trip right? It might take us the better half of a day-- Or a single puzzle’s worth of time. MD: ...Where was THAT kind of fast travel all these years??? I do like how it’s implied that you guys had a huge detour with picking people up and dropping them off though.

Ais: Okay, we’re here in Dire Grove-- AH! MD: Wow, even nature is saying NO to you. Ooooooor it could be a certain immortal druid-- MD: Please don’t. It’s fine! We have a banshee. MD: All she does is predict death! Oh yeah, forgot about that...

*Aisling gets “kidnapped” by green energy* Gibs: That can’t be healthy. MD: That’s honestly pretty normal at this point for us. At least she didn’t get dropped down a tube.

Um, what’s with the Chinese incense in a Druid’s domain? X’D (I’m going to pretend they traded that...)

(I honestly don’t have a lot of stuff to comment on in the section in Dire Grove, because there isn’t much to snark about. Which, I guess, comes to show that 99% of silliness comes from MD dealing with PEOPLE, alive, dead, revived, or otherwise not really a human.)

*Aisling goes back to banshee form* MD: First, no hard feelings about last time, right? Aisling: *stares* MD: Please, thank you, and I’m sorry??? Aisling: You did help me out, so I guess it’s fine. MD: *sigh of relief* BTW, four people technically did DIE though in the process. Aisling: Um, that wasn’t me, if you recall your lore correctly. MD: True enough, but STILL. Just pointing it out. You want her to scream in your ear? She’s still got time for that.

Aisling: BTW, this energy is still floating about. And I think I know why. Will you accept this energy and use it to save the world? MD: Oh hold ON a minute. You want ME to do WHAT? Aisling: Save the world. You heard what I said. MD: Okay, listen. I started this detective job mostly because I thought it was cool... (MD’s going to be at this for a while. Are you going to listen, Aisling? A: To be honest, I’ll probably stop around the part where MD apologized for shoving me back into the cave... By the way, want to hear my part of the story on how I turned back into a banshee? Sure!) *****************************************************************

HOW AISLING BECAME A BANSHEE, AGAIN. Aisling: To make a long story short, there was a lot of puzzles Puzzles which you had to personally solve, without MD’s help? Aisling: It really makes you appreciate how hard MD has had it for the last 21 years...

Did... did you just KILL four people to restore your spirit? Aisling: I just helped their soul cross over! I swear! Aisling, you’re being really SUS right now and I’ve practice how to spot a liar lately! Aisling: I only predict deaths! And then find the souls and tell them where to go. I swear that’s my task. EVERYONE VOTE AISLING AISLING IS THE IMPOSTER

Is one of your abilities literally “summon joyride”???? Aisling: it’s a carriage A carriage can be an awesome joyride if you use it irresponsibly Aisling: How does MD tolerate you? They don’t, they’ve just had worse company and I’m a lesser evil. 8D

Aisling (actually Gibs): *suffers through the last giant super puzzle* ...Yeah, REALLY makes you appreciate what MD goes through. Aisling: Is it always this bad??? Sometimes. I’ve seen worse.

Gibs: THAT CARRIAGE IS BADASS. See, I told you it was a joyride. Aisling: You know, I think I’ll float back to the MD. No joyrides. Awwwwwwwwwwww... Okay, now let’s rewind back to when MD started their rant. **************************************************

Aisling: BTW, this energy is still floating about. And I think I know why. Will you accept this energy and use it to save the world? MD: Oh hold ON a minute. You want ME to do WHAT? Aisling: Save the world. You heard what I said. MD: Okay, listen. I started this detective job mostly because I thought it was cool, and it was for the first couple of cases where all I had to deal with was bust the criminal organization STAIN and recover the Hope diamond for the Queen. But then that’s where all my trouble started because she sent me to this creepy manor which turned out to be a prison to not one, not two, but FOUR ghosts. What’s even worse is the first time I went, I thought I only had to rescue Emma. I was wrong, and for the longest time, I thought Fate Carnival folks were dying from my mistake. Turns out later it was completely personal. This was everything that happened before I met YOU. (Again, really sorry about kicking you back into the cave and getting you stuck in the situation you were in in the last who knows how many years...) Afterwards, I went to the Louisiana which got me on the bad side of a certain ghost pirate, who turned out to be the grandfather of the guy killing the carney folks from his mother’s side. Which was why he was killing them by the way. She sold him to Fate’s Carnival. Anyway, after figuring out that I’ve dun goofed, I went back to Ravenhearst manor, which turned out there was a WHOLE OTHER SECTION I didn’t discover last time, which was somehow a very personalized and twisted marriage proposal that I didn’t notice until too late. I burned THAT down for good measure before taking a break in some place near a lake. But then that guy’s FATHER took up issue with what I did, which I didn’t even started, to be honest. He tried to kill me for whatever grudge it was that he had. I had to stab his horocrux with my badge to get him to stop that time. But then it turns out that father ALSO has some offspring here in Dire Grove, and I had to come back to prevent THAT from going down in flames as well. Thankfully, I think they remained sane. I can’t say the same for the twins, who turned out to be the evil guy’s kids. They most definitely went insane, and REMADE Ravenhearst, which I had to burn down for THE THIRD TIME. All that plus the jump I took landed me in an asylum, which turned out to be the one where both the evil bald guy and his dad was imprisoned once upon a time. Of course, the guy’s father tried to kill me, AGAIN. Took care of that, and also removed the shard that was driving me bonkers. It only gets worse from here though. I got chased around by an woman with a clock for her heart who I had to defenestrate out a clock tower. She didn’t stab me, but then the guy who probably ENGINEERED MY ENTIRE LIFE did, because apparently he wanted to use my soul’s virtue to anchor death to the mortal world or something. I got an immortality feather out of that, I guess, so it wasn’t too bad, but I basically DIED. And then afterwards there was that undead guy who was really hung up about his biker jacket. Next was the evil guy’s ancient youngest son nearly destroying the world (4th wall break: THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT) trying to revive him which thankfully DIDN’T HAPPEN BECAUSE OH GODS I WOULD HAVE DIED FOR REAL ON THE SPOT IF IT DID, FEATHER OR NOT. Then a creepy woman in a mirror had to be locked back into the mirror dimension. And that’s when my agency had a fucking SECURITY BREACH which turned out to have been in the making for YEARS. And then the pirate guy came back and nearly enslaved me. I had to blow up his ship and exorcise him from this world. And AFTER all of that, I was finally sent to Blackmoor, where I met YOU, and also saw a bunch of people marginally related to me die from a cause we still don’t have any answers for. *DEEP INHALE*

Aisling: Okay, so your point is.... MD: My POINT is.... out of ALL the sane and wholesome people in the world who don’t have ANY BAGGAGE whatsoever, why do I, the Master Detective, have to be the one to save the world here-- Charles: Hello. MD: *SCREEEEEEECH*

CHARLES IT’S BEEN FOREVER-- wait, you’re not here to serve the divorce papers are you? Charles: Of course not. I’m asking MD to come back home with me. MD: WHAT?! Charles: Where else would I welcome you back to? *Evil cackle* ......... 8D8D8D8D8D8D8D8D Aisling: ........... :| :| :| :| :| :| :| :| :| MD: .................D:< D:< D:< D:< D:< D:< D:< MD: Aisling, hand that energy over, I’ve a WORLD TO BURN.

I have to point this out... the last time we saw Charles IN THE FLESH in game, was Escape from Ravenhearst, which was NINE YEARS AGO, likely TEN by the time Crossfade comes out. Happy Tenth Anniversary of your wedding, Master Detective? 8D

MD: AS IF.

[okay-j-hannah]

Wasn’t Good Enough

Supernatural : Drabble

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1204

Warnings: There is a character death and most definitely a crying Dean

Request: This is just from my own head 😊

Prompt: 

“My best wasn’t good enough”

A/N: Dean wasn’t able to keep you from Michael

Michael flicked his fingers and sent (Y/N) flying. She slammed into the opposite wall and felt the air jump from her lungs.

“You know I’ve heard about you. Well, I’ve heard about you from my world. My little henchmen told me about the loyal girl that stood by Dean’s side. You were there until your dying day – which came swift by my command.” He kicked her deep in the side, sending (Y/N) rolling to the side.

“Sounds like she was a badass,” she coughed out.

He chuckled, “If I had known you were such a weakness to him I would have kept you all to myself. But I never said cleansing the world was an easy feat. Maybe yours will be quicker – less of a pain in my head.”

(Y/N) panted to get breath back into her body and stood clumsily, “Do what you want. He’ll never say yes to you.”

Michael sighed, but smiled, “You know I think I’m going to enjoy this torture more than usual. Dean will be here soon enough…”

“Sooner than you think.” The doors burst open and Dean came running in, Sam not far behind, “Leave her alone.”

The archangel from another universe laughed and clapped his hands together, “Finally! Dean it’s good to see you. You’re looking fresh and healthy – perfect for being occupied.”

“By some psychopathic deranged angel with homicidal tendencies? No thanks; Just let me take my girl and we’ll be on our way,” Dean cocked his gun and aimed it at his side.

Sam did something similar, moving his eyes between (Y/N) and the angel. Michael continued to grin as if it was all a joke.

“I don’t think you understand the pressing issue I have offered to you, Dean.” He clenched his hand and (Y/N) was lifted off the ground, her fingers clawing at her obviously constricting throat, “I won’t make the same mistakes I did in my world. I have leverage this time. If this girl honestly means that much to you, Dean, you would say yes to me.”

(Y/N) sputtered blood from her mouth down her chin as her face continued to change from pink to red and Dean felt himself shaking at restraining himself from running to her, “Stop! Listen to me – let her go and let’s talk.”

Michael lessened his grip and (Y/N) gasped for air, coughing up more blood as her shirt stained further with the substance, “What is there to talk about? I ask, and you agree; that’s it.”

There was slight hesitation, but Dean raised his gun and let an archangel blade fall into his hand, “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time you arrogant son of a bitch. Let her go.”

“It’s interesting, because it looks like you think you can take me on. Come on, Dean you know you’re not strong enough without me.”

Dean fired his weapon three times at the archangel, throwing the gun to the side, “And you think that’s going to stop me from trying?” He gripped the blade in his hand.

Michael grimaced and flexed his penetrated chest, “That’s too bad. I was hoping miss (Y/N) here would be able to last longer than the next five minutes.”

He put his hand down and (Y/N) fell to the ground with it. A sickening crack told them bones broke as she screamed. With another snap of his fingers the fabric of her shirt tore as blood splashed over and onto the floor.

“Stop!” Dean ran after the angel with the blade raised. He and Michael tangled to the side as Sam ran over to (Y/N).

The younger Winchester knelt by the frail girl and attempted to find a way to stunt the bleeding, but it was everywhere, “(Y/N)… I don’t – I don’t know.”

She smiled with blood stained teeth, “It’s alright, Sam. It was over before you guys even showed up.”

He frowned and shook his head, “But Dean…”

(Y/N) reached for his hand and he clung onto it, “Sammy you need to help him. I’ll be fine.”

Sam ripped off his jacket and pressed it against her abdomen, “Keep pressure on that.” And he ran back towards the losing fight.

(Y/N) couldn’t remember any sense of what time passed or whether Sam and Dean were even still alive. She had no more strength to keep the jacket tight to her and she knew blood was pouring around her. It had gotten colder – much colder. Her fingers had gone numb and she could feel her heartbeat slowing. But it was peaceful.

At some given point (Y/N) sensed someone at her side; and a faint voice, “Hey, sweetheart. (Y/N)?”

“Dean?” She attempted to focus her vision. “How did we do?”

“Michael’s wounded for now; but he’ll be back. Let’s get you out of here.” He tried to move his arms underneath her body, but it only educed a whimper from her lips.

“Dean,” Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “We can’t move her.”

(Y/N) was finally able to come to her senses enough to see the pain on Dean’s face. There was frozen panic in his eyes, “I’m sorry, Dean. I wish we could have had more time together…”

“Don’t talk like that, please. I can’t… I don’t think I…” He put a hand to the side of her face, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb, “Remember what we talked about? The house, (Y/N)?”

She closed her tired eyes and smiled, “The house and the yard and the german shepherd. And the three kids?”

“As many as you want, baby,” he let a tear fall from his eyes. “With Bobby as godfather and uncle Sammy tutoring them in school. Cas will babysit on date night while Jody makes a Sunday dinner.” (Y/N) coughed and strained her features as Dean tried to continue, “A-and I’ll open up a car shop a-and you… you can go to nursing school l-like you always wanted to!”

(Y/N) loosened her grip as her energy depleted, “I love you, Dean. I would spend eternity with you if I could.” Dean felt his lip quiver as he closed his eyes, tightening his jaw as she went on, “I’ll m-make sure to have an apple pie waiting for you when you get up there with me.”

“My favorite,” he forced a painful laugh and let more tears fall as he placed his other hand to her head, stroking her blood sticky hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

He let a slight sob escape his lips as her breathing became shallow and her eyes remained closed, “Please don’t blame yourself, Dean. We tried our best, didn’t we?” With a slight upturn in the corner of her mouth she added, “Love you, Sammy; take care of yourself and my sweet Dean.”

With a last breath she became perfectly still – hard and cold as marble. And Dean kept gentle hands on the sides of her face, “My best wasn’t good enough.”

Sam knelt behind his brothers’ shoulder and stared at the back of his head with a pained face, “Dean…”

“I can’t, Sammy. I don’t think I can do this,” He sat back and took in her whole appearance, “I don’t think I can live without her.”

~~~

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How to Watch Mad Men and More Great Shows for Free Right Now

Another day, another brand new streaming platform out there begging you to subscribe to its service so you can ignore your family members and binge-watch a bunch of TV shows and movies in the name of entertainment. This time, it's NBCUniversal's Peacock, which offers a free tier as well as  two premium options (one with ads and one without). The service  features a number of programs for free, including Friday Night Lights and even Parks and Recreation, but Peacock isn't the only place you can stream great shows without breaking the bank.

Below, we've gathered up a number of shows that don't require you to shell out money for Netflix,  Hulu,  Amazon Prime,  Disney+, Apple TV+, HBO Max, Peacock, and/or  whatever other streaming service subscriptions are out there. Sometimes you just need a simple freebie. And you know what? You deserve it. So check out the list below and take comfort in knowing it won't cost you a thing.

Watch it on: IMDb TV

Until recently you had to have a Netflix subscription to watch Mad Men, AMC's Emmy-award winning period drama from Matthew Weiner that was dedicated as much to style as it was to substance. The 1960s-set series, which traced the rise and fall of flawed Madison Avenue advertising executive Don Draper (Jon Hamm) through his own complicated relationship with identity, was a pointed commentary on the toxic masculinity, sexism, and racism of the era. It also changed the way we watch and talk about TV. If you haven't seen it yet, now's the perfect time to do so.

The Dick Van Dyke Show

Watch it on: Tubi (complete series), Pluto TV (complete series)

Realizing  The Dick Van Dyke Show is streaming for free feels a bit like winning a secret lottery or viewing an exceptional piece of art without paying the museum admission fee. The popular comedy, which ran for five seasons, was created by Carl Reiner and starred Dick Van Dyke as the head writer of a TV show, while  Mary Tyler Moore portrayed his wife. It's a timeless classic — one that took home 15 Emmys during its run, and if you've yet to experience it, you literally have no excuse at this point.

The Dick Van Dyke Show Photo: Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

Watch it on: ABC app (complete series)

Felicity is best known as the show in which Keri Russell cut her hair (not to be confused with the show in which Keri Russell wore a lot of great wigs, aka The Americans). Depicting Felicity Porter's (Russell) college years and the struggles that accompany trying to figure out who you're supposed to be, the show is also famous for Scott Speedman's whisper-talking and the ongoing battle of Ben (Speedman) vs. Noel (Scott Foley). Although the WB series was previously streaming on Hulu, you can now watch it for free on the ABC app.

A reimagining of the kitschy original series, Syfy's Battlestar Galacticastarred Edward James Olmos, Mary McDonnell, Katee Sackhoff, Tricia Helfer, Michael Hogan, James Callis, and Jamie Bamber and explored the aftermath of a nuclear attack by the Cylons, cybernetic creatures invented by man who evolved and rebelled against their creators. The show was critically acclaimed for the way it tackled the subjects of science, religion, and politics, and for the way it explored the deeply complicated notion of what makes us human. Everything from the miniseries to the two BSG films (Razor and The Plan) is currently available to stream for free on Syfy's website, so there's no better time to watch it. So say we all!

Watch it on: IMDb TV (complete series), Tubi (complete series), Pluto TV (first 13 seasons), YouTube (first 13 seasons)

For many millennials, the fourth series in the Degrassi franchise, Degrassi: The Next Generation, is the defining iteration of the long-running Canadian series. The drama series, which was sometimes so overly dramatic it was actually funny, tackled everything from date rape and suicide to sexual orientation and teen pregnancy. The series, which launched the careers of Drake (then known as Aubrey Graham) and Nina Dobrev, is streaming on multiple free platforms.

Watch it on: ABC app (complete series)

Eli Stone really had it all, which is to say it had Victor Garber singing George Michael songs, Loretta Devine singing George Michael songs, and George Michael singing George Michael songs. What else is there? ABC's offbeat two-season comedy-drama starred a pre-Elementary Jonny Lee Miller as Eli Stone, a high-powered San Francisco lawyer whose brain aneurysm gave him prophetic visions — which usually involved his friends, family, and colleagues breaking into song. Aside from a couple of ill-advised plotlines (the pilot, which suggests vaccines cause autism, is best forgotten), the show was a blast: a weird but memorable cocktail that should have stuck around for more seasons because, as I mentioned, Victor Garber sang George Michael songs. Also, Sigourney Weaver played God?! -Kelly Connolly

Watch it on: YouTube (nearly every episode)

A true Canadian treasure,  The Red Green Show was a long-running comedy starring Steve Smith as Red Green, a handyman who constantly tried to cut corners using duct tape and who had his own cable TV show. It was a parody of home improvement shows and outdoor programs and featured segments like Handyman Corner, Adventures with Bill, and The Possum Lodge Word Game. The show ran for 15 seasons, airing on PBS in the States. 

TV Premiere Date Calendar: Find Out When Your Favorite Shows Are Back

Watch it on: IMDb TV (complete series), ABC app (complete series)

Critically beloved but struck down before its time,  My So-Called Life has been praised for its realistic and honest portrayal of teenage life, not just via Angela Chase (Claire Danes), but through the show's young supporting cast as well. Now considered to be one of the best shows of all time, it tackled topics like homophobia, homelessness, drug use, and more without ever feeling preachy or like an after-school special. Also, Jordan Catalano (Jared Leto) could lean.

Watch it on: CW Seed (first five seasons), IMDb TV (first five seasons)

If you don't have Netflix but still want to watch  Schitt's Creek, you'll be happy to know you can watch the first five seasons of the heartwarming, Emmy-nominated comedy series, about a wealthy family who loses everything they own except the town of the show's title, for free on CW Seed and IMDb TV.

Dan Levy and Catherine O'Hara, Schitt's Creek Photo: Pop TV

Watch it on: Peacock (complete series); IMDb TV (complete series)

