#nothing to see here folks just me bashing my head against my desk

[hoforwonho]

Leedo - SexyBack

[roscgcld]

ZEN’IN NAOYA || husband’s duty

request: omg if it is okay can i ask for a part 2 of sweet little things 🥲

note: you definitely can, love! honestly this definitely cracked my head a little since we didn’t get to explore naoya too much as a character, underneath all that complexity that makes him up as the man we saw in the manga. But I am not gonna sit here and say I do not simp for him AHAHAHA - that would be a huge lie. But we shall see, no? I feel like I made him too soft though, but I live for soft!Naoya - so do not touch me T^T 

part one

warning: suggestive scene throughout, but nothing happens really. just naoya being an ass lol

pronouns: she/her

A content sigh left Naoya’s lips as he leans back into the warm water of the bath, his eyes slowly sliding shut at the warmth that surrounds him. Today has been a long day on the office - with back to back meetings and piles of paperwork on his desk, he was just ready to land into his bed face first and sleep the evening away. 

“What do you want for your onigiri filling tomorrow? The farmers that produce that special rice you like sent a bag of rice to us earlier today.”

Your soft and sweet voice was what broke him out of his tranquil trance, yet he doesn’t find himself getting angry. Instead he hummed as he leans towards the direction of your voice, seeming to melt further in the steaming water when your soft hands immediately rest themselves against his broad shoulders. Fingers immediately getting to work on the knots that had started to build up since the afternoon. “Hmm...unagi filling sounds good.”

“I’ll make some for your bento tomorrow then,” You reassured him with a warm smile as you started to work through the knots on his shoulders, making sure to not accidentally dig your short but well kept nails into his skin. Whilst Naoya enjoys leaving marks of ownership all over your person, he does not appreciate having any scars left on his skin. And although he does not voice his disapproval, you know your husband well enough to know that unless he is in the mood, you should be careful about things like your nails scratching his skin. 

The idea of you making one of his favourite dishes for him, knowing that he has to deal with more paperwork and calls tomorrow has him smiling softly in response. He would not voice out how your little actions causes his usually cold heart to skip a beat; instead he just leans back a little when he heard you collecting some water from the tub with the wooden shower pale. Relishing in the feeling of the water being poured over his two-toned hair, along with your soft fingers gently running through the strands. 

Many people feel bad for you, since everyone knows what kind of man Naoya is. Everyone knows that he is nothing more but a skirt chaser, a man who views women as nothing an accessory to hang off his arm. Whose purpose is to provide strong heirs, and nothing more. You knew of the man even before you met him the first time on your family estate - listening to your older sister rant about how much of a myogenetic, rude, and disgusting excuse of a man Zen’In Naoya is. You’ve heard of the whispers from the other women whenever you would join a jujutsu event where the Zen’Ins would be in attendance. You knew that the moment both your fathers shook hands after Naoya shows great interest in you, your future was sealed to be with a man who seems to be every woman’s living nightmare.

And yet, for the last 4 months of marriage life, things have been...pleasant.

Naoya knew from the moment that he spoke to you that he needed to act ‘softer’ in order to gain your trust. That he cannot be his full self around you for at least the first month of your marriage in order to make him trust you; or until his patience runs thin from acting. 

However, even though he has promised himself that he will drop the act after the first month; here he is, 4 months into your new marriage. Still finding it almost natural for him to act softer and more...kinder around you. Maybe it is because he finds your personality just so soft and welcoming that it just...felt right to treat you differently. Maybe he is just trying to reason to himself that as his wife, you should be treated differently from the common folk outside of your private home; after all, as long as he keeps you happy, he can get away with pretty much anything. 

And yet...he has yet to find it in him to actually act like his usual self around you. Almost as if he was afraid of scaring you, or fearing that you’re scared of him. It’s laughable - how a man who was so self centered and only cared about himself and no one else, seemed to be so worried about what his wife thinks about him. He had reasoned to him that this is normal; that any husband would want their wife to fear them. 

But just...it was odd to him. How he chooses to act differently around you, and not feel like he is forced in any way.

His opened his eyes to take a peak at you when his thoughts start to wonder, scanning over your concentrated features as you carefully worked the shampoo through his hair. Somehow just seeing you so focused on making sure that he was enjoying his bath had his heart skipping a beat; something that would have scared him if it were to happen with anyone else. 

Yet, instead he found himself letting a small but genuine smile tug against the corners of his lips, one that immediately catches your attention as you carefully wash the studs from his hair. “What got you so happy, my love?,” You asked him curiously as you carefully ran your fingers through his hair, making sure that all the studs were gone. Instead of answering he just reached his hand up to grab your wrist in his gently, pressing a soft kiss against the inside of your wrist. 

Naoya isn’t a man to convey his emotions often. He doesn’t necessarily view emotions as weak; he just sees no reason to show others around him how he feels unless it brings him some form of advantage. Other then that, he just puts up an arrogant and unbothered front for the most part. But with you...well, you were different. You are his wife, and in order to be a good husband, he needs to show you that he is willing to show you what is underneath his mask. Or so, he thinks that is what he needs to do. 

The feeling of Naoya’s lips against your skin send a set of shivers down your spine, your eyes shyly glancing away from his handsome face as you felt the tips of your ears warm up. Just seeing how bashful you were about something as small as showing you emotion had him smirking against your wrist, immