#not only is the pot calling the kettle black this is a pot who refuses to shut up about how pearly white he is

[apple-of-my-pie]

ramsay signing his letter to jon like to: BASTARD from: TRUEBORN LORD BOLTON is so funny to me. guy who definitely doesn’t have a complex

[sssilverstoned]

couples quiz ꩜ ln4

type: transcription from a youtube video

The GQ couples quiz goes precisely how you both, and your PR teams, expect it to

lily said: i just love world building (even if im not the best at it) so i can't ever leave a concept or pairing alone, so it goes!

part 1 part 2 part 3 2.5ish interlude

Y/N: Why do I feel like I left the oven on in the kitchen?

Lando: Well, because you did. I turned it off on our way out, don't worry about it.

y/n turns to the camera with a bright smile, and lando smiles at the sight of her own.

Y/N: My hero, everyone!

Y/N: And um, I guess we're getting started now? So hi, I'm Y/N L/N, a model and creative director currently based out of Europe.

Lando: And I'm Lando Norris, a driver for McLaren Racing's Formula 1 Team, and this is the GQ couples quiz. And if I may add, I absolutely think I'm going to win.

Y/N: I'm not even dignifying that with banter.

lando turns to the camera, an eyebrow raised.

Lando: Fun fact: Y/N's quite genuinely the most competitive person I've met in my entire life.

y/n's jaw drops with a scoff.

Y/N: No shot! You race for a living, for crying out loud.

Lando: Trust me, Love, you take the cake.

y/n rolls her eyes with no charge, a smile still on both of their faces and small looks exchanged between the two of them,

Y/N: Alright, you first. What's my favorite color?

Lando: (your favorite color), easy. it's the color of your phone case right now too.

Y/N: Yup. What's my favorite place I've traveled?

Lando: You loved Venice, no?

y/n winces, weighing her hands back and forth.

Y/N: I did, but that's not my favorite. In my whole life, I'd say,

Both: Jamaica!

they laugh at their unison.

Lando: And I knew that, I knew that! Because of your grandparents.

y/n nods fondly, giggling at how lando beats himself up about getting one wrong.

Y/N: Alright, what am I most scared of?

Lando: You're petrified of spiders.

y/n gags, and shudders.

Y/N: Don't even get me started.

lando turns to the camera with a faux look of exhaustion.

Lando: This girl refused to go into our bedroom for 3 hours once when I was out because there was a spider on the vanity.

Y/N: Whatever. Where did I go to school?

Lando: Switzerland and New York, very posh.

Y/N: You're calling me posh?

Lando: Can't the pot and the kettle both be black?

a producer bursts out in laughter in the background, making the couple do the same. there's a fondness in both their eyes as they double over in laughter.

Y/N: Okay, okay, almost done. What food do I love and hate?

Lando: You hate mushrooms, and for some reason, you really don't like salmon. As for what you do like, you get stir-fry and noodles a lot, but only from specific places. And you love tomato soup, that's the number one.

Y/N: Right again, nice baby! You make a good one now, by the way.

he winks at her.

Y/N: Who is my celebrity crush?

lando scoffs.

Lando: Dylan O'Brien.

Y/N: Forever and ever. My birthday?

Lando: March 10th, a spicy pisces, as you say.

Y/N: Hey, Olivia Rodrigo herself called me that.

Lando: And what about Scorpios?

Y/N: Nope, not your turn yet, I've got one last question.

lando takes a dramatic breath.

Lando: Alright, hit me with it.

Y/N: Where did we go on our first date?

a big smile grows on lando's face.

Lando: We went to a music show one of our friends recommended, and we both thought it was awful but didn't say anything because we didn't want to leave and have the date be over, so we listened to the most shit jazz music for an hour and a half just to be around each other.

Y/N: Best result from the worst music I've ever heard.

Lando: Ditto. Now, hand me the cards, yeah? I'm about to stump you so good.

the camera transitions to y/n now in the hotseat answering questions, lando teasingly taking his job very seriously with the question cards.

Lando: Alright. Where am I from?

Y/N: Bristol, thought you said you'd stump me?

Lando: This is literally question 1?

lando turns to the producers.

Lando: You see what I mean? Ferocious.

Lando: Moving on, what is our favorite show to watch together?

Y/N: We're rewatching Prison Break, so I'd say that?

Lando: I'll give you that one. Ugh, what was I wearing when we first met? Fucks sake, can we skip this one?

y/n sputters over him.

Y/N: Absolutely not, we're not skipping over this!

Lando: Oh come on, Love-

Y/N: I swear to you, the very first time I met Lando, he came to my 18th birthday party in a full on basketball kit!

Lando: I was told it was "Space Jam" themed!

Y/N: As in dress like you're in space, you fool! Not the Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny movie!

Lando: Needless to say, I was mortified. Seems like she still thought I was cute though, no?

another wink is sent to the camera.

Lando: What's your biggest pet peeve about me?

Y/N: You spoil everything. I can't ever watch a show or a movie without you walking in and going, "Oh, this is the episode before he dies." Like? Who does that?

Lando: Yeah, ah, guilty. Working on it. Eh, not really. What's my nickname for you?

Y/N: Cradle robber.

another producer reacts to this. a sputtering shock of laugh. "you call her WHAT?"

Y/N: We're the same age, mind you.

Lando: Wrong, you've been alive 8 months longer than me on this planet! 3/4 of a year, mind you. But I've got real nicknames for you.

Y/N: Yeah, you do. You call me Love, more than you say my name, so it always feels odd when you do say it.

lando doesn't respond with his voice, but the fond look in his eyes and nod at her answer.

Lando: What irritates me the most?

Y/N: About me? Or, like, in life?

Lando: Life, nothing irritates me about you.

Y/N: Oh, please. But, in life, you're pretty irritable when it comes to selfish people. You've always been like that, though, very compassionate and not a fan of people who aren't.

Lando: Very true, never thought of it like that, I guess. Just don't be an asshole, you know?

Y/N: See? Irritated.

Lando: Anyway. We're on our last question, so I guess you've won because it's not a point question.

Y/N: I won't rub this one in your face, just because you've been a great interviewer.

he gives her a gracious nod, and y/n rolls her eyes.

Lando: You'll never ever know how grateful I am. Final Question, what's something that you weren't expecting about me that you love about me?

Y/N: Oh goodness, are you wanting me to cry? Well, I think something that was initially a hard adjustment was the intensity of your racing schedule, and doing long distance sometimes. We don't really see each other sometimes, but when we do, you always sleep in. And at first it was really annoying to me, because we only have like, 3 days together, wake up! Let's do something! But once you told me that you let yourself sleep in on those days because it's a time to just, be, and we can do it together. So I guess my answer is, I wasn't expecting to love how much you love little moments. You've taught me to be grateful for things we take for granted, and I don't know, I think it's helped me through a lot.

lando stays still for a bit, an adoring look on his face as his eyes swell with what we think were happy tears. we're hoping so, at least.

Lando: I can't wait to marry you one day.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

This is like.... The peak of the toxic zutara everyone talks about like it's too cliche to be real.

• Username : oedipus kataang

• a ZK complaining about kataang having rape fics like- need i say more?

• Saying shippers only care about her if she births aang's babies

Like nichya, this was literally handcrafted for you to roast lmao.

Okay, SO MUCH incorrect stuff.

For starters, not only is Kataang not a mom/son ship, Katara doesn't see herself as his mother, and he doesn't think of her as his mom (and no, him acknowledging she has motherly traits/is the "mom friend" is not the same as thinking of her as a genuine parental figure in his life) so it makes no sense to pretend there's an Oedipus Complex going on.

That claim also ignores that the Oedipus Complex isn't just about excessive attachment (not necessarely attraction) towards the mom, but also a TON of rage towards the father, which leads to, worsens or causes them to compete for the mom. Aang's father figure is Gyatso, who never met Katara and would NEVER make her a "co-parent" since the main thing we're told about him is that he thinks kids should be allowed to act like kids.

(Sidenote: Poor Oedipus, man. He fled his home to AVOID killing his dad and marrying his mom - that he didn't know had adopted him. And in doing that set the prophecy in motion because HE DIDN'T KNOW the guy he killed was his dad and the woman he fell for was his mom. Oedipus did not have an Oedipus Complex so it's a REALLY stupid name and that legit angers my autistic brain to insane degrees).

For the "Kataang has rape fics" COME ON, Zutara only exists because of non-con smut, and two of the most popular tropes in Zutara fics are Katara being forced into an arragend marriage with Zuko so the Fire Nation has claim to the Southern Water Tribe or flat out being his slave. This isn't even just the pot calling the kettle black, this the pot calling a fluffy white cloud black.

(Sidenote 2: those tropes are fine by the way, as long as the writer isn't under the delusion that it'd be okay in real life, or has the balls to criticize other people for also being kinky)

And again, THE IRONY of zutarians insisting Kataang fans only care about her giving Aang airbender babies, when Zutarians are infamous for disregarding EVERYTHING about Katara's character that doesn't connect to Zuko (see them trying to make bloodbending her whole personality just because she used in the Southern Raiders, trying to claim her feeling empathy for that Fire Nation village means she wants to LIVE in the Fire Nation, refusing to accept she doesn't want to be queen especially not of the nation that destroyed hers, etc).

Also I NEVER saw a Kataang fan hate on Katara for rejecting Aang. I'm not saying it never happened (god knows this fandom has all kinds of hateful people in it) but to pretend it's some wide-spread problem is ridiculous and dishonest.

[acourtofthought]

WHY is Azriel, canonically, the most problematic out of the four people involved in the shipwar yet he gets the least hate? Everyone keeps eating his ass and asking for seconds and I can’t understand it. He doesn’t need a personality upgrade, he needs a personality, period.

I refuse to accept any criticism of Gwyn and Elain. Both of them have been recently traumatized and they’re trying to get better without bothering anyone. All the hate I see for them is from the mouths of obnoxious shippers. Sentences that start with “Azriel deserves” are not acceptable unless they end with “a punch to the throat”.

"Sentences that start with “Azriel deserves” are not acceptable unless they end with “a punch to the throat”."

😂😂😂😂

It is strange, isn't it?

E/riels hate Lucien. They claim he's aggressive and pushy and makes Elain uncomfortable (first off, he's neither aggressive nor pushy and second, while Elain is uncomfortable we don't know exactly why that is. It's likely that it's not Lucien himself that makes her uncomfortable but the thoughts Lucien's presence causes her to have that make her uncomfortable).

But somehow it gets ignored that Azriel actually makes Mor uncomfortable which is confirmed in Mor's POV as well as when she explains to Feyre why she acts the way she does. Somehow it gets ignored that every time Azriel has an opening to communicate his feelings about something important we get "Azriel said nothing" or "Azriel left the rest unsaid." He's the one who disrespects Rhys and Feyre's orders half the time while still choosing to hide Feyre's pregnancy concern and the swords Nesta made even though he felt Nesta should be told (so basically he does what he wants when it's not the right thing but won't fight for something when it is). In SF, he's the one who is in love with one female, got fixated on another only because she represents what he wants most (mating bond), all while showing admiration for a third, deciding to give Gwyn a gift he originally got for Elain while being jealous of Helion asking after Mor. 🤦

To me he's no prize. He's fine, he'll be better after his book but I'm not quite sure where the appeal lies with Az and really both Elain and Gwyn deserve a better love story.

He's sometimes funny but no funnier than any of the others. He sometimes says something insightful, but no more insightful than we've seen from any of the others. He's brave but no less brave then the others who are a combination of brave and prudent while Az leans towards reckless.

Maybe because he's the "prettiest" of the brothers and is "kinky" in bed? Maybe because he's what in real life would be the "broody bad boy" that girls hope they can tame and be the one to bring out the soft and gentle side of him? Maybe because we don't actually know Az all that much and some are filling in the blanks with what they'd like to see?

A lot were up in arms over his POV saying it was out of character but....what if that IS Az's character? What if his default mode is rage and self loathing and fixation? SJM has said on a few occasions that Az scares her so I imagine when she writes his story, she'll be writing with that in her mind.

But it is weird how E/riels will trash talk both Gwyn and Lucien, some Gwynriels and even Elucien's will tear apart Elain yet Az is the most unscathed of all even though there is nothing "better" about him.

It's fine to like Az despite his flaws but shouldn't the courtesy of looking past ones flaws also be extended to the others? Lucien, Gwyn and Elain have never purposely set out to hurt anyone. They make mistakes but they're trying to learn from them. They're no more selfish than anyone else. So what exactly makes their "crimes" so unforgiveable while Az reigns supreme despite his? It's not that anyone has to love a character but it would at least be nice if it wasn't a pot calling the kettle black scenario.

[milkberryroll]

in a heartbeat.

She wants to blame herself for making him worried sick, for this. But, if he knew, he'd tell her she's the pot calling the kettle black.

also in AO3

Two gunshots ring in the middle of the night in Karakura. Hitsugaya Toshiro closes his eyes and accepts his fate.

Silence follows.