You may never know what it feels like to have Coach Taylor (Kyle Chandler) be proud of you, but you can pretend by watching all five seasons of  Friday Night Lights, a series that was as much about a Texas community as it was about the sport that united it. By the end of the show, you'll be asking yourself "What Would Riggins Do?" and tattooing "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose" on your body, all while chanting "Texas forever!" Trust me, it happens to everybody.

Watch it on: CW Seed (complete series)

It is relatively easy to forget that The CW series The Carrie Diaries was a prequel to  Sex and the City, because the charming show, which lasted just two seasons, was able to stand on its own. The coming-of-age series that followed a teenaged Carrie Bradshaw (AnnaSophia Robb) was relatively innocent compared to the original series. The show's 1980s setting made it easier for the writers to focus on more harmless family storylines and teenage heartbreaks, but the show never shied away from the heartstring-tugging drama of young adulthood either. It's a shame the show never got the kind of ratings it deserved and wasn't able to exist beyond Carrie's high school years, but the Season 2 finale works well as a series finale, so viewers won't feel as if the story was left incomplete. android tv box

Watch it on: CW Seed (complete series)

It's a shame Bryan Fuller's saturated dramedy  Pushing Daisies, about a pie-maker (Lee Pace) with the ability to bring the dead back to life, couldn't bring itself back to life after becoming a casualty of the 2007-08 writers' strike. A whimsical delight, the show featured the pie-maker teaming up with a local private eye (Chi McBride) to solve murders by reviving the victims for a brief time. Known for its quirky characters, eccentric visual style, and Jim Dale's pitch-perfect narration, it remains must-see TV.

Watch it on: IMDb TV (first seven seasons); Peacock

Columbo kicked off nearly every episode by revealing the crime and its perpetrator to the audience, which means unlike most crime dramas, the show was less about whodunnit and more about Peter Falk's iconic raincoat-wearing homicide detective catching them and getting them to confess. Oh, and just one more thing: it's great.

Watch it on: CW Seed (complete series)

The charming and playful Forever, which starred Ioan Gruffudd as an immortal medical examiner, was the one show that could have saved ABC's Tuesday at 10 p.m. death slot. But the network still canceled the series anyway, enraging the show's fans, who have never let the sting of its death go. Luckily, it now lives on, ahem, forever (aka until the content license expires) on CW Seed.

Watch it on: IMDb TV (complete series)

It sounds odd to say The Middle, which ran for nine seasons on ABC, was unfairly overlooked, but it always felt like the series, which followed the middle class Midwestern Heck family, was a bit of a hidden gem. It wasn't as popular with Emmy voters as, say, Modern Family, and critics also failed to give it its due, but it was a real, heartfelt, reliable family comedy with mass appeal, and you can stream it on IMDb TV for free. h96 tv box

Watch it on: ABC app (complete series)

Trophy Wife's short life — it was canceled after just one season — can probably be chalked up to its unfortunate title, which was meant to be ironic but ultimately kept viewers from tuning in and experiencing the warmth of the show and the relationships at its center. Malin Akerman starred as the young wife of  Bradley Whitford's middle-aged lawyer, and the comedy explored the dynamics between the two, his children, and his two ex-wives, who were played by  Marcia Gay Harden and  Michaela Watkins. h96 max x3

Watch it on: NBC app (complete series)

Loosely based on the Biblical story of King David, Kings was a compelling drama before its time. Rudely cut down after just one season by NBC, the show starred Ian McShane as the king of the fictional kingdom of Gilboa, while  Christopher Egan portrayed an idealistic young soldier whose counterpart is David. The show also starred Sebastian Stan, which is reason enough to want to check it out.

Watch it on: ABC app (complete series)

Ray Wise portrays Satan in Reaper, a supernatural dramedy about a slacker (Bret Harrison) who reluctantly becomes a reaper tasked with capturing escaped souls from hell after it's revealed his parents made a deal with the devil many, many years before. The fact the show only lasted two seasons is a crime against humanity. Luckily, you can watch it in its entirety for free on the ABC app. h96 max x3

Watch it on: IMDb TV (complete series)

A team of experts led by a kooky old scientist (John Noble), his son (Joshua Jackson), and an FBI agent (Anna Torv) investigate strange occurrences around the country, X-Files style, in the J.J. Abrams-produced Fringe. The series is one of the best broadcast science-fiction shows of all time, particularly in its first three seasons, and perfected the art of the serialized procedural by weaving the show's deep mythology and excellent character work into weekly standalone stories, making it easy to binge or watch in spurts. And by the time the end of Season 1 starts, you'll have a hard time stopping. -Tim Surette

Watch it on: Tubi (complete series), Vudu (complete series)

Although American TV producers would eventually adapt  Being Human, the original British version, which followed three supernatural beings trying to live amongst humans, is far superior. The show, which ran for five seasons, starred Aidan Turner, Russell Tovey, and  Lenora Crichlow as a vampire, werewolf, and ghost, respectively. So skip the U.S. version entirely and watch the U.K. series for free.

Watch it on: Pluto TV (complete series),  Vudu (complete series), Tubi (complete series)

The Australian young adult-oriented series Dance Academy is not exactly what you'd call "great television," but it is great fun. Brimming with teen angst and melodrama, the series, which ran for three seasons and even had a follow-up movie, followed a handful of dancers at Sydney's National Academy of Dance as they trained in the sport they loved while also falling in and out of love with each other. The acting was sometimes questionable, but the series itself was addictive, not to mention one of the easiest binges you'll ever encounter. h96 max tv box

3rd Rock From the Sun

Watch it on: Tubi (complete series), Pluto TV (complete series), Crackle (all six seasons),  Vudu (all six seasons)

You might think a show about a group of socially awkward, 1,000-year-old aliens in human skin suits who are trying (badly) to pose as a human family and blend into an ordinary Midwest town might sound ridiculous, and, well, that's fair. But  3rd Rock From the Sun was still charming in even its most bizarre moments and gave its cast a lot of room to play up their roles and create an ensemble of weirdos that, at some point or another, start to tap into their newfound humanity and relish their new home here on Earth. -Amanda Bell.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2019 Day 9: Coffee Shop AU

rain is falling, looks like love | @alullabytoleaveby Rating: General Word Count: 5536 Main Tags and Warnings: coffee shop au, student!cas, barista!cas Summary: “Um. I didn’t order this.” Cas shrugs.“It’s on the house. Consider it a thank you for your patience.” Dean snorts. “Thanks, I guess. Although I’ve never been much of a muffin man. Honestly, I’d prefer a piece of pie,” he says with a winning smile. Cas determinedly doesn’t fall for it. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Dean. Eat your muffin.” -- OR: Cas works at a coffeeshop, Dean is a customer, and they're both ridiculously in love with each other.

...And One Awkward Barista To Go | @isolemnlyswear-iamsuperwholocked Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2113 Main Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Coffee Shop Employee Castiel, Post-High School, High School Crush, Tumblr Prompt, Based on a Tumblr Post Summary: Dean finally got out of his hometown to go to college, but when he comes back on break he passes the cafe where he first met his old crush, Castiel, and old memories make him go inside...because what are the chances he'll even still be there, anyway?

Noveltea & Coffee | @rustling-pages Rating: Explicit Word Count: 50064 Main Tags and Warnings: Magical Realism AU, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining Summary: Dean once thought his literary themed coffee shop ‘Noveltea & Coffee’ would be a better, more satisfying source of income than working as a mechanic. He thought people would come for the good coffee and stay for an even better book selection. He also thought he’d be running it with Sam, but that didn’t happen. Now he’s stuck with a bad mood he’s emoting all over the place, a lovingly created coffee shop no one ever frequents and a soul full of worry for the brother he no longer talks to. When Castiel – a defeated librarian turned accountant – comes stumbling in during a November downpour, things change so drastically for the better, it might as well be magic…

Not So Alone Anymore | @pherryt Rating: General Word Count: 4211 Main Tags and Warnings: a/b/o dynamics, omega!cas, omega!dean, alpha!michael, web designer!dean, Mpreg, abandoned!dean, Misunderstandings, Pining, Confessions, Cas owns a coffee shop, Angst and Fluff, Pups, past michael/dean Summary: Suddenly alone and pregnant, Dean’s resigned himself to raising his unborn pups by himself after Michael skips out on him for greener pastures. Along comes Cas. They get off on the wrong foot but maybe Dean isn’t so alone anymore...

Nobody's Fault But Mine | @peanutbutterjelly-pie Rating: General Word Count: 6139 Main Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Bakery, Misunderstandings, Mistaken Identity Summary: Castiel just should have listened. He seriously should have. But instead he found himself hypnotized by those beautiful green eyes and he totally missed the most important thing in the process.

50 Last Dates | @reaperlove77 Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1379 Main Tags and Warnings: pining Dean, clueless Cas, Humor, fluff, coffee shop au Summary: It was Dean's guilty pleasure, watching scruffy guy dump his various boyfriends, a real life soap opera. He really, really wanted to get to know blue eyes better, but come on, Dean doesn't date shady. But there's more to the story than he expected.

Autumn in His Eyes | @DesiraeLovesDestiel Rating: Explicit Word Count: 50464 Main Tags and Warnings: Bar Owner Dean/Artist Cas, Humor, Fluff, Angst with a happy ending, Smut, pining, minor character death, Summary: Castiel worked his ass off to escape his family and make a name for himself in the art world and now C.J. Krushnic was one of the most sought-after artists around. After years of abuse from his dysfunctional family, he was finally living as he pleased and answered to no one other than himself. Until his older brother, Lucifer, was arrested and found guilty of multiple homicides. Now the name C.J. Krushnic was synonymous with sex, lies, and murder. Castiel, exhausted and stressed by the constant paparazzi and speculation into his own psyche, goes into hiding, moving into an inherited property of his beloved grandmother’s in the cozy little town of Bear Claw, Vermont-where he meets one Dean Winchester. Dean, though not without his own baggage, is a kind and generous soul who unlocks something in Castiel. Seemingly not put off by his surliness-in fact, Dean seems to enjoy it- the kind bar owner reawakens Castiel’s muse, making him want to open up about his past and who he is. But Dean is too bright to deserve all of Castiel’s dark and the artist is determined not to let them become anything more than good friends. But Castiel soon learns that Dean has other plans.

Bean's | @lemonsorbae Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 6787 Main Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff Summary: When Dean had returned home from his third tour in Iraq, he’d begged the universe for a mundane life. No more guns, no more Arabic, no more shitty showers and MREs; Dean just wanted quiet.

Cakepocalypse! | @mittensmorgul Rating: Mature Word Count: 64145 Main Tags and Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Episode: s13e23 Let the Good Times Roll, Baker Dean Winchester, TV producer Castiel, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, 13.23 coda fic and therefore canon, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Angst and Fluff and Smut, but mostly fluff with a dash of crack.. Summary: “What the hell you tryin’ to sell me?” Dean asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Not selling, Deano. Buying. Or at least, renting for the duration of a limited season run,” Gabriel said, as Dean’s frown deepened. “Have you ever dreamed of being a Hollywood superstar?” Dean laughed outright at that and shook his head, turning around to pick up his coffee again. “Man, no way in hell. You got the wrong guy.” Spoiler alert: He did not have the wrong guy.

The Angel Cake Challenge | @almaasi Rating: General Word Count: 8132 Main Tags and Warnings: Canon Universe, Fluff, Romance, Team Free Will 2.0, Day At The Beach, Mistaken For A Couple, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Public Displays of Affection, Pet Names, Endearments, First Kiss, Closeted Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Good Omens Summary: There's a kooky gay couple sitting in this little beachside bistro, at the table next to Dean. Dean's biggest mistake was telling them they looked cute together. Now they've noticed Cas, and they're silently encouraging Dean to be as openly affectionate as them. Dean didn't sign up for this challenge. But now? Hell, he's in it to win it.

Purple Horse in a Coffee Shop | @almaasi Rating: General Word Count: 8437 Main Tags and Warnings: Fluff, Crack, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Pride Parades, Coffee Shops, Horses, Colorblindness, Pride, Workplace Relationship, Agender Castiel, Asexual Castiel, Wizard Castiel, Bisexual Dean, Prince Dean, Pansexual Sam Summary: Nobody expects to see a purple horse at a Pride parade. So, naturally, Dean Winchester is surprised to meet his office co-worker and long-term crush, Castiel, riding atop a magnificent steed - and dressed in full wizard regalia, no less. Somehow, Cas thinks he (and his decked-out horse) are wearing grey. They visit a coffee shop with their friends and family, trying to get to the bottom of this mix-up - and apparently the purple horse is coming too. “One medium black coffee with two sugars; one macchiato; three small soy lattes; one large decaf with a caramel shot - and ten apples, please.”

[yeehawbisexualold]

It’s a Party in the USA

A Fourth of July AU written for CS AU week day 1: Holiday AU. America vs. Great Britain antics ensue.

The rivalry started when Killian first moved in three years ago. It was less than a week from the Fourth of July and he made an offhand comment about how he hoped she wasn’t as “into” the holiday as his buddy David.