When he opens his eyes, expecting a bullet to hit him, he sees Kuchiki Rukia, gun in hand, and the shooter down, bullet to and through his skull. And his partner, in a sea of scarlet, holding him down to the ground.

The eerie tranquil is torn by a flurry of voices, panic and chaos.

"Officer down! Send an ambulance here to Mashiba Sakurabashi Intersection, near the middle school! Hurry!"

Toshiro becomes painfully aware of the blood soaking into his clothes, his hands painted red, and his partner's weakening grip on his shirt wth every passing second.

Applying pressure on her back, where the bullet came in, he tries to staunch the bleeding. It's working, barely.

"Kurosaki, you can't die on me. I've got you. Hold on. Please."

He thinks she shouldn't be this weak, her hands shouldn't feel this cold, and she shouldn't be dying here, in his arms, because he was about to get shot.

He shouldn't have had to see Karin, red spilling from her back like a waterfall, unable to breathe — bullet hitting lung, hitting her.

She shouldn't have gotten in the line of fire just to shield him from a bullet.

It should've been him.

Kurosaki Karin tries to reassure him, tell him she's fine. But her body betrays her, and everytime she opens her mouth to speak, she loses more air and blood.

The whole time he's waiting for an ambulance, he feels like it's torture.

//

She survives. But the doctors say she's lost too much blood. They don't know when she'll wake up, or if she'll be herself when she does.

It's a waiting game.

Yuzu places snapdragons in the vase of Karin's room. She says it's to give her room some color, and as a symbol of strength, much like her dear Karin.

Isshin and Ichigo arrange and rearrange the room, only allowed due to their connection to the hospital director. Karin can't have her room looking too plain, too sad, the two men say.

He asks Yuzu if he could do something, anything, to help. To make his sin lighter. He can't keep standing on one corner, doing nothing, again.

She tells him it's fine, and he needs to rest too. He needs to get a doctor's evaluation, too. He's got wounds and bruises, too. But he knows, she can only keep straining a smile for long. The dark circles under her eyes suggest everything else but fine.

All he wants is to apologize. To Yuzu, her brother, and father. Maybe they could ask him to pay for damages, at least.

Instead, Isshin invites him out of the room for a cigarette. He refuses the nicotine stick, but obliges to his offer for a walk.

"My daughter being someone who could sacrifice to save someone dear to her, son, it makes me proud. You shouldn't feel any guilt." Isshin tells Toshiro, gaze piercing, bringing him back to when he was a new officer under the older man's captaincy. Funny how the man has been retired for years and himself, now a lieutenant, yet the thought of him as his higher up feels as right as before.

"But, Sir, I—. I am to blame for this. No one else. It's only right that you do."

"Why would I? Even if I wanted to, I know Karin herself wouldn't.” Isshin takes a drag of his cigarette, lets the smoke fill his lungs, and lets it out.

Her family doesn't blame him. He wishes they did.

//

Toshiro types away forms after forms, fills paperwork after paperwork in his office desk. Stares at his computer monitor until his eyes water in retaliation.

His chief, Shunsui, delegates him to desk work. Says he's not fit for his usual suspect searching, criminal chasing work. He thinks its funny — he's not the one who got shot, and he's fine.

Much unlike Karin.

Breaking his thoughts, Rukia plops down a mug of warm, black coffee, along an egg and vegetable sandwich, beside his hand. Another one to the growing collection on his desk.

She knows she can't keep on feeding into his coffee binging, but he doesn't need berating now.

"That's with one sugar. Drink up."

"How'd you know?" He takes a sip, silently thanking the younger Kuchiki, soon to be Kurosaki, courtesy of Ichigo.

"Karin's mentioned it in passing before. Never thought her stories about you would come in handy." Rukia chuckles, while gathering her things, calling it a day.

She takes a glance at the younger man, looking tired and soulless. He's been working for 72 hours straight, only taking bathroom and coffee breaks. He looks. Unkempt.

"I'll visit her on the weekend." Toshiro says after a brief moment of silence.

"Sure, I'll tell Ichigo. You two should get some proper meals together. Please. Both of you need to eat." She taps on his shoulder to say goodbye.

"Oh, and. Take a rest. She wouldn't want to see you like this."

His hands stop moving. She leaves without him saying a word.

//

It takes months before she manages to open her eyes.

The first thing she sees is white. The walls, the ceiling, the gown she'd wearing, the blanket on her.

His hair. His lashes. His hands on hers. Pale, she notes.

Him.

Move, her brain commands her hand and all she manages was a twitch of a finger.

He doesn't miss it.

Scrambling, Toshiro immediately stands up, making sure she's awake, alive. She's alive.

"Kurosaki?" He calls her.

She manages to croak out his name, voice like sand and throat scratchy from disuse.

It's the happiest he's felt in weeks.

//

"You look. Disheveled." Karin comments.

"It's an image change." He strikes back, smirking. An attempt to keep himself from tearing up.

She laughs.

He's scared he's almost gotten used to him talking all by himself. Only her breaths and the beeping of the machine monitors greeting him back.

He's missed this — her candid quips, their banter. He's glad he can hear her now.

She coughs and chokes on her own saliva from laughing after weeks of disuse. He more than gladly fetches her a glass of water. She drinks it up like its her saving grace.

"Thanks, Toshiro." She places the glass on the desk beside her, watching as Toshiro sits on the chair beside her bed.

"I should be the one thanking you." He says as he helps Karin sit back down on the inclined bed.

"What for?"

"Saving me."

"I only did what I had to do, Toshiro. It's nothing special."

He places a hand on her hers. She feels it trembling.

"I... was scared to lose you, Kurosaki. You could've —" It dissolves in his throat, her and that word in the same sentence just doesn't sit right with him.

"Died?" She finishes it for him.

He takes her into his embrace, and suddenly all feels right in the world.

She's here, she's alright.

He nods in confirmation, and buries his head in the bend between her neck and shoulder.

Her chest tightens, and her breathing quickens. Her wounds ache, but she pays it no mind.

"I know." She squeezes him back, accepts and receives him.

I'm still here. She leaves them unsaid, and rubs circles on his back for comfort.

Toshiro mumbles words of apology with his lips grazing her skin. She ignores the feeling of warmth spreading on her neck and asks him why.

"You're here because of me. It should've been me."

Karin breaks herself free from his hold, and grabs his collar, pulling him close.

"You weren't the one who shot me, Hitsugaya Toshiro. So shut up, and listen to me."

She holds his face and seizes his lips with her own, chapped as they were.

He doesn't hate it.

"I did it not only because I had to. I wanted to, Toshiro. My only thought was to protect you." She says after she breaks the kiss. Toshiro immediately misses the feel of her mouth on his.

“And I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.” She caresses his face and smiles at him, driving her point home.

Toshiro dives in to take a taste of her lips again, vowing himself to her, from this point on. He feels whole, like she was the missing piece to his self and he can never let go.

He holds her in his arms tighter, and listens to her little noises as she tries to breath with her mouth locked with his, and their tongues tangled.

He has half a mind to stop with his ministrations, reminding himself his partner is currently in recovery. He very much wishes she was in perfect health, though.

He settles for a hug, with her head on his chest. She clutches onto him like a lifeline, trying to hide the rouge warmth of her face.

With her in his nuzzle, she notices how much thinner he's gotten. She wants to blame herself for making him worried sick, for this. But, if he knew, he'd tell her she's the pot calling the kettle black.

"Do not do this again, Toshiro. Stop blaming yourself. No one would want to see you beat yourself over this."

Not me.

"Don't hope for a repeat of this, Kurosaki. Just stay alive."

Please.

Karin only smiles at him without a word, despite waves crashing on rocks — his eyes locked onto hers, pleading, asking.

She doesn't make promises she's not sure she can keep, after all.

[ultimateutopia-old]

@crownheacl​:

[ :) ]

It’s odd. If it wasn’t for the impending sense of dread, Edgar could swear that moment, as terrifying as it might be to admit, almost made him feel nostalgic. Memories of better times flood his mind as his brother stubbornly tries to stand from his bed, bringing him back to when they were barely teens, when Sabin tried to sneak out of their room during a terrible stomach ache. When their father’s looks were enough to make him stay down despite the pain and the boredom, when the servants could bring him the soup necessary, when the soon-to-be-king’s overly protective, borderline nagging comments about how standing up would just make his illnesses worse were met with a pillow thrown at his face.

When the world was still in the right shape. When they didn’t worry that every breath they took might’ve been the last.

Instead, now, Edgar barely reacts at his brother’s pain. Not out of lack of patience or emotions, not because those screams didn’t make his skin crawl. If anything, he’s forced not to. He’s used to be the beacon everyone looks up to, after all, his light can’t die out now that people need it the most. Call it pride, call it a desperate attempt at keeping a strong façade to the only person who remained, but as Sabin screams-- no, as Sabin screams again, he still keeps his back towards his brother, taking a terribly long second to inhale a shaky breath. Keep focused. Keep calm. Keep calm.

He can hear the steps coming from outside the door, a small child peeking nervously through it. He answers silently to his concerned look with a smile he hopes looks at least vaguely convincing, just a second before his mother comes as well. They’ve been in the small cabin in Tzen for four days, now. The woman who let them stay in that spare bedroom - one that she refused to enter, and refused to explain why it was vacant to begin with - showed nothing but kindness, but he noticed from the very beginning the worry in her eyes whenever he used magic.

The Empire is no more. The war that tore the world apart ended just a week before, yet for many it was already felt like nothing but a bad dream in comparison of the apocalypse that followed it, but for most, spells just brought back terrible memories. Rightfully so. Obviously so. With the lack of potions and healing items his magic helped a lot, but he still felt almost guilty using that, given the look of the locals.

Still, they share a small nod. She even tries to smile before closing the door, leaving the Figaro twins alone again. Leaving Edgar to take care of his brother, who he finally approaches. The right hand presses on the wound that, just as he feared, opened once more, just to be healed as best as he could thanks to the small green sparkles emitting from his fingers as he gently pushes Sabin back on the matress; the left go for his back, accompanying him down with gentleness and patience.

He did that before. He will do that again.

“The best way you can help me is by resting.” the King answers, trying to add a bit of fake annoyance in his tone and the forced chuckle that followed it “You’re going to make me do triple the work if you keep trying to sneak out, you know?”

The pot calling the kettle black. He barely slept. Barely sat down since that day, let alone lay down to begin with. The cure spell that leaves his body brings some of his energy out as well, each sparkle feels like needles on his fingertips, pushing the limits when he already surpassed them long ago. He knows well he needs to stop. He needs some sleep, he needs to eat something more than half a plate a day, but how could a King sleep when his people are restless? How could he feast, when his kingdom is starving? How could a man rest when his brother is slowly withering away?

[goldenfox3]

Bart/Ryu is like imagine if I was more ideal than man imagine if I'd already given up my life for that ideal and been dragged back to continue shouldering it imagine if I found out someone would come who would finally show me an end to all the fighting someone who should've been dead just like me but was dragged back from the brink of death to shoulder destiny itself. Imagine if you came to trust me during the half of my life that I pretend to still be human (it's not pretending) but the time wasn't right to tell you that your unreachable rival and your indulgent barista are one and the same. If I had to consciously keep my voice and demeanour from softening when I meet you in costume or if I had to keep myself from teasing and goading you every time I'm behind the counter. If I saw myself in your brash and reckless abandon and tried to steer you towards a less self-destructive path. If I felt my chest swell with pride as I watched you grow and flourish on the racetrack and listened to you spill your deepest fears and desires and dilemmas because you trust me to have the answers and not judge.

But what if it was my job to judge you and find you lacking every day Black Shadow remains a plague on the universe, if it was my job to constantly push you to be better than you already are and tell you that you aren't enough. As I was, as I am, because if I was good enough then we'd have no need for fated saviours. I wouldn't need you to help where I fall short. You wouldn't have had to become involved in this eternal struggle, a man out of time. Maybe you would've been happier. Maybe I should just tell you everything. How can I tell you everything? How can I tell you that I've been grooming you from the beginning to save us, save me, to succeed where I could not? How can you look at me with such trust and regard when I've been treating you more as a pawn than a person, just like he would? How can you look at me so sadly when I get hurt protecting you? It's your right and my duty, the protected and the protector, it's only right to give myself up to you, for you, for everything you've been through. It doesn't matter if I die but you need to live. Please. For me, for everyone, but most of all for yourself. Maybe with you, the title of Falcon will take on a new meaning. Maybe with you, it won't be so much a burden as a point of pride.

Maybe you don't know or care about any of that and just want to lay eyes on the evidence that I'd give everything up for you. Maybe you want to get involved with me in inadvisable ways, entangle our lives even deeper, and I am too weak to refuse you the indulgence while we still have time to indulge. You tell me to rest and stop taking on so much and I call you hypocrite in not so many words. You shoot back something about pots and kettles and we both rest together, holding each other hostage in stubbornness. If all you want from me in return for all I've done to you are the remnants of the man I ceased to be (I didn't)—you can have it. Take it. Take everything of me. Maybe it's destiny. Or maybe it's one big "fuck you" to fate, the one rebellion we allow ourselves. It doesn't matter. I need you, I love you, I love you.