Emma wasn’t. At least, not yet.

At the age of 15, it was the first holiday she celebrated with the Nolan family, her first taste of how all out the family went for holidays. Being the wholesome, all-American family they were and living in one of the thirteen original colonies no less, Independence Day was the holiday they did with the biggest bang. Mr. and Mrs. Nolan invited all of their close friends and the entire block to their patriotic, backyard BBQ extravaganza—red, white and blue decorations galore, meat from every American animal imaginable, all sorts of water activities, a bounce house and face paint for the youngsters, and fireworks, so many fireworks.

It was all a little overwhelming at first, the extravagance and grandeur, but it soon became something she looked forward to. For that reason, it became her favorite holiday. But she didn’t make a big deal about it. She didn’t put on as much fanfare as her adoptive family. She mostly just showed up and enjoyed the festivities.

“Actually, I am,” she told him, straight faced and with zero hesitation.

Her and Killian weren’t antagonistic with each other but they did enjoy a little it of conflict. They bantered well, argued better, and seemed to disagree with each other often enough to keep things… interesting.

She wasn’t about to let this little dig towards her country and her brother’s enthusiasm slide.

It escalated quickly after that.

The America vs. Britain argument was a constant debate. Emma would do a little extra for the holiday, dress a little more patriotic, hang up some streamers around the apartment. Killian would combat that by wearing a British flag shirt and humming God Save The Queen. It wasn’t just the holiday that brought tension though. No, that was a year long thing.

(“Why do you Americans put the month before the date? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s easier to say January 1st than the 1st of January.”

“Yet the holiday celebrating your country is the Fourth of July.”

“You mean the country celebrating our independence? The independence we gained from yours?”

He printed out a chart comparing the homicide levels and taped it to the fridge. The next day she printed out a chart comparing the number of Olympic gold medals.

 She poked fun at the stupidity of Brexit. He fired back when Trump was elected.) 

Most people would probably take prudence not to agitate a new relationship but she doesn’t intend to call a cease fire now that they’re together. If anything, she’s more determined than ever. She hopes he feels the same. Because this year, she has big plans. 

She gets up before Killian, a feat in of itself (slipping out of bed without alerting him and managing to wake before him.) She gives herself just enough time to decorate the apartment and set up her pranks before he joins her in the land of wakefulness. 

Sneaking back into their bedroom, she makes sure he’s still asleep and then places the portable speaker on the nightstand next to his head. Carefully, she drops one leg on either side of his hips, moving into the position of kneeling above him, hovering just enough to not make contact. 

Giddy off vindictiveness, she presses play on the remote and exceedingly enjoys the way he shoots up, eyes wild, startled awake by the sound of Miley Cyrus’ Party in the USA. She blows into her party horn and smirks down at him.

His eyes narrow and his brows furrow, a mixture of annoyance and arousal, as he takes her in, sitting astride him I n a strapless corset, red and white striped with a square of blue with white stars over her right boob, and a pair of matching blue and white starred underwear. He looks to the speaker on the night stand, back to her, back at the speaker, and then back at her.

“Ok, you’ve had your fun. Will you please turn that off?” he asks, looking thoroughly put out.

“But it’s a Party in the USA,” she says, saccharine sweet, slowly moving her hips back and forth.

“This party would be a lot more fun with out the tunes.”

She pretends to consider it for a moment, running her hands up and down his bare chest, scratching her nails through his hair. “Mmm, no.”

“I’m sure I can figure out a way to convince you,��� he growls before flipping her over so that she’s underneath him.

“You can try,” she giggles, pulling his mouth down to hers.

~

He shouts, completely horrified, from the bathroom. "Swan!“

“Yes?” She doesn’t really need an answer though. She’s sure he’s found the box of Twinnings tea dumped in the toilet.

“This is blasphemous! Sacrilegious!”

“I put tea in the toilet, Killian. I didn’t light a cross on fire then drop it on a pentagram.”

She calms him down enough to get in the shower, promising she’ll never waste perfectly good tea like that again, and then begins working on breakfast—white chocolate chip pancakes topped with strawberries and blueberries, with a side of iced tea.

“Something smells delicious,” he hums, coming up from behind and nuzzling her ear. He stops suddenly though when he realizes the additions she’s made to his favorite breakfast. “Really, Swan?”

“White chocolate for taste and the berries for healthiness.” She turns around and plants a kiss on his disgruntled mouth before stepping away to take a shower of her own.

“Why can’t the streamers be enough?” he grumbles to himself.

She sings cheerily along to Fifty Nifty United States as she scrubs herself with her apple pie body wash and smiles at the thought of him humming God Save The Queen or some other British anthem to himself in order to tune her out. Surely he can’t be feeling to joyous what with the way he’s scrubbed the words “England Sucks” off the bathroom mirror.

It’s Emma’s turn to be irked when she steps out of the bathroom to find him standing in a full British flag suit.

“No. Absolutely not,” she says clutching the towel to herself and shaking her head.

“Come on, love. You didn’t think you were the only one with a bit of naughtiness up your sleeve, now did you?” He’s smirking and his eyes are alight with mischief.

“I hope David kicks your ass.”

She dresses in a red and white stripped dress, blue flipflops, and little star earings—something she had thought would be patriotic enough but pales in comparison to Killian’s obnoxious suit. She ties a red and white polka dot bandana around her head and flexes her arm at him.

“Ready to go?” she asks and he simply kisses her bicep and nods.

When she steps back into the living room she finds images of famous British figures taped all over the walls—the queen, The Beatles, David Beckham, J.K. Rowling, Freddie Mercury, Princess Diana,  Jane Austen along with the cover of Emma, even One Direction. She clenches her fists and breathes in deeply in an effort to not rip the pictures off the wall and shove them in his mouth.

“I love watching you suppress your violent antics,” he whispers in her ear. She hadn’t realized he was so close behind her and she shivers. “But I think I’m even fonder of when you let them happen.”

“I’ll show you violence,” she grumbles, stomping out the front door.

He laughs aloud when he sees his car. With red and blue window paint, she wrote ‘Merica, football, independence, tea sucks, a U with a line through it, and drew a picture of an American flag.

“Just how early did you get up, love?”

“Early enough.”