[nickgerlich]

Try This On For Size

It’s funny how sometimes all you have to do is repackage something, and people will think it’s pretty cool now. It’s just that nothing has changed other than how the proposition was framed. For a variety of reasons, when the idea was hatched, it just wasn’t ready for prime time…yet.

Apparently, though, now that AI is a household word, virtual try-on is acceptable. In fact, a recent survey by Adobe showed that 71% of shoppers think that using AI to purchase clothing online could help them be assured of getting the right fit. Because AI is cool, right?

Walmart made significant inroads in 2022 with their purchase of Zeekit, a tech company that provides the software for a virtual fitting room, and subsequent launch of their Be Your Own Model application. Users have to upload some personal information—I know, a red flag for many before AI changed everything—as well as use the camera feature on their phones. But when the program launched in September that year, more than 270,000 items were available for virtual try-on.

It’s an idea that has been trying to find life for many more years, though. Converse used a virtual try-on application in 2012, and I recall reading of Dillard’s using fitting room mirrors outfitted with what was then cutting-edge programming to do the same thing, albeit actually in the store. Today, though, the technology has advanced far enough that this can be done from anywhere.

Whenever cameras and companies are involved, though, people start to get nervous. Privacy concerns become top-of-mind as they ponder what nefarious uses might happen should there be a data breach. First, Walmart could be hacked. Then there is the sobering reminder that anything we do in the Walmart app necessarily also involves our phone (which is made by Apple, Samsung, or Google), as well as our cell phone service provider. There are thus several points of contact.

And then there’s just the general data points, including height, weight, and so forth. We might be venturing into HIPAA territory here. Inferences can be made about a person’s fitness level, and by extension, their health, just by noting their clothing sizes, and especially if changes have occurred over time.

Still, now that the notion of virtual try-on has been repackaged as using AI—which it most certainly used all along—it’s suddenly a lot more palatable. How can that be?

As much as the world was shaking in its boots in November of 2022 when ChatGPT became available for the general public to use—and only two months after Walmart’s entry—we have started to warm to the idea. It is normal for people to recoil at the thought of a revolutionary new concept, even if that idea had already been going on for a long time. ChatGPT made it real and mainstream.

It’s still imperfect; we are but in the infancy of AI. Heck, last week I had an undergrad student concerned because Grammarly indicated their writing was of AI origin. It’s just that it wasn’t. Oh, and never mind that Grammarly uses AI, as they say in their ads. Go figure. An AI application said that AI had been used. The pot has called the kettle black.

I’m good with this, even though thus far Walmart has only promoted it with women’s clothing. If they were smart, they should push into men’s clothing, because we men are notorious for disliking clothes shopping in the first place, and definitely don’t want to be wasting time in fitting rooms.

For that matter, this helps solve other problems that women perceive to be real, which orbits around privacy concerns in fitting rooms. Are there secret cameras and Peeping Toms watching remotely? I know women who refuse to try on clothes in stores, and instead will buy a bunch they can try on at home, and then return the ones that don’t fit.

Lastly, there is the long-running criticism about online clothes shopping, which, of course, features concerns about fit, color, feel, and all those things. While the application can never convey the feel and true color adequately, at least the odds are much better that the garment will fit.

Just as AI is, generally speaking, the future of us all, so is virtual try-on. The Jetsons have come home to roost.

Dr “5’7”, 145” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[aluckiicoin]

The thief stares with contempt. He really shouldn't. After all, the pot is calling the kettle black. That's why it aggravated the man. Because they were the same. Though be it by age or experience, Sampo has a better handle of his feelings. Aventurine... Was still green. A child one could say. It showed with how his arms came up in a defensive position.

Koski sighs, his arms unfold. He can't get angry at him. Not when he's being sincere now. "I simply wanted to know. Now that I do... I suppose we'll have to find a way to work." Whatever that work may mean to them. Fuck buddies, friends with benefits. Lovers. "That's the joy of existence." Sampo mused aloud. "Finding out what it all means." Even if it leads to ruination.

Ah, now that's an expression he knew too well. Should've known it would come down to that. It was the way most people looked at him after all – with exception of those who saw him as a pretty thing to ruin to their desire. The thief didn't seem like the later if he was Aventurine might had been able to avoid this for a while longer. He hadn't even told him what else he got up to – for business or in his free time.

If something as harmless as his inability to emote like other people caused this reaction already, he really didn't wanna know what he'd get to see if he had actually 'opened up'. But wasn't it better this way ?

His eyes wandered off, unwilling to subject himself to that expression any longer. The blonde got what he asked for; didn't he? He had reached out tentatively, tried to connect, once he got the expression that he could somehow get himself to feel alive while dealing with the conman. In a sense? The weird ache was a sign that he was alive. It's not the result he aimed for sure. But it was what he got for still not having learned his lesson.

He thought he did. This experiment on being a person had failed on a spectacular level. Well, better now than later. He was alone before, he could do so again. He'd rather not imagine how he would react when he had kept up his efforts – had been successful in them even.

Ah, he'd probably be in shambles.

He could deal with the crack in the confident mask he was showing now.

The thief's sigh caused him to move his eyes back onto the other – a mistake, really. Because somehow, for some reason, he flinched at Sampo's movement. Funny, how fast one could go from being fine with a person keeping lethal weapons on themselves around you to looking like being lashed out at was a likely occurrence. Aventurine only really listened to half of the words spoken.

No - no that wouldn't do. He wasn't sure how he had deluded himself into believing the other had enjoyed being around him in the first place. But even it there was anything there before - clearly that's not the case now. And Aventurine did not want the other to stick around a person he couldn't stand. Especially if that person was himself. If honesty got him into this terrible situation but omitting the truth and hiding himself had worked fine before, maybe he could salvage the whole scenario with outright lying. Without the cursed tagline he was under no obligation to be honest again. The mask slid back in place, but both his smile and his words fall flat.

“Oh, I do have a proposition then.”, he started focusing a spot right over Sampo's shoulder to fake eye contact. “Anyone paying you to spill my secrets, or what we've been up to? I'll pay you double. Just, send me a message and it's done.”, his eyes close, he was quite certain that if he kept them open he'd start leaking – and that was something he still refused to do – even though he wanted to, quite desperately. Nothing would happen either way. It would come to haunt him days later and he'd probably be awake for at least one night and sick to his bones yet again.

“No need to deal with me directly any more. No other obligations.” The joy of existence? Now that was a really cruel joke. There was valid reason to doubt existence had genuine joy in store for him. He would just have to keep taking those little dances with death or the risky deals to summon a pallid imitation of it. “Otherwise I'll just hurt you too.”, followed finally, barely audible. Nothing wrong with being honest about that part – it could as well be read as threat, though it lacked all signs of being one.

[roadhogsbigbelly]

oh fucking god i fucking blocked you how the hell are you still responding, gretchen sent a incest survivor gifs of incest SPECIFCALLY AFTER BEING TOLD THEY WERE A VICTIM OF INCEST

if you don't consider this harassment than i don't know to know what to ll you, it's really weird that i'm being accused of launching a "harassment campaign" when you seem obsessed with doing these, you made a fucking callout post for another user because they said the "aaron bushnell is trans" theory was inappropriate and now they're getting sent fucking death and rape threats, i've refused to talk about txttletale for like a month? and i meant to keep it that way before you brought this shit up all out of nowhere, because you're obsessed with the idea that i only callout out trans women when like i know i very much have also "called out" cis gay men and other tme individuals for drawing actual fictional cp and incest porn and MUCH more directly than i ever did with tattletale (or gretchen since i don't recall any of my posts on here directly calling her out by name til now, maybe on twitter but who knows), you said you fucking searched my blog to find out if i ever criticized another trans woman ever in any circumstance? can't say i never searched someone's blog to see if they were into incest, but it seems like a very "kettle calling pot black" situation over here. like you're just as guilty of fucking "callout culture" as if the tumblr users you rally against, it's kinda sad how you can't seem to see that. and also i love how you couldn't even find a fucking defense for the weird ass "i'd be fine with native Americans killing me for being white tweet" which as a native dude i find out pretty offensive, but if she's fine being killed by natives than i don't see why light criticism cross the line?

also is this like. suppose to be referring to me pointing out the said incest gifs and weird racism on this post becaused like. you're doing this. by your own logic you are also partipating in "callout culture" and are launching a "harassment capaign" against a queer native american mexican man. like.

YOU ARE FUCKING THE THING YOU SAY IS BAD. YOU are writing a callout post me for. that is what you are doing. you are launching a "harassment campaign" against me because i said people who think incest fetishes are harmless is stupid. you are doing the thing! i do not know what to tell you.

i cannot whole-heartedly co-sign tumblr posts that point out the amount of harassment in social justice spaces because while i do agree that alot of people on tumblr are weirdly puritincal/hive-mindy, 99 percent of time when someone says “harassment/callout culture/cancel culture is bad” its because they write incest fanfiction or whatever. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Looking for a Place to Happen 2

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), age gap, general stupidity, some violence and threats

This is dark!biker!Sam Wilson x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s lots happening in Birch and you find it all too amusing.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, Little Bones, and Fully Completely

Note: Here’s chapter two. Think I’ll probably slow down writing. Appreciate y’all.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 2: I follow every little whiff

💀💀💀

You gave yourself a day off that week. Rather, the desolation of Birch allowed you an excuse to get away from your desk. An internet outage across the town had you up and wandering the main road just after noon. Your grandmother refused to join you so she was left to her true crime novel and the weekday droning of talk show hosts.

After a peek in the book shop where you picked out some used thrillers for your nan and a guilty splurge on one of Babs' pies to add to the surprise, you stopped by the diner and had some soup to warm up from the unrelenting cold. You played around on your phone as you blindly slurped from your spoon. With no available connection, you swapped candies to achieve a score high enough to get to the next round.

After another loss, you put your screen down and added some pepper to the tomato soup. You leaned your chin in your hand and peered across the road. The Asp was just diagonal from The Chipped Saucer and from your seat by the window you could see the comings and goings of the dingy bar.

You chuckled to yourself as you remembered the hundreds of comments on your video. You weren't entirely surprised that the internet cheered at the sight of a woman beating up a man in broad daylight, you'd seen much worse on the web. But many were curious and asked about how it started and about the small town alluded to in the caption.

You picked up your phone and flipped open the camera. You pointed it through the glass as one of the many bikers strutted out of the bar and down the street. You knew him, like most in town, he was the leader's right hand man. Steve Rogers. He had an odd gait, rigid with long strides, and you remember Kelly used to make fun of him when you walked home from school. That felt like forever ago.

You ended the video and dropped your phone again. You'd send it to Kelly when the outage was over. It would be a good laugh. Plus, you hadn't heard from her much since she moved to the city.

You finished your soup and paid. You went out into the street and cut around to the backstreets. You made your way back to your nans and found Pippin scratching at the front door. You stopped and scooped him up before you let yourself in.

"Don't like the snow, do ya?" You set him down and he whipped his tail before skittering off, "hey nan, I got you some stuff."

"You spend too much," she grumbled as you hung your coat and grabbed her treats.

"Only on you," you sang as you entered the front room, "sugarless blueberry pie, your fave, and some books about murder and all that freaky stuff you love."

"Hmm," she watched you put the pie and books down on the coffee table, "suppose the pie will go good with tea."

"Ah, and I suppose I'll be making that tea?" You returned.

"My arthritis…" she pouted but her grin came through.

"Yeah, yeah," you snickered as you went to the kitchen to put on the kettle, "we going black today or something lighter?"

"Put on some of the pekoe," she called back, "make a whole pot."

"Will do, ma'am," you trilled and basked in her annoyed mutter.

💀

When the internet came back, you sent of an email to inform the agency of the interruption and promised to meet your deadlines. Then you puttered around and added a caption to the video before you sent it off to Kelly; 'why he walk like that tho'. She sent a series of crying emojis back and told you to post it.

'Nah, it's a dumb joke.' You typed back.

'Saw ur last vid, ppl will eat it up,' she insisted.

'Well, got nothing else to put up. The account’s dying since no one cares about my writing.'

'DO IT.' Her words sealed your resolve and you uploaded the video with some dramatic music in the background.

The response was almost instantaneous. Several comments saying they were happy to see more and others being for another video. 'We all wanna see inside this fucked up town' one added and several latched on. Ignoring the questions of where this was, you gave a thin promise of future small town thug content. 

You turned back to your work email and opened up your draft for your next gig. You couldn't help but smile as you went over your work. You might have just found your niche.

💀

You knew your nan would lose it if she knew you were snooping around the club, so you didn’t tell her. You went down, made her breakfast, went back upstairs to do your work, then tiptoed out in the late afternoon to poke around town for something to upload. Birch was so dull when you lived there but to those outside, it was a novelty you were all too eager to provide.

You got more videos of the bikers; some revving their bikes, others arguing, but there was nothing overly usable. You were getting bored of it until the man himself walked out of the bar. You record the man’s glower expression as he marched down the sidewalk and turned off just down the way.

‘His name is Bucket… wtf?!’ you keyed in and snorted as you waited for it to load to your account.

Still, there was nothing special going on, like always in Birch, and your grandmother was bound to get suspicious if you kept sneaking around. You went back and hid your phone before she could bitch about it. You cooked her dinner and sat with her as your thoughts swung between work and your TikTok.

You went to bed but couldn’t sleep. You ended up watching YouTube on your phone as the windows shook with the night winds. It wasn’t until the darkness began to glow that you were roused from the cocoon of your comforter. You looked out and saw smoke coming from the main road.

You didn’t think before you pulled on your jeans and shoved your feet into your slipper, unconcerned about them soaking through as you barreled down the stairs, the sleeves of your hoodie only half on. The back door bounced behind you and you crunched down into the snow and clamored past the row of lifeless houses. 

You were out of breath as you got to the end of the path and rounded the diner to gape over at the burning garage. You got closer as the line of bikers stood in their leather with breath puffing before them in the frigid night. You stepped back into the shadow of the brick façade of the realty office and swiped your camera open.

Your hands shook and you struggled to steady the image on the screen as the mechanic woman raged in only her tee shirt. You didn’t quite understand what was going on; only that her garage was up in smoke and then men were doing nothing to smother it. She swung at the dark haired man and spat at several others; “cowards”... “fuck all of you!”

You gulped and held your breath as she was dragged away by the large redheaded henchman of the slender outsider. She fought for a moment before she was flung over his shoulder and the biker followed their leader back to The Asp. You sidled in between the building and hid until the voices faded into the wind.

Well, that would be a hell of a video. It might even go viral.

💀

Your phone did not stop. You almost felt bad as you saw the screen limn the edges of your cell as you left it face down on the little table beside the couch. Your nan sat in her rocking chair talking away on her corded phone to Linette from down the road. You suspected that every other person in town was gossiping about the same thing; the fire.

You finished your coffee and rubbed your eyes as you checked the time and ignored the pulsing notifications. It was too much to keep up with.

Your grandmother hung up and sighed, “can’t believe it. You hear?”

“Hear what?” you pretended ignorance.

“That old garage burned down. The one with the lady,” she said, “pity. When I was a girl, that place was a salon. Ma used to take us there to get our hair cut. The barber would give us wrapped candies and pretend to cut himself with his scissors.”

“Oh? It burned down?” you weren’t sure you were very convincing but you also could just say you saw it happen.

“Yep, no one really can say. You know, maybe she was welding or some rag caught, but I bet my money on those bikers,” she sneered.

“Good thing you’re poor,” you kidded, “and why the bikers?”

“Oh, well, you know Kimmy, Linette’s girl, works down at the diner and she saw that mechanic arguing with one of those strangers, the ones dealing with the club men. Well, it’s no coincidence that trouble follows those leather jackets around,” she rocked as she nodded knowingly, “oh, one of the boys I knew back in the day, he was found burnt up with his bike. They said the tank blew… well, I saw it and that tank was pristine.”

“Nan,” you gasped, “you… Jesus.”

“Well, things don’t change in Birch, we just get older,” she continued, “when you’re young, everything seems new but then you age and it’s all just the same.”

“Wow, how… inspiring,” you said dryly.

“Girlie, you gotta be careful,” she intoned, “that fire, that’s a lesson to all the women in this town. To everyone. You don’t cross the Commandos.”

“I don’t think anyone--”

“That’s another thing, there has never been a shortage of stupid people, not now not then,” she girded, “those women who get tied up in that club, their lives are already done.”

You frowned and hid your phone in your pocket as you stood. You rubbed your neck and picked up your empty mug, “I should get started.”

“Mmm,” she said as she dialed the phone again, “I wonder if Fran knows yet.” 

💀

You were being really fucking stupid but peer pressure was not a logical thing. Even through a screen, you found it hard to resist the goads. So there you were, your phone in your hand as you live-streamed your walk down to The Asp. The data costs alone would make you regret it but you were caught up in the hype of you fifteen second of internet fame.

“Alright,” you stopped across the street and gave a view of the moniker with Cleopatra sultrily looking down at you, “this is it… I just gotta play it cool…” you turned the lens towards you and smiled nervously, “hopefully that dude at the front doesn’t stop me.”

Comments flicked up the bottom of the screen so fast and smilies and hearts floated up the side around your face. You crossed the screen as you turned your phone against your coat and approached the bar door. The large biker butted out his smoke and you bared your teeth nervously. He didn’t stop you as he rolled his shoulders and coughed.

You entered to the noise of classic rock and low voices, the clink of glasses and tap of chalk on marble. You glanced around and quickly swept your phone around to give a view of the patrons. You hurried over to the bar and climbed up on a stool.

“You need a drink?” the woman behind the bar scowled. She looked worn out even with her lips painted bright pink and her eyes clouded with blue shadow.

“Uh, sure, can I… can I get one pint of everything you have on tap?” you asked as you set your phone down and shrugged out of your coat. You draped it over the next stool and reposition your phone as you flipped the cam and used the built in stand on the case to angle yourself onto the screen.

“Sure,” she narrowed her eyes and glanced past you.

You swung your feet as you waited for her to pour the five pints; some with too much foam and the others with no head at all. You took the first and held it up for the camera.

“A classic, BudLight,” you held it up to the light, “no head and…” you sipped, “flat.” You plunked it down and coughed as you grabbed the next, “this is a raddler?” you looked at the tap for confirmation, “grapefruit… smells like piss…” you had a sip, “tastes like it too.”

You chuckled to yourself and asked for a water. You made a show of swishing it around in your mouth before you moved onto the third beer.

“Had to cleanse the palate,” you joked, “now… lots of foam on this one, dark. You know, I’m pretty surprised they have Guinness here but let’s see…” you tasted it and crinkled your nose, “that’s it. Exactly like toilet water!”

You read some of the comments telling you to check the bottles for bugs and laughed. Suddenly you were yanked off the stool by the back of your shirt and your phone was swiped up by another man as the first restrained you. You struggled against his thick arm as it hooked around your neck and the leader of their crew stared at the screen of your cell.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarled as he hit the screen with his thumb but the stream kept going. He dropped the phone to the floor and stomped it instead.

“This is the bitch posting about us online,” the man at your back growled. It was Steve, the one with the weird walk.

“I doubt either of you know how to use a computer,” you scoffed, “hey, let me go.”

“And why would we do that when you’re snitching to the whole world, sweetheart?” Bucky kicked your phone away as he crossed his arms.

“Actually, I’m--” you grasped Steve’s arm as it threatened to get tighter, “--promoting your trash business. I was just having a tasting, if you had just asked--”

“Shut up!” Bucky stepped closer and brought your legs up and stopped him as you planted your feet against his stomach.

“Hey,” a woman’s voice came from behind the bar as the waitress shoved aside her empty tray, “hey, she’s just a kid.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky huffed, “she looks full-grown to me.”

“So what are you gonna do?” she said, “she’s young. You can’t--”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” he snapped.

“She’s right,” another voice intoned and that man, Sam, came up beside them with a pool cue in hand, “she’s just goofing around.”

“She’s a rat,” Steve insisted.

“You’re being dramatic. It’s called a meme and you do walk a little strange,” he chuckled, “no one’s gonna follow her breadcrumbs back to this shithole anyway.”

Bucky considered Sam and then looked at Steve. He poked his cheek with his tongue and sucked his teeth.

“So… you vouching for her?” Bucky asked.

“She won’t cause any more trouble, promise,” Sam said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You better,” Bucky snapped his fingers and you were released, “get her out of here.” 

[drabblingdraco]

✬Arranged✬ Draco Malfoy X Reader (Request)

This is a request I received!

"Hello! I would love if you wrote something around reader and draco being forced into an arranged marriage by their parents. They hate each other at first because draco used to bully/insult her in school, they're constantly at each other's thoughts at first but then they begin to not mind each other's company... idk if that makes sense feel free to ask any questions. if you don't mind writing it I would love you see your take on it ❤️ oh and maybe the reader would fit the whole pureblood Slytherin comes from a wealthy family thing too. Something like that..."

I’ve read various imagines with a similar plot, but here’s my take on it! If you’d like a Part 2, let me know! I love this story line

Warning: swearing, slightly mean/bully Draco

Very long like 2k oops

Draco's POV:

I was awoken by the sound of Father walking in to my bedroom. He told me I needed to get up and ready for the day, as the (y/l/n)'s were coming. I ran my fingers through my hair, stressing over the fact I had to see (y/n) again. I couldn't stand being in the same room as her. She made me feel emotions I refused to let out. Although we were arranged to be married, I would never let her in my head. She wasn't getting anywhere near my vulnerability. I looked up at Father as he walked towards my bed, grabbing my chin.

"Son, you know how important this is. She's one of the only good pure bloods your age. Not to mention her great, great grandfather was the founder of Slytherin house. Don't fuck this up, Draco." He spat his last sentence before exiting.

I sighed, getting out of bed. My warm feet adjusted to the cold temperature of the wood floor. I went into my closet and picked out my usual attire: an emerald button up, black slacks and black laced dress shoes. I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I combed my hair back to a suitable placement. After spritzing some cologne on my neck, I saw a silver town car pull up outside the window.

(y/n)'s POV:

As the car came to a stop, I sighed while slouching in my seat. I could see Draco peering out the window pane. I wasn't looking forward to spending another day at the Malfoy's, yet again. I've been coming to the Manor my whole life. I knew the Malfoy's like the back of my hand, except Draco. He repeatedly threw his aggression towards me. Every time we spoke, one of my flaws came up in conversation. He always pointed out the (y/birthmark) on my (y/body part).

"Out the car now darling, time to see your fiancé."

"Mother please stop calling him that."

"Why? He is your betrothed after all." She grinned.

I rolled my eyes. After all these years, I still can't imagine being married to that foul mouth. I wanted to marry someone I loved, like my parents. But all they cared about was the Malfoy’s and keeping their great image in the wizarding world.

I stepped out of the car and mother shouted at me from the other side. "Go ahead inside love, I'll meet you in there." She had a slight smirk across her lips. I was suspicious, but not enough to ask questions.

I make my way up the grand stairs, Narcissa waited for me in the doorway.

"Hello dear! Delighted to see you again." She gave me a hug and a peck on the head.

"Draco will be down in just a minute- DRACO!" She smiled. I internally groaned.

A figure came walking down the spiral staircase. His hair was placed just right, making his piercing grey eyes stand out. His sleeves were cuffed right above his wrists, the green really accentuated his skin tone. I quickly shook myself out of admiration coma.

"Draco." I said with a straight face.

"(y/n).." he replied.

"Draco, why don't you take her to the gardens while your father gets her trunks?"

"Trunks? What do you mean?"

Narcissa looked confuzzled. "Oh dear, don't know you? You're staying at the manor for a short while."

My eyes went wide, "What?"

"WHAT?!" Draco grasped the railing of the stairs, the veins on his hand popping out as he strained against the wood.

"Draco! Behave yourself," Narcissa gritted through her teeth, she turned to me smiling.

"I don't have any clothes," I stammered, trying to make up excuses to avoid my dreadful stay.

"Yes you do!" Mother said, walking through the door.

I turned to face her with stink eyes, "is there a reason you didn't tell me I had to stay here with this twat?!" I motioned to Draco.

"And you didn't tell me this bloody-" Draco shouted at Narcissa, but she quickly stopped him.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence."

There was a brief, awkward moment of silence between the four of us. 

"My love, it's time you got a taste of the married life," she grasped my shoulder shaking me subtly. "After all, you are older now and soon enough, you'll officially be husband and wife."

"But mother! I-"

"No buts! Now I really must be going. I have to meet your father at the council meeting, but enjoy yourself! I packed you enough clothes for a few weeks, so you're all set dear." She kissed me on the cheek as I stood there, dumbfounded.

"Goodbye darling!" She shouted as Lucious shut the door behind her, exiting the manor.

I turned around to face the two Malfoys that stood before me. How could she just dump me here? And for weeks?  It's bad enough she married me off before I could even breathe. There's no way I would be able to last that long here with Draco. I look at both him and Narcissa, he looked enraged and I couldn't blame him.

"Now take a walk in the gardens, get some fresh air." She stated as a command rather than a question.

We both looked at each other with disgust, but we followed her wishes and headed towards the courtyard. We walked in silence for quite awhile. It was a cumbersome stroll, he wouldn't look me in the eyes or even my direction. I shouldn't be surprised, he was always like this, but something was different. He seemed tense, like he was holding something back. I tried to enjoy myself as if he wasn't there, admiring the lilies and pansies scattered perfectly symmetrical. Unfortunately my eyes kept falling back on him. His tapered slacks rested right above his matte dress shoes. The way his shirt grasped his frame. I felt a chill going down my spine. I adjusted my cardigan, wrapping it tightly around my chest. For some reason this got his attention and he whipped his view towards me.

"Don't tell me you're cold?" He scoffed, scrunching his nose.

"Is there a problem with feeling normal human reactions?" I spat.

He laughed, "just find it rather odd you'd wear such a short skirt on a day like this."