He makes her listen to British patriotic songs on the way to her brother and his wife’s home but he gets his Karma when David pushes his fully clothed ass in the pool. She feels slightly bad for laughing when he presents her with a swan water float. The feeling doesn’t last very long though because she later overhears him bragging about all of the musical talents to originate in Britain.

“We have Beyonce, you dumbass,” she says before spraying him in the back of the head with a super soaker filled with red Kool-Aid.

The party goes on like that with the two of them bickering back and forth, most people content to just watch the entertainment they provide but David takes Emma’s side and Robin joins Killian in ragging America.

Everything calms once the fireworks begin. David and Mary Margaret’s house has a pretty good view of Boston’s Fourth of July firework show so everyone sits and watches from the backyard.

“How expensive do you think it would be to rent an orchestra to wake you up next year?” she asks, as she sits tucked into his side on a blanket in the grass.

“I don’t know but I’m sure we can budget for it if you promise you’ll be wearing that lovely outfit to wake me up again.”

“I’ll consider it.”

But who is she kidding? Of course, she’ll wear it again.

[mariequitecontrarie]

Death Becomes Him: A Rumbelle RCIJ Story

Summary: When Belle French witnesses three-time widow Zelena Kelly poking around the home of her next door neighbor Mr. Gold with a gun, she takes matters into her own hands and tells Zelena that Gold is already dead. Now all she has to do is convince Mr. Gold to fake his own death, with herself as his willing accomplice. Word Count: 26,000   Rating: NC-17 for smut   Artwork: @moonlight91 A/N: This is a @rumbellechristmasinjuly present for the lovely @nerdrumple, who prompted “Coming back from the dead.” It was lots of fun getting to know you and being your Santa, sweetie! Since you aren’t a fan of angst, I decided to turn the prompt on its head and make this into a caper. There’s some Jefferson and some Swanfire feels, too. This is a ridiculous, comical premise and not meant to be taken as a serious crime drama in any way. ;)  Many thanks to @still-searching47 and @magnoliatattoo for being extraordinary betas and to @im2old4this for the support and encouragement.

{ON AO3}

DEATH BECOMES HIM

“A slip of the foot you may soon recover, but a slip of the tongue you may never get over.” – Benjamin Franklin

Chapter 1: Zelena Saturday Afternoon

An odd scraping sound interrupted her whistling.

Belle puttered around her small porch, watering can in hand, while the scorching afternoon sun beat down on the back of her neck and bare shoulders. She should have paid attention to her plants earlier, but she’d been distracted by baking a cake and rereading Wuthering Heights and lost all track of time. Belle shrugged and smiled down at the wilting plants, brushing her fingers over the yellow petals of a daisy. She didn’t have much of a green thumb, but she didn’t let it bother her. Hopefully a long, cool drink and a happy tune would revive these beauties. If not, they were only plants—not pets or people. Belle tipped the watering can again, showering her hydrangeas with water and a song until the soil was dark and excess moisture dripped onto the porch.

There it was again. The scraping noise.

A flash of movement at Mr. Gold’s house next door caught her attention, and Belle stopped whistling. She shaded her eyes and scanned his front porch. Their houses were only about fifteen feet apart, her modest peach-colored two-bedroom ranch-style home almost comical next to his gigantic salmon mansion. Belle squinted. She could see the outline of a figure on the porch, but she didn’t have her contacts in.

Damned nearsightedness. She picked up her birdwatching binoculars for a closer look.

Zelena Kelly was peering in the front windows, running her long, pale fingers along the green and burgundy frames. What was she doing, casing Gold’s house? Zelena gave the locked front door an accusatory glare, and Belle snorted in disgusted amusement.

To say Belle wasn’t Zelena’s biggest fan was an understatement.

With long, flaming red hair and a willowy figure, Zelena was a classic beauty, but ugliness clung to her spirit. Her dour expressions and obnoxious, cutting remarks left people cold. Plus, the woman was infamous for losing books—she had misplaced the library’s prize copy of The Wizard of Oz and refused to pay the fine. What she did manage to return was always warped and dog-eared, as though she took all her books to the beach and dunked them in the surf. She had buried no fewer than three husbands, each of whom had mysteriously died a few months into their marriage, leaving Zelena to gleefully collect on their estates. She even kept her maiden name—Kelly—to signify her continuous availability to the male population at large. Some of Storybrooke’s less intelligent residents, like Keith Nottingham and Howard Hades, were stupid enough to trot after her like lovesick puppies. Future victims, Belle thought grimly.

If those sins weren’t enough to damn Zelena for eternity, she had been throwing herself at Mr. Gold for months like the snake and her proverbial apple. Several times, Belle had seen Zelena accost him at Granny’s and in his pawnshop, her spindly fingers and nails the color of fresh blood always digging into his arm or his chest. Now she was poking around Gold’s house like she owned the place!

Belle sharpened the focus on her binoculars as Zelena rummaged through the large, emerald handbag slung over her shoulder. Clenched in her hand was a sturdy, metal nail file and she was running it along the seams of the door and the front windows. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

What the hell was she doing, trying to break in?

Belle eyes widened when Zelena fumbled around in her bag again and pulled out a small handgun. No, she wanted to do more than break in.

She wanted to kill Mr. Gold.

Belle gasped, adrenaline kicking in, her heart slamming against her ribcage. She banged her leg against the patio table, upsetting the watering can, and water splashed across the front of her shirt. Zelena whipped her head in Belle’s direction. Belle jumped back, then dropped the binoculars to the porch with a clatter.

“You there—Bess!”

Please don’t let her mean me. Belle craned her neck down the road and prayed Zelena was shouting at someone else, but the sidewalk and neighboring yards were quiet. Zelena’s narrowed stare was fixed on her, the gun no longer in her hands. The metal file was gone, too. Belle’s throat clenched. Had Zelena seen her spying?

“Have you seen Gold?” Zelena hollered.

“He’s not home, Miss Kelly,” Belle answered from the safety of her porch. Her heart thrashed a nervous beat as she wiped her wet hands on her shorts. “And it’s Belle.”

“What’s Belle?”

“My name.”

Zelena waved a dismissive hand. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“Mr. Gold doesn’t clear his schedule with me. But if the door’s locked and he’s not answering when you ring the bell…” It seemed rather obvious Gold was out of the house, but Zelena continued to patrol his porch like a bloodhound. Unless…was he hiding inside? Belle certainly couldn’t blame him for not wanting to open the door for that.

Then again, Gold never opened the door for her, either. Belle pushed the cloudy thought away and forced a smile. He may not answer the door when she knocked, but he always picked up whatever she left for him to enjoy—a wedge of peach pie, a plate of cookies, or a square of vanilla bean cake thick with fudgy icing. Belle could only consume so many baked goods on her own, and sharing was the neighborly thing to do. There was a solid explanation for his caution—he simply hadn’t taken the time to get to know her in the three years they’d been neighbors. If he gave her a chance, Belle felt certain he would like her as much as he seemed to like her treats.