I shook my head in anger. It was typical he pointed out something to do with my attire. "It's summer Malfoy..what, would you rather I wear jeans and sweat like a pig?" Looking me up and down, his eyes lingering at the hem of my skirt.

He ignored my words and continued to walk faster, heading back to the manor. I scoffed and continued at my pace, in no rush to go back inside with that jackoff.

I closed the door to the courtyard and locked it. My eyes traveled around the room, I remembered memories from my childhood, when Draco was actually pleasant towards me and didn't act like a dick. We used to play with fake wands and babble made up spells to each other. I snapped out of my thoughts when I saw Narcissa approaching.

"Why don't you come have some tea? I just brewed a pot." I nodded and followed her to the dining room.

I sat down in one of the many chairs seated at the table. A minute later she came back with a kettle and two dark green teacups with silver snakes on them. Typical Slytherins, but I was one to talk. We chatted a bit about how I've been since we last saw one another, even though it was only a mere three weeks ago. Then we diverted to the subject of Hogwarts. She went on about Dumbledore and how Lucious couldn't stand him. At this point, who didn't know about his vendetta against him.

After a few hours of conversing, she said she was tired and was heading to bed.

"You'll stay in Draco's room this evening."

"Um, are you sure? Can't I stay in the guest room?"

"Oh..the guest room is being..remodeled at the moment. Draco knows of the arrangements. I assure you dear, don't worry about about a thing. Sweet dreams." And with that, she left me standing in the dining room.

I clenched my fist together, wanting nothing more than to obliviate myself and forget everything that was happening, but alas, I couldn't go through with it. Like the kind, forced houseguest I was, I took the teacups and kettle back into the kitchen to be cleaned when I ran into Dobby.

"Hello Dobby how are you?"

"Hello Miss (y/n), you're always so worried about Dobby, it warms my heart. Dobby's keeping his feet on the ground. Dobby keeps hearing things from Mr. Draco about you."

"I'm sorry but I thought I just heard you saying Draco's been talking about me.."

"Oh dear, Dobby has said too much! Bad Dobby." He reached for the teacup but I stopped him before he could.

"Don't hurt yourself, it'll only make me sad, and I know you hate to see me that way." I bat my lashes.

"Sorry Miss (y/n)..since I've already said too much...Mr. Draco talks about you nicely. He likes your (y/h/c) hair and the way your nose scrunches when you're laughing. Dobby hears him talk to Mr. Crabbe and Goyle about these things and much more.." He shyly looks away, looking up the stairs towards Draco's room.

"Hey, hey, I won't tell him. (y/n) keeps secrets Dobby tells her." I smiled at him.

"Thank you Miss, Dobby likes you much more than his masters."

"I like you more than them too." I gave him a peck on the head and went up the staircase.

I trailed down the hall towards his room. The halls were dimly lit by small candles on the walls, as well as moving paintings on the walls of their family tree. I arrived outside his bedroom, scared out of my mind to knock, but I brought myself to do so. Shortly after knocking, he opened the door to his bedroom. I stood there admiring his night clothes; a fitted white v-neck tee shirt and boxer shorts.

"Are you just going to stand there like a git and gawk or come in?" He smirked.

"I- Uh- Coming in." I slipped past him and stood there, unsure of my next move.

"It's getting late," he shut the door behind him. "You should put on some more comfortable clothing to sleep in."

"Right..oh, my trunk is downstairs. I should go get-"

"It's right here," he pointed towards it. "I brought it up a little bit ago. Didn't want to risk you breaking a nail, I'd never hear the end of it."

I scoffed, walking towards my case. I unbuckled the clasps and opened it to find clothing that didn't belong to me, or so I thought."

I've bought you some more appropriate dressings for your stay with Draco. Enjoy them, I know he will too.

-Mother

I was taken aback by her note. It's like she's asking me to fuck him, and we're not even married yet. She's already desperate for grandchildren, I thought to myself. I rummaged through my new wardrobe and ogled in shock. Lingerie, bodycon dresses, even shorter skirts. Are mothers supposed to be like this?

I picked the least revealing item I could find to sleep in. It was a silk green nightgown with lace detailing on the chest, lingering a little too low on the chest for my liking..but it was the only thing that didn't expose my entire body. I grabbed my toiletry bag and my feet brought me to the bathroom. I peeled off my current attire and put on a new set of panties along with my nightgown. I brushed my hair up in a ponytail and brushed my teeth. Gathering my belongings, I slowly walked out of the bathroom and locked eyes with Draco. Now he was the one gawking at me.

"I know I'm always being a dick but..you look dashing (y/n), really." He said shyly, looking down at his feet as he sat on the bed.

"Thanks..." I wasn't sure how to respond.

I put my dirty clothes and bag on top of my trunk. I scratched the side of my arm in nervousness, not knowing how the sleeping arrangements were going to work, although I had an idea. There was nothing else to sleep on besides Draco's bed. He stared at me with anticipation as if he was waiting for me to join him.

I proceeded to the opposite side of the bed. I peeled back the sheets on my side, snaking my legs underneath. Draco still sat in his place, shifting a bit, but stayed in his current position. I laid down, facing his direction, closing my eyes. Maybe if I kept them closed long enough, I'd eventually fall into a deep slumber without any further conversing with Draco.

I felt the sheets ruffle as he too laid down, I couldn't tell if he was facing my direction or not, but I ignored it. I adjusted my pillow to a more comfortable position. We both laid there, within the same vicinity, completely silent. After a few moments, I peaked my eyes open ever so slightly to find a pair of silver eyes looking deep into my soul. I shuttered, unaware of the fact he was staring at me. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Couldn't help myself."

"Couldn't help what?" I asked in confusion.

"Having the pleasure of looking at you," he licked his lips.

"I don't think I understand.."

"My god (y/n)...I never took you for dumb."

I raised an eyebrow, "how am I dumb?"

"Because you can't see it," he paused. "You can't see how madly I'm in love with you...and you can't tell me you don't feel the same." He reached for me chin, grasping it ever so slightly.

I didn't dislike his touch. His hands were ice, melting on my warm skin. His thumb caressed my jaw, heading towards my lips.

"I- I will admit..I do have f-feelings for you, I've been suppressing them..but you make it very convincing that you have a..distaste for me. Ever since we were young.."

"I don't think you understand the common thing about us males...we tease the ones we love," he chuckled.

Not knowing what the hell came over me, I forcibly grabbed his face and slammed my hungry lips onto his.

Taglist: @bbeauttyybbx 

[katzuyas]

16. costume fiasco [AO3]

Since it was Phichit who asked, Yuuri couldn't find it in himself to say no when they haven't been out anywhere together in almost a year. It's a silly thing, a costume party, and Yuuri refuses to wear anything outrageous. He may be willing to spend time with Phichit this way, but he is not going to make an utter fool out of himself by wearing something embarrassing.

He does allow Phichit to put a ridiculous headband with cat ears on his head, though. Only that.

Phichit himself is dressed as a vampire. His hair is slicked back, his smile is fanged with a pair of the most horrible, plastic vampire teeth he could get his hands on, and he's wearing a cheap dark leather coat that makes him look more like a tacky vampire hunter than an actual vampire, but Yuuri supposes he doesn't really care. The party is full of the skaters that once shared their rink in Detroit, all gathered here to watch Skate America this coming weekend. They didn't have much time to find costumes and it shows anywhere Yuuri looks.

"Don't drink too much," Yuuri tells Phichit again as they find the tables with snacks and drinks. "We have a competition soon."

"Pot, kettle, black," Phichit says back, already putting a cup in Yuuri's hand. He turns around to look into the crowd. "Oh! Look, that's Damil. Wait here, I'll bring him back. You have to hear his story of how he met Chris at last year's Skate America. It's hilarious!"

He disappears before Yuuri can say a single thing. To pass the time, he takes a sip of what seems to be vodka and coke, and looks around. There's people dressed like monsters, zombies, a sexy bloody nurse, and someone who looks like a mummy, and is that really a–

His cup freezes on the way to his lips.

Because there, in the crowd, he sees a head of hair that should be nothing more than a hallucination. Silver-gray in the overhead lights, short and straight, and parted to the side in a way that the fringe hides–

Victor can't be here. Yuuri frowns at the silver head that makes rounds in the crowd, squinting to see better. Victor, Yuuri knows, has to be back in Japan. He's set to perform at the Cup of China and after long talks and arguments they agreed that Yuuri will go alone to Skate America, but… would it be so out of character for Victor to decide he wants to be with Yuuri, fly all the way here and surprise him in the most innocuous of places?

No, Yuuri realizes, lowering his cup, it wouldn't be.

Yuuri can't take his eyes away from that startling head of hair until the man comes closer and Yuuri sees his profile. Odd disappointment makes his heart clench. It isn't Victor. One look is enough for him to tell. One look is enough for the man to catch him looking, too.

Yuuri curses his curiosity when the man smiles and leaves his friends to walk up to him.

"Hi," he drawls. And only up close Yuuri realizes that the hair is a wig, actually. That all of him, this man, is just a costume. A costume of… Victor. "I know who you are. Yuuri Katsuki, the pride and joy of Detroit Skate Club."

"I don't know about that, but yes, I'm Yuuri Katsuki," Yuuri confirms. "And you are…?"

The grin that shows on the man's face is far from attractive. "Why, can't you tell? I'm Victor Nikiforov, of course. The Living Legend of men's figure skating, but I'm sure you know that. I heard you have a thing for him."

Yuuri's cheeks burn, even as his heart begins a violent song of anger. "I don't think it's any of your business who I have a thing for."

"But it is," the man all but purrs. He steps closer, far too close, and Yuuri jolts when an unwelcome arm settles around his waist in a disgustingly possessive grip. "I'm him for the night. Me, all by my lonesome, and you, without him for the night. We could have some fun together, you know. Play pretend, if you're into that kind of thing. I don't mind you calling his name when I–"

"Victor," Yuuri cuts him off sharply, almost ill with disgust, "is twice the man you'll ever be. Why would I settle for a crappy fake like you, when I can have him? You're delusional."

As if slapped, the man pulls back. His arm disappears, which comes as a relief, but Yuuri is hardly done, though. The anger simmers under his skin and makes him feel so good, so righteous in his protection of the man his heart has chosen.

"Besides," he adds in a whip-like voice, "your hair is the wrong length. Your nose is too short and your lips are the wrong shape. I suppose you don't have much choice over your facial features, but to be unable to even get his costume right? The buttons on this particular one," Yuuri prods the man's chest, where on his chest two rows of silver buttons have been haphazardly sewn to the fabric, "are gold. Anyone knows this. Or, I suppose, anyone who knows Victor would know this."

"You've got a sharp tongue, as they say," the man gives an awkward laugh. "I suppose I'm not drunk enough yet to be ok with such lashing. If you change your mind..."

"I won't," Yuuri snaps.

The man lifts up both hands in surrender and shakes his head before he turns on his heel, tail tucked between his legs. Yuuri huffs, his anger still vivid. How dare this idiot insinuate such a thing? How dare he pretend to be Victor to pick someone up in such a crude way? How dare he even try it on Yuuri, of all people, who knows Victor better than anyone else here?

"Wow, was that–" Phichit stops when Yuuri casts him a side-eyed glare. "What did he do?"

Yuuri sighs, forcing himself to let go of his anger. "He wasn't Victor."

Later that night, as he lies on the bed in his hotel room and dials Victor's number, he thinks of the things the guy said. And once again he grows angry at the pure disrespect, the audacity, the shamelessness…

Victor hears it in his voice when Yuuri tells him of his day, so he has no choice but to tell him.

"He… didn't try anything, did he?" Victor asks, his voice softer in worry.

"No. I got on his case before he could," Yuuri admits. "But you haven't seen him. His hair was all wrong and it was parted in the wrong way, too. You never wear your hair like that. And his smile gave me an itch. And then the costume, too! It's like he's never seen your Stammi Vicino, which is ridiculous. I swear, I don't know what he was thinking by picking you to dress up as, but he did a terrible job at it. It's like he didn't even try at all."

Victor's chuckling pauses his ranting. "You sound so offended by that. It's quite adorable."

"You wouldn't think that if you saw him." Yuuri snorts, but a little bit of his anger chips away. "But I have to say, for a moment there, before I saw how awful his costume was, I thought maybe you came to America without telling me."

"I'm sorry, love," Victor says, even if he did nothing to apologize for. "If it makes you feel any better, I miss you terribly, too. I wish I could be there with you. We'll see each other soon, though. Right?"

"Soon," Yuuri promises, but they both know that soon is not soon enough.

As the call ends, Yuuri lies on the bed for a little longer before he'll have to get up and wash the grime of day off himself. It's only a few days, he thinks to himself. Only a few days until he can go back home. And there, where his heart truly longs to go, Victor will wait for him – the real Victor. The Victor, whose smiles make Yuuri's heart tremble. The Victor, whose hair is softer than silk. The Victor, whose cheeks flush the prettiest of pinks when Yuuri takes his hand.

His Victor. Not a fake, but a real, warm, sweet Victor.

Yuuri can't wait to be with him again.

With a smile once more playing on his lips, he pushes off the bed. Soon, he will be. And with a gold to make him proud, too. He'll make sure of that.

if you enjoyed this fic, consider supporting me on patreon 😉

[xxisxxisxxis]

Deleted Scene: Gateway Drug | "Ode to Bullet Trains and Arrestation" -- 1987

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.

.

.

"What the hell happened?" I ask Fred as I walk through the lobby to the elevator of the hotel. 

"Just a dumb fight that got thrown out of proportion and Nikki snapped," He explains. "They spent, like, five hours tops in jail until they were let go." He adds. "And Nikki's still asleep so--"

"--Where's the copy of his key?" I ask him once the elevator doors open and he mashes the button of the floor they're on. 

"...Vivian, I don't know if--"

"Where is the key?" I ask him and he hesitates for a moment before digging in his pocket. 

"Don't go starting shit with him, Viv, I'm serious." He states and I roll my eyes as the doors open, and I look on the key chain to see what room he's in. "Sixx, I'm serious," he calls as I walk down the hall. 

"If he's man enough to be big and bad and scare the shit out of complete strangers and embarrass me some more then he's man enough to get his ass kicked for it!" I reply. 

I'm unlocking the door and immediately, I'm met with a God-awful smell which lets me know he hasn't showered in a long time. 

I'm too angry to go throw up in the bathroom, although I'm sure it's worse in there, and I step over empty bottles, dirty clothes, bloody towels, spoons, foil, and empty coke bindles before I'm crawling onto the bed and standing over him, track marks eating away at his pale white skin, dark circles hugging his eyes, an irritable, tense grit of his teeth, even while he sleep he's in a pissy mood…

That makes two of us. 

I pat at his face probably harder than I should, the first thing out of my mouth is, "get the fuck up, you bitch," I bark out. 

It takes him less than twenty seconds to get awake enough that he realizes he's not dreaming. 

"You fucking cunt!" He screams at me, fighting me off of him. 

"Oh, I could say the same about you Mr., 'I'm gonna throw a bottle of Jack at one of my friends and hit the bystander next to him instead'!" 

"You weren't even fucking there, you don't what the fuck happened!" He shoves me off of him. 

"Then what the fuck happened, Nikki?!" 

He just rolls his jaw and stares at me with a "go to hell" cut to his eyes. 

"What the fuck do you want, Vivian?" He finally gets out, sitting up. 

"Doc--"

"--Ohh, fuuuck me." He sneers out, irritated, pulling the covers back and standing up.

"Well, what do you expect him to do, Nikki?!" 

"Stay out of my goddamn business, Vivian, that's what I expect him to fucking do--just like I expect you to fucking do." He states, going to the bathroom, leather pants hanging too loosely on his hips. 

I glance around the room as I hear him flush the toilet and curse under his breath, hearing the sound of him splashing water on his face. 

"I'm well aware what you do isn't my business, Nikki. Trust me, I know it isn't. I know you'd rather die than tell me anything you do or who you do it with or--"

"--You flew all the way to Japan to fucking fight with me over something you weren't even here to be bothered by?" He rhetorically snaps.

"I was bothered by it, Nikki, because the shit you do here gets back to L.A., and people talk about it and it reflects badly on me." 

"So you're not here because you care about me or you're worried about me, you're here because you're being embarrassed by bad Nikki's actions. Oh, how terrible!"  

I head to the bathroom, my hand balled up in a fist and when he sees me about to hit him he grabs my hair, making me wince. 

"Hit me." He tells me, daring me to. 

I decide it's not a good idea. 

"That's what I thought." He lets go of my hair. 

I watch him for a second and wrinkle my nose. 

"You need a shower." I say to him. "And you need to brush your teeth." 

"You need to go back to L.A." he mumbles. 

"No." I say back as he picks up a razor to shave his stubble. "Don't shave yet, I like it." I reach for the razor and he glares at me. 

"Not like you're benefiting off of liking it anymore, Miss, 'I refuse to even let my own husband touch me'." He scoffs. 

"Because you don't want to touch me. You're always saying and doing mean shit to me." I argue. 

"Fuck you." 

"Get a shower." I roll my eyes and slam the bathroom door. 

I get all of his gross, slimy clothes in a corner and clean up all the towels before I get rid of the empty drug bindles and baggies, spoons, and needles. 

When he gets out, I'm glancing at him as he looks like a drown rat. 

"We're going to my room." I tell him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. 

"No, I'm not." He argues. 

"Nikki, it smells like utter shit and ball sweat in this room and it's disgusting. I'm not letting you stay in here like this." 

***I didn't know how he was going to argue with me over that when he knew it was true. He just glared at me and probably thought about running me over, but I didn't care. I wasn't leaving him by himself and I wasn't staying in that room.***

I crawl into the bed in my room that Doc got for me and let out a soft sigh, turning over to face Nikki.

I can't help but stare at him, seeing the faintest outline of his fingers coming up to rub his eye for a moment before falling back above his head. 

I get a little closer to him, feeling him tense up slightly beside me. 

"Don't do it." He says abrasively, and I get even closer, my leg slithering across his front until I'm straddling him, his lungs pushing out a sharp sigh as I ask, "do what?" 

"You know what." He replies. 

"I do?" 

I run my thumb across his cracked lips, my own lips pressing to his stubbled cheek. 

"Vivian." 

"You love me." I tell him quietly, bringing up his drunk phone calls to me, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"Yeah." He doesn't deny it, his tone as if he knows he's in deep, now. 

"Yeah." I repeat it. 

His hands run up my back, I can feel the scabs on his arms rub against my bare skin as he wraps his arms around me, and the feeling sends a clammy sickness to my stomach as his hand tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck. 

"Do you really?" I ask him softly, the tip of my nose brushing against his. 

"Yeah," he repeats, swallowing thickly his other hand coming up to brush hair from my face before guiding my lips down to his. 

It's chaste—possibly because he doesn't have the will or the energy to kiss in a way that's going to result in us fucking the life out of each other being that he's already over half-way there by the looks of it. 

"Can you call Bob for me?" I test it out, deciding I've gotten him where I want him the best to my ability to propose to go back to rehab. 

Our facade shatters. 

I see his face twist in the dark of the room that's only light by the city lights and the light from the smoke detector in the corner. 

Next thing I know, we're both on the floor, his hand around my throat, his thigh between my legs as he hovers over me. 

"You think you're gonna fuck me into handing my balls over and going to rehab?!" He snarls like a mad dog and I grab his wrist, breathing as best as I can. 

He's not choking me out, I can still get some air in, but not much. I know he's trying to prove a point, but after actually strangling me a few weeks ago, it's not bringing back good memories. 

"Nikki, just—"

"—You didn't come here to check on me. You came here to try to manipulate me into going to rehab after I called you fucked up on smack and told you some bullshit in hopes of having a chance at getting my dick wet with you before we split for good." He throws down at me. 

"Really sounded like it." I smart back, chuckling, feeling his hand shaking with anger, but his grip doesn't get harder. 

"Fuck you."

"You're too sick to, asshole." I argue. "Not that anyone could pay me enough to fuck you right now with how bad you look." 

"Oh, please, Vivian, your easy pussy's probably slicker than oil by now given our position." He bites back. 

"Wanna check?" I ask. 

He shoves off of me, going on about how "fucked up" and "sick" I am. 

Pot calling kettle black. 

[slippinmickeys]

The Earl (7/13)

If you’d like to read this on AO3, you may do so here. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Scullaaaaaay“!” Mulder called desperately into the night.

He was still in his dinner attire, now torn in two places and wracked with burrs. He struggled through the brush at the far end of the field on the west end of Byers’ estate, a footman on either side of him, both carrying torches, each also calling out for the Countess of Wexford, their voices cracking from hours of use.

It was nearing dawn, the light in the east greying, promising another stunning day. Fog hugged the ground, a damp cold that permeated the bones. His own footman, Alexander, walked to a nearby ditch and looked down and shook his head when Mulder caught his eye. The other footman, Andrew, who worked for Byers, was dead on his feet, torch shaking in his weary hand. They had been out searching all night.

The thud of approaching hoofbeats caught their attention and they turned to find Byers approaching on horseback, his face wan in the ever-increasing light of pre-dawn.

Mulder looked to him expectantly.

“Nothing,” Byers said to him, before he could even ask. “I’m sending the search parties back to the estate to rest-” Mulder was about to protest when Byers held up a hand and went on. “I’m riding to the village to recruit fresh men and inform the constable. We’ll keep looking, Mulder.”

Mulder turned to the two footmen and dismissed them, and they turned and began the long trudge back toward the estate.

“You need to rest as well, Mulder,” Byers said gently.

Mulder shook his head at his friend, his heart weary and his hands jittery and shaking.

“I’ll rest when we find her,” he said.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully startled awake when a crow cawed raucously from a branch above her, the bright sunlight of the spring day shining through a break in the leaves and half-blinding her. The pain in her skull had dulled, but still throbbed lowly with every beat of her heart.

Leaves rustled not far from where she lay, and she cracked her eyes to look.

The tall black boot of a gentleman was the first thing she saw when her eyes began adjusting to the light -- polished, but with several smears of dirt creeping up from the sole. She drew in a surprised breath. She had one, quick, vague hope that the boot would belong to Mulder, but when she turned her head up to look at the gentleman’s face, her hope turned to despair. It was not her husband, come to save her.

CBG Spender looked down at her without expression, casually removing his gloves. He then reached down and roughly untied her gag.

“You,” she said, the second the rag came loose. The harsh smell of tobacco smoke hit her nose as she sat up.

“Lady Wexford,” the man said, his voice flat.

“Release me at once, Mr. Spender,” she said, holding up her hands in front of her.

“I don’t think that I will, Lady Dana,” he said, and the sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

He looked about himself at the forest and the grungy blanket upon which she had slept with distaste. “The family of Wexford owes me,” he said, then looked down nonchalantly at his manicured nails.

“What for?” she asked.

“An old debt,” he said, then leveled a look at her as though he had assessed her intelligence and found her up to snuff. “The sins of the father.”

“ We are born with our father's names. We are not responsible for their failures,” she said, thinking of the Marquess.

“Nevertheless,” he said, tugging his buckskin gloves back on, “I will collect what’s owed me. Your bridegroom has so far refused to pay.”

“So this is a kidnapping, then?”

Spender moved around the tree she was tied to, reaching up to undo the knot behind it and holding onto the rope that was still around her waist as if she were a dog he was taking for a walk.

“I gave him several chances to settle the debt,” he said.

“Several chances? You mean threats and the offer of your own daughter as a bride? A woman he does not love?”

Spender shrugged and kneeled down, bringing his eyes level with hers. She leaned back against the tree, trying to keep as much distance between them as she was able.

“And did he love you when he ruined you in the garden of Halford House?” he asked, and she felt her cheeks go red -- how did he know? “How you managed to snare the ninth Earl of Wexford, wedding him within a day of meeting him is the talk of the ton .”

She could find no rebuttal.

“You are of good breeding, but unimpressive resources. A fortune hunter,” he went on.

“Were I pot, I’d call you kettle,” she hissed. He narrowed his eyes at her and stood. He had the look of a snake.

“So he wedded and bedded you,” Spender said, “or was it the other way around?” She looked away, unable to stand to look at him any longer. “Get up,” he ordered, tugging on the rope. She refused to move.

“I will have what’s owed to me,” he said, then grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to standing, “one way or another.”

She swayed momentarily on her feet and he reached up and fingered a lock of her hair that had come out of her chignon, rubbing it between his fingers and staring intently at her face. She felt as though she might retch. Without warning, his other arm came up, knife in hand and sliced it off with an ungentle tug.

XxX

Bound — the gag she’d been wearing hanging loosely around her neck — she was led through a fallow field and into a carriage that was waiting in the center of an empty lane, Duane Barry serving as coachman. Spender climbed in behind her and sat down on the bench opposite. He leaned over and pulled the drapes over the carriage windows, casting the interior into partial darkness. It was not nearly so fine as the Wexford coach and smelled, oddly, of gunpowder.

The conveyance lurched into movement, and he leaned back in the seat, his hands resting atop an ebony walking stick topped with an elaborate silver wolf’s head, the ruby eyes of the beast staring at Scully with a malicious glare.

“You should be quite comfortable,” Mr. Spender practically sneered, “I assure you that you will be kept in the luxury to which you have so recently become accustomed.”

Scully glared at him but remained silent.

After about forty five minutes of travel, she’d been lulled into a depressed stupor, her shoulder and head leaning lightly against the side of the carriage. Spender had been dozing as well, and they both sat upright when the carriage was pulled to an abrupt stop.

Instantly alert, Spender peeked out the window around the covering.

“Not a word,” he said, tense. He had his hand wrapped around the walking stick, as if he meant to use it as a weapon.

She could hear the muffled words of Barry and then the scattered-rocks sound of someone dismounting a horse and approaching the side of the carriage.

“And who are you carrying inside of the carriage?” the rider said, his voice sounding as though it were just outside of the door.

More muffled words from Barry.

“Just your employer?” the rider said, “No one else?”