Zelena abandoned her useless trolling of Gold’s porch, then slid up the steps of Belle’s porch, her long, pointy nails scratching against the banister. Belle squeezed the handle of the empty watering can and took an automatic step back. The only sound on the porch was the slow drip of water from the quenched plants.

“You don’t know where Gold is?” Zelena persisted.

“Did you try the shop?” Belle asked, her tongue feeling two sizes too large for her mouth. Her eyes darted around looking for the gun. She wished she’d gone inside to telephone Emma Swan at the sheriff’s station, but it would have been an act of cowardice. An eyewitness account would be more help, and by the time Emma arrived, Zelena would be gone.

“Well, duh.” Zelena glanced down at Belle’s wet chest and made a face. “I went there first, Bonnie.”

Belle opened her mouth to correct her again, then decided against it. There was a cold, eerie glint in the woman’s pale blue eyes and her overbearing presence was suffocating, making the already diminutive porch seem like a postage stamp. Even in the oppressive afternoon heat, Belle shivered, the cool beads of water feeling like pricks of ice on her skin. She was about to order Zelena off her property, when Gold came strolling up the sidewalk toward his home.

Oh no.

Gold moved down the street with a loose-hipped, charming gait, reminding Belle of a Regency gentleman out for a summer stroll. Good lord, he was handsome. Zelena faded into nothingness for a moment as Belle admired the view. His shoulder-length hair glinted in the afternoon sun, his dark, three-piece suit pressed and crisp, without a wrinkle in sight, the gold-tipped cane he carried an elegant accent. Even in this stifling August weather he looked cool and calm, but then he wasn’t expecting to come face-to-face with a homicidal maniac.

Belle flapped her sweaty fingers in front of her flushed face.

Gold froze on the pavement, his steps stuttering to a halt, his brown pupils growing large as saucers. His eyes landed on the back of Zelena’s head, and he went stark white under his tanned complexion. Belle read the panic in his eyes, then watched in helpless fascination as he hobbled through the side yard like a band of wild dogs was after him.

Zelena glanced around just as Gold disappeared behind the side of his enormous house, then turned back. “Brenda? God, you have the attention span of a gnat. With all that time you spend with your nose in a book…I thought reading was supposed to improve one’s concentration.”

Belle glanced in the direction where Gold had disappeared, thinking furiously. He was hidden and safe for now, but what about later today, tonight, tomorrow?

Zelena snapped her fingers in front of her face. “Hellooooooo! What are you staring at?”

She had to save Gold’s life, Belle decided, and she had to act fast. It was now or never. Do the brave thing.

Sweat dripped into her eyes, the salt stinging and making her tear up. She wiped her eyes, then allowed a tear to roll down her cheek, sniffling for effect. “It’s…I didn’t want to be the one to have to break the news.”

“What news?” Zelena tapped her foot against the porch floor, her stiletto heels echoing against the floorboards. Her eyes were feverish and wild, and twin spots of crimson popped out on her cheeks.  

“About Mr. Gold.” Belle looked down, her fingers twisting through the hem of her tank top, and heaved a labored sigh. “He’s dead.”

“Impossible,” Zelena scoffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “I saw him yesterday.”

“It happened this morning,” Belle said. She fixed Zelena with a melancholy stare. “Massive brain aneurism. So sudden.”

“But…” Zelena swayed on her feet and gripped the porch railing with white knuckles. She grappled for one of the patio chairs and sank into the wicker seat, her knees wobbling as she hugged herself. “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, I’d hardly make up something like that, would I?” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Belle’s throat, the irony of the lie almost too much to contemplate.

Zelena’s lips were pinched and white. “He was a bit strange last night when I saw him. Still, I can’t get over it.”

Belle blinked; God, she’d been here last night, too?

The red spots on Zelena’s face gave way to a greenish pallor, and Belle almost felt sorry for her. Then she remembered who she was talking to—a woman who had tricked her third husband into marriage with an ’accidental‘ pregnancy, then done him in. Soon after they’d tied the knot, Robin Locksley had ended up at the bottom of the old wishing well with a broken neck.

“Guess we all have to go sometime,” she said, giving the chair a nudge toward the porch steps. She prayed Zelena would take the hint and leave. “Can’t mourn all day, now, can we?”

“But Gold was so…so wonderful. Talented. Handsome,” Zelena choked. Fat crocodile tears chased each other down her cheeks as she rocked herself in the chair.

“Yep, he was a real piece of ass.” Belle’s warm cheeks contradicted her casual tone, but she’d say or do just about anything to derail Zelena from committing murder.

Zelena seemed not to hear. “You know, Becca,” she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a stuttering whisper. “I-I was the last person to sleep with him.”

Bile climbed up Belle’s throat. She may be nothing more than Gold’s invisible next door neighbor, but she had enough sense to know when Zelena was telling an outright lie. She began to gag, then doubled over with a belly-deep cough, a hand plastered across her mouth.

Zelena twisted her mouth like she was sucking on a lemon. “If you’re going to vomit, could you do it over the railing? I’ve had the shock of a lifetime and a little compassion would not be out of line!”

Belle lowered her hand once the retching ceased, and drew two long, deep breaths. “Excuse me. I had one of those grocery store sushi rolls for lunch,” Belle said to explain away her disgust. “Must have been some powerful orgasm you gave Mr. Gold to shut his brain down.” Composure recovered, she shook her head and clucked her tongue in mock shame. “I’ve heard stories of people dying in flagrante delicto,  but I’ve never actually met someone it happened to. At least you’ll always have the memories.”

“You’d best not be implying I had something to do with this tragedy.” Zelena’s tone was icy, and she stalked toward Belle, one of those long, skeletal fingers creeping in front of her face. “You are the one who found the body.” She tapped her handbag, her tearstained face suddenly dry. “I’ll be taking my concerns to the sheriff, Bria. And in case you’ve forgotten, my sister is Mayor Mills—she’s the mayor in this town.”

“Mayor Mills is the Mayor. That’s right, Zelena.” Belle spoke in the tone she reserved for when the kindergarten class came to the library. “Regina is actually a friend of mine.”

“Not for long! Wait till I tell her what you’ve done!” Zelena flung her hair over her shoulder and clattered down the steps and Belle gulped, the weight of her half-cocked ruse beginning to sink in.

“You do that,” she announced to the empty porch.

Read the Rest on AO3: Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight

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