One short word in response.

At this, Spender pulled the gag hastily up back around her mouth and held his finger to his lips. He then threw open the door of the carriage and jumped out, slamming it quickly behind him with such force that it hit the frame and bounced back open by several inches. Scully leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of the rider through the crack.

“What is the meaning of this?” Spender demanded.

“I am the constable of these parts, sir,” the rider replied calmly. “There is a noblewoman missing from a nearby estate and I am charged to find her. Have you seen anyone on your travels? She is a countess, of average height with ginger hair. Last seen wearing a blue riding habit.”

Scully looked down at her riding frock, torn and covered in dust and brambles from her forced march across the field.

“I have seen no such woman,” Spender said shortly.

“And you are traveling alone?”

“With the exception of my coachman, yes.”

“What is your name, sir?”

Spender paused, and Scully could hear the constable take a few steps over from where he’d been standing. She could see the edge of the man’s boot in the crack of the carriage door. Her heart was pounding. One step more and the man would be able to see her.

“My name is Mr. Morley sir,” Spender said, his voice softening, becoming more amenable. “Lately of London, but I have purchased a small seaside estate near Dover.”

“And you are traveling there now?”

“I am, sir,” said Spender.

The constable paused, and Scully shifted on her bench, which creaked under her.

“What was that sound?” the constable asked, suddenly alert.

“I heard nothing,” Spender said, the friendly tone in his voice gone.

The constable then took one step and peered in through the cracked door of the carriage. Scully connected eyes with him, screaming as loudly as she could through the fabric of her gag. The man’s eyes went wide and he reached for the pistol tucked in to the top of his breeches.

“What is the meaning of-” the constable shouted. A tumult of gravel from the road kicked in front of the door and he crumpled to the road, his head the only thing Scully could see through the sliver of the doorway, bleeding from a gash above his eye. The door was flung open widely and Spender stood in it, his chest heaving, the wolfshead-topped walking stick in his hand, dripping blood from the tip. He jumped into the carriage.

“Drive, coachman!” he shouted, “Drive!”

Scully heard the sharp snap of a whip and the coach lurched into movement, Spender shooting daggers at her from his eyes.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder felt like he was floating above his own body, dead on his feet but at the same time still pulsing with restless energy. Scully had been missing for 48 hours, and he had not slept a wink in all that time. He fought against the pull of sleep and the dark push of pessimism whispering gradually louder in his ear: she is gone, she is dead, she has left you .

He had not changed his clothes, nor bathed. He paced the length of the hallway in the manse, alternating between the front door and Byers’ office, where various staff members would check in on occasion, none with any new information. The groom, Duane Barry, had all but disappeared, most of his things still in the room he occupied with one of the other lower members of the household staff.

Mulder had been out to the four corners of the estate and beyond, usually accompanied by his own footman, and they had found nothing. It was as if Scully had ascended to the stars, leaving no trace of her corporeal body on the earth. News had come in just that morning that the local constable had been attacked and killed on a roadside on the far reaches of the county. Curious as to whether or not it was connected to his missing wife, Mulder was just making another turn in the hallway when the butler approached the door to Byers’ office and gave Mulder a steady look before entering.

“The post has arrived, sir,” Mr. Headly said, and Mulder hovered near the door while he delivered the post to his employer. The butler exited, leaving the door open, and Mulder watched Byers closely as he shuffled through it, stopping halfway through and sitting up straight.

“Mulder,” Byers said sharply, not looking away from the papers in front of him, knowing that Mulder was hovering there.

Mulder entered the room immediately, and Byers finally looked up.

“It is addressed to you,” Byers said. Mulder had received correspondence since they’d arrived in Kent, but most had been from his land stewards, and this was no piece of business -- with the letter was a small lock of red hair.

Byers handed it over and before Mulder could even tear into it, Byers had stood and pulled the bell for a servant, whispering something to a footman who arrived at the office door a moment later.

“ Dear Lord Wexford ,” the letter formally began, “ I hope this letter finds you well and in a generous disposition. I am writing to inform you that your wife, Lady Dana, the Countess of Wexford, is well and unharmed and currently under my protection. I have enclosed evidence, etc. She will be returned to you, provided you pay a ransom in the amount 20,000 pounds. I shall give you a week to put together the money. You will be contacted by an intermediary with further instructions on where to pay it, and how to collect your property/wife etc. Failure to pay or comply with forthcoming instructions will result in bodily harm to your wife that I’m sure you would both wish to avoid. ”

The letter was not signed with a signature, but with a large scrawling X, no doubt so that it could not be used as evidence against the blackmailer. He looked at the non-signature. It couldn’t be... He reread the letter a second time, his stomach falling to his toes when he got to “ Failure to pay or comply with forthcoming instructions will result in bodily harm to your wife …” As he lowered the letter to his lap, there was a soft knock on the office door and Frohike and Langly walked into the room and conferred quietly with Byers.

“Mulder,” Byers said gently, “Do you mind if we consult with my colleagues? I believe we can be of some assistance to you.” Mulder nodded dumbly, not taking his eyes off the paper in front of him. He lifted the lock of hair to his nose and could swear he could still smell the lavender of her soap. “Can you tell us about the correspondence you received?” Byers went on.

In answer, Mulder simply held out the letter, and Byers gently took it from him and read it with Frohike and Langly peering over his shoulder.

“So it’s a kidnapping then,” Langly said, “a ransom demand.”

“It would appear so,” Mulder said without feeling.

“It would have to have been posted locally,” Frohike said, examining the letter and the envelope it came in, “she has been gone not quite two days. This could not have come far.”

Langly peered at the paper.

“Medium stock, decent quality,” he said, “And the language suggests an education. This has been sent from the office of a gentleman or someone of middling to excessive means.”

Mulder looked up, impressed.

“Do you have any enemies, Lord Wexford?” Frohike asked.

“Please call me Mulder,” Mulder said absently, thinking of tobacco smoke and the not-quite veiled threats in his office weeks and weeks ago now.

“Mulder,” Frohike nodded at him, “Do you have any enemies?”

“Please wait here,” he said, moving quickly toward the door of the office.

“Mulder?” Byers questioned Mulder's retreating back.

Mulder made his way to his chambers and then rushed back down to Byers’ office and handed the men, still huddled together, the envelope with the large ‘X’ scrawled across the front.

Without a word, Byers opened it and the three men leaned in and began reading. It only took a moment for them to finish and six eyes swung up to meet Mulder’s.

“But this is dated nearly two decades ago,” Byers said, astonished. “Is it-”

Mulder interrupted him. “It was not sent to me, but to my father,” he said.

The three men before him shared a troubled look.

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 4,380 Sam x Reader Warnings: None really! A/N: SURPRISE! This is the first part of a new Sammy series! I think it will be around 4 parts, but last time I said that Mess Is Mine happened so... I just won't guess this time. I'm working on like 8 other stories right now, but this one refused to go away unless I put it down. Based on this imagine .

Your name: submit What is this?

Your sister and Dean were arguing about who had won the last game of poker, a fairly frequent occurrence during your weekly game night. You were startled to find that Sam was already looking at you when you looked up from stacking the cards back into the game case. It sent a jolt like an electric-tinged chill up your spine. The best you could do back was to smile at him briefly and tear your eyes away.

“Well, I’m heading to bed I think,” your sister said, yawning and stretching. She stood and wrapped her arms around Sam’s neck from behind, leaning in close to give him a kiss. “Are you coming to bed?” she asked him pointedly.

Your stomach tightened into a knot. “’Scuse me,” you said with a forced smile. You gathered a few empty bottles and glasses and exited for the kitchen abruptly.

Once there all you could do was lean over the sink, white-knuckling the edge of the counter, trying to think of anything but what you actually were thinking of… Footsteps behind you jolted you into action. You blasted the water on and grabbed the soap and a sponge.

“Relax. It’s just me,” Dean said.

You dropped the pretense of washing the dishes and spun to face him where he was leaning against the table giving you a knowing look. “Y/N…” he started.

“Don’t.”

“But? But?! My sister, Dean! My sister! How could I do that to her?” you demanded. “I can’t. I can’t do that.” You couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

He let out a heavy sigh. “Then you’re going to be stuck just where you are now. Wouldn’t you rather regret going for it than sitting back and not trying?”

You glared at him. “I think I’d regret ruining my relationship with the one blood relative I have left.” There was a tense silence that stretched far longer than was comfortable before you finally broke it. “I’m going to bed… Tell them goodnight for me.”

“Wait,” Dean called after you.

“Goodnight, Dean.” You hugged him, long enough for him to sigh heavily again and plant a kiss on the top of your head.

“Goodnight…” he murmured, and then you were gone with a soft padding of stocking feet.

Dean wandered back out into the library to find Sam still sitting at the table, a fresh glass of something in front of him. “Isn’t that like your fourth nightcap?” Dean asked.

Sam glowered at him momentarily. “Pot. Kettle. Black,” he said.

Dean pulled a face and shrugged. “Fair enough.” He poured himself a share of whiskey too and sat down across from his little brother. “Isn’t someone waiting for you?” Dean asked.

Sam’s jaw tensed. “Yeah, I–I told her I’d be in in a bit…” He hesitated and cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “…Where’s Y/N?”

Dean was just about ready to scream. “Bed. Told me to tell you ‘goodnight.’”

“Oh… okay.” Sam drank deeply from his glass, nearly draining it.

Dean raised his eyebrows at his little brother. “Something you want to share with the class? Thoughts, maybe?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

Dean left a beat of silence. “You know, you’ve been putting kind of a dent in my whiskey lately. You think I haven’t noticed? Am I supposed to just pretend that new bottle was 2/3 empty when I bought it.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably and gulped down the tightness in his throat to little effect.

“Sammy… come on. Talk to me. What the hell is going on in that long-maned head of yours?”

Sam shut his eyes for a moment and chewed his bottom lip. “I’m in love with Y/N,” he blurted out. “And it’s a mess. I’m with her sister. I’m dating her sister! And I’m love with Y/N.” There was something like anguish in his voice.

Dean stared across the table at Sam’s tortured expression. There was nothing to say to that.

“So, you know what? I’m taking a leaf out of your book and having a few nightcaps… that way when I wake up in the morning on the right side of the wrong bed, maybe I won’t care so much...” He downed the little remaining in his glass. “And I really can’t deal with a lecture from you right now, Dean, so just–just don’t. Night.”

Sam got up, leaving his empty glass behind, and stalked out.

“Jesus fu–am I living in the goddamn Twilight zone or some shit?! Didn’t I just have this conversation?!” Dean muttered aloud to himself. “There is not enough fucking whiskey in the world right now for this…” And with that he poured himself another.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You woke up very early, having gone to bed much before your usual time simply because you wanted to be unconscious… It seemed to be the only time you didn’t have that ache in your midsection and painful swirl of thoughts in your brain. You headed for the kitchen, looking forward to a hot cup of coffee and maybe some quiet self-reflection to stop your spinning. But you were surprised to find that you weren’t the only one awake despite the very early hour.

“Oh—” you let out a little surprised noise when you crossed the threshold and Sam looked up from his place at the center island.

“Y/N,” he said, his eyes a little surprised. He straightened up in his seat. “Hey.” He had passed some fitful portion of the night beside your sister and finally surrendered to insomnia. He had hoped that not lying next to her, feeling like a liar, would diminish his anxiety but it had proved to be mostly wishful thinking. He rubbed a hand anxiously over the back of his neck. “You’re up early,” he said.

“Yeah, umm… went to bed early so…” You smoothed a hand over your hair, quite sure that it was probably unruly from your tossing and turning all night. Sam loved that. “Coffee?” you asked. He jumped to his feet.

“Yeah. Of course. Let me get it for you,” he said.

“Oh, thanks.” Sam poured you a big mug of coffee from the pot and went to the fridge to grab some milk.

“You just take milk, right?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. He knew how you liked your coffee. He always knew what book you were reading. He knew your favorite color was seafoam. He knew you liked a gin and tonic with about an entire lime in it. He knew you liked whiskey and water, and dark beer, and the lavender-scented dryer sheets. He knew every little detail about you and he loved every single one.

“Yeah. Thank you,” you said. You accepted the mug from Sam and his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you. You knew how cliché and stupid it was, but your heart still jumped at the contact. Is this what you would have to keep living on? A split second of Sam? You felt like a drug addict, sustaining only on the thought of the next high. You studied him as he sat down at the island again and you quickly noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “…Are you alright?”

Sam’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, startled a little by the question. God, how badly he wanted to answer truthfully. He wanted to tell you, No. I’m not alright. I’m not. I’m living a lie I don’t know how to get out of without ruining the path to what I really want. Instead he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Just a little tired.”

“Mmm. Trouble sleeping?” you asked, absently rotating your mug on the marble counter, warming your fingers. Seemed like you both had the same problem the previous night.

“Uhh—a little. But I’m okay,” he said, he tried to force a reassuring smile. He didn’t want to think about lying in bed next to your sister. It was the last thing he wanted to think about. “Thanks,” he said. “For asking though.”

You nodded. “Sure, of course.” A long moment of silence stretched and you were surprised that when you looked up, Sam’s eyes were already on your face, but he tore them away quickly and looked down into his mug. Your heart beat faster as you wondered at the meaning. You searched for something to say to him, something to bring his eyes back to yours. You could look into them forever—you always saw such understanding, such strength in them. And he was warm and funny and smart and kind… and this thinking made your stomach clench because you knew he was out of reach.

Sam cleared his throat and pushed down the sick feeling in his own stomach. “So, what’s on the schedule for today?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I dunno. I was thinking of working out later. Maybe kick Dean’s ass sparring,” you said, a small smirk gracing your face.

Sam let out a small laugh and shook his head. “That’d be good for him,” he said. But he felt a jealous twinge and a heat rising in his chest that he tried to ignore.

“How about you?” you asked. Sam shrugged.

“I don’t know… We’ll see. Maybe try and rustle up a case or something.” It was a classic method of distraction that Sam tried to use, even though it was only a temporary success. He would work, and work, and work. And it gave him an excuse to tell your sister he was busy, that he couldn’t take the time that day to spend with her doing something that he felt wasn’t genuine because all he could think about was doing it with you instead…

One corner of your mouth twitched upwards. “You work too much, Sam.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah… I know… but there’s always something else out there.”

“Exactly. There is always something else out there. And there always will be. So, you should take the time off when you can. Enjoy life a little,” you said, brave enough to meet his kaleidoscope colored eyes again.

Sam nervously chewed his bottom lip. He could be consumed by you instantly if he let himself—the way you were looking at him with that small smile and your eyes so bright, seeing only him in that moment. Reality reared its ugly head suddenly when footsteps started up the hallway and broke the temporary spell.

Your sister bounced into the kitchen. “Morning!” she said. She went over to Sam and ran a hand down his back affectionately, pecking him on the cheek. “I was a little bummed out to see your side of the bed empty this morning…” she said in a low voice to Sam.

You abruptly got up and headed across the kitchen to the pantry, feeling suddenly sick with envy and wanting to distance yourself as much as possible. You started pulling ingredients out just for the distraction and your sister was soon at your side. “Whatcha makin’?” she asked.

“Pancakes?”

“Sounds good. Better you make them than me. You remember what happened last time?”

You shook your head at her and laughed lightly at the last kitchen disaster. “Smoke. Everywhere. You shouldn’t even be allowed in the kitchen,” you teased her.

“I will never try again,” she said with a laugh. “I have no problem acknowledging my faults.” She bumped you with a friendly elbow. “Soooo…” she started. Her tone made you look up at her a little tentatively.

“…Oh, no. I know that tone. What is it?”

She grinned widely at you.

You raised your eyebrows at her. “What is it? Cough it up,” you said. “I can see you are plotting something…”

“Well, I was thiiiinking we should go out tonight. Get out of the bunker… You know, go into town… maybe go to that bar with the suuuuper hot bartender?” she said, wiggling her eyes at you.

You sighed. “I don’t know… I kind of just feel like staying in.” You didn’t know Sam was listening intently now from his place at the island still.

“You always feel like staying in! That’s why you have me to twist your arm and get you out of here before you turn into an old spinster who is in a serious relationship only with her books and tea kettle.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Gee, thanks, sis…” you said sarcastically. “And you know what? That actually doesn’t sound too bad!”

This drew a laugh from her and she bounced on her feet a little. “Pleeeeease! Come on. You know once you’re out you will have a good time! And that bartender was totally into you last time.”

You looked at her eager expression and the excitement in her eyes. Maybe a night out would do you some good. You could definitely use a distraction and the bunker was somehow always haunted with Sam and your sister’s relationship… Reminders everywhere; that they shared a room and a bed together, that you could walk around any corner and find them kissing, or sitting closely, or whispering some secret conversation with secret smiles you weren’t privy to… “Alright. Fine,” you agreed. “But for like two beers and that is it!”

She pumped a fist in excited success. “Yes! Oh, I’m totally gonna pick out your outfit and everything. You’re gonna look hot,” she said.

You pointed vehemently at her. “No dresses!”

“But—”

“No! No dresses!” She pouted at you but relented.

“Fine… no dresses…”

“Dresses?” Dean said, coming to join the rest of you in the kitchen and peeking over your shoulder at the bowl you were dumping ingredients in. “Who’s wearing a dress?”

“No one!” you said loudly.

Dean grabbed a mug and poured in some coffee. “Why not? I’d love to see you in a dress, Y/N,” he said laughing gruffly. “Like, a short, tight little black cocktail dress… some high heels. Right, Sammy?” he asked, giving Sam a wink and drawing a very unamused stare from him. You gave Dean a scolding look and he relented.

“We’re going out tonight to Lucky’s,” your sister explained. “And I’m gonna pick out Y/N’s outfit and she is going to flirt with that hot bartender who was hitting on her last time.” You rolled your eyes.

“Ah,” Dean said. He chanced a glance at Sam and noted the muscle twitching in Sam’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. “I see.”

You turned to look at Dean. “You wanna spar later?” you asked him. God, you needed to work off some frustration and bitter jealousy…

He sipped casually at his coffee. “You wanna get your ass kicked later?” he asked, giving you a satisfied smug smirk.

You tilted your head and raised your eyebrows at him, a half-smirk on your face. God, Sam loved that expression, the playful spark in your eyes. “We’ll see, tough guy,” you said, turning back to the pancake batter.

_ _ _ _ _ _

A few hours later, you and Dean were both a little sweaty, circled up on the mat in the room you had converted to a work out area. You had your hands up and were seizing each other up, both with grins on your faces as you waited to see who would strike next.

“Give up yet, Winchester? By my count, you’re losing,” you goaded him. He laughed and wiped some sweat from his brow.

“You have gotten a lot better, Y/N. Must be because you have an amazing tutor,” he said with a gruff laugh. “And quite handsome at that!”

You rolled your eyes which was a mistake because Dean took that opportunity and swept your legs out from under you and you landed hard on your back on the mat, gritting your teeth a little as the breath was knocked out of you. Dean laughed hard as you let out a frustrated groan. Once you caught your breath, you accepted his proffered hand to help you back up. Sam came in just then as you were circling back up, ready for the next bout. Dean bounced lightly on the balls of his feet in the typical boxing shuffle, hands up in guard. “Sammy!” he yelled, seeing his brother come in. “Good. It will be nice to have someone else witness Y/N’s destruction—”

But just then you threw three punches at him and he had to scramble to block two of them. He wasn’t fast enough for the third and you landed a solid hit into his stomach, giving him a satisfied “HA!” and a wide grin.

“What’s that you were saying, Dean?” Sam called out, grinning, sitting down on one of the benches along the wall.

Dean shook it off and the two of you had an intense bout where you both gained ground on the other but were eventually blocked or fought it off. Finally, you sent a jab straight at Dean’s chin but he was able to block it and reroute your momentum, grabbing your arm and again sending you down to the mat. Just then as you were letting out a string of expletives and Dean was laughing heartily in victory, a cell phone rang.

“Oh, shit. That’s probably Garth. I gotta take that. I’m expecting him to call to today,” Dean said, heading over to the bench and grabbing his cell phone. He looked at Sam, whose gaze was fixated on you where you were lying on your back still in the middle of the mat, just resting for a minute and beating yourself up for letting Dean drop you. “Sammy, I’m tagging you in,” he said, giving him a wink.

“What?” Sam’s eyes went a little wide.

“I said you’re in. Hello? Yeah, hey Garth…” Dean stepped into the hall leaving Sam alone with you.

He gulped at the nervousness in his throat and stood up, walking out onto the mat. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

You sat up abruptly, a little surprised to see Sam appear over you so suddenly. “Yep. Fine.”

Sam offered you a hand and you felt butterflies flutter to life in your stomach as he pulled you up to your feet. Your hand stayed in his perhaps just a little too long.

Sam cleared his throat and looked down at you. “Uhh… Can I show you how Dean got you down?”

“Oh—yes. Please. I hate when he wins,” you said, giving Sam a small smile.

Sam anxiously rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in front of you. “Okay. Well, go into your guard stance,” he said. You obliged, stepping one foot slightly back and the other forward. “Good. Now, you want to use your lower body to propel that punch, but you need to be able to maintain your balance.” Sam squared up with you, pulling his hands up into guard. “So, just keep a little more weight on your back foot when you jab and propel yourself from your hips.” You nodded. “Okay, try it,” Sam said, holding a palm out. “Hit it, right here.”

You threw a jab at his palm, but he pulled back right before you connected and again you lost your balance and pitched forward toward him. “Whoa!” Sam laughed a little and caught you, his hands landing instinctively on your hips to stop your momentum. You both froze for a moment. You were still breathing fast from the physical exertion, but Sam was too, for an entirely different reason. Your hips felt small under his hands, and he could clearly feel their curve and angles. His heart was pounding and he felt a jolt of electricity zip up his spine. Perceiving that he should have let you go by now, his hands floated off you and he stepped backward. You anxiously chewed your bottom lip. There were tingles trailing behind where his hands had been. “Uhh—a little better, but you’re still taking too much weight off that back foot. Try again,” he said.

You both resumed your guard and Sam held a hand up again. This time you threw your jab and though he moved his hand back before you connected, you maintained you balance and immediately threw a cross punch which he had to block. A smile grew on his face and a matching one lit up yours. “Good! That was a really good!”

“Thanks,” you said, still squared up with him. You quickly threw a couple punches which Sam skillfully blocked and he returned—and that was it. You were full on sparring. Sam dodged one of your punches and you surprised him immediately with a high kick that caught him in the chest, knocking him off balance. But he was right back into it, now advancing on you and forcing you to give up ground. You waited for an opportunity to throw a combination at him but he somehow saw it coming and blocked it. The next second you skillfully swept a leg underneath him as he recovered from a block and he tumbled back onto the mat, landing hard but immediately starting to laugh. You stood over him with a wide grin on your face and walked over to look down at him. “Give?” you asked him.

His only response was to sweep one of his legs from where he was laying on the floor, taking you out at the ankles and sending you sprawling down on top of him. “Shit!” You landed with one arm extended to catch yourself on the floor and the other on his strong chest. Your body was pressed into him and you immediately felt your cheeks flush. You could feel his hips pressing into you. You lips were mere inches from his and you could see all the hues in his irises. He swallowed hard and there was a vague smile on his face.

Suddenly, you felt one of his hands landed ever so gently on your lower back and wow, electricity. “Give?” he joked, the vague smile still on his face, his eyes starry, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe you were actually pressed against him and he wondered that you hadn’t immediately moved, climbed to your feet, put distance between the two of you. You felt paralyzed looking into his eyes.

“I give,” you said. Your voice was low and breathy because truthfully you couldn’t breathe, you were so startled by the whirling feelings and thoughts washing over you. Sam’s hand landing so lightly there on your lower back, it felt intimate.

But you suddenly heard the door open, and Dean stepped back into the room having gotten off the phone with Garth. The noise called you back to your senses and you leapt to your feet, anxiously backing away from Sam, but you weren’t quite fast enough. Dean had frozen a couple steps in and seen you on top of Sam—but he quickly pretended he hadn’t.

Sam cleared his throat and climbed to his feet, sweeping his hands back through his hair. “Good. Yeah, just… don’t let your guard down. Ever. Even once you have them on the ground.”

You were a little wide-eyed and you turned and headed for your water bottle and towel on the bench. Dean gave you a meaningful look as you approached but you just tore your eyes away from him.

“What did I miss?” he asked you in a low voice, his tone pregnant with meaning.

Sam watched from the center of the mat as you dabbed at your forehead and neck with your towel. “Nothing,” you said to Dean. “Just—training.”

“Mhmm…” Dean replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Stop it.” Dean held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Umm… I’m gonna go shower,” you said.

“Alright. Well, hey, I saw your sister in the hall. She wants to head out to the bar in like an hour and a half.” You nodded and quickly waved to Sam as you left the room, feeling your cheeks coloring again with a blush and hoping that your face was already red enough from the exercise to hide it.

“Thanks, Sam. Alright, I’ll see you guys in a bit…”

Dean noted that his brother’s eyes didn’t leave you until you disappeared through the door, which slammed and echoed in the space with an uncomfortable finality. Dean pressed his lips into a thin line and looked at his little brother. “So,” he said.

Sam frowned at him. “So, what?”

Dean shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “What exactly was that?” he asked, the gravel thick in his voice.

“What? Nothing. I just—we were sparring and—”

“Oh, you were sparring,” Dean repeated skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because when I came in it didn’t look like there was a lot of sparring going on as much as it looked like Y/N was on top of you and—”

“Stop.” Sam admonished.

“Sammy, come on. I spar with Y/N all the time and we have never ended up like that—”

Sam’s jaw clenched and he gave one last stern look to his older brother. “I’m just—just forget it. I’m gonna go get cleaned up and it sounds like you should too.”

“Sam! Sammy, come on,” Dean called after him, but Sam just waved him off and disappeared into the hall, leaving Dean to sigh heavily in frustration.

Part 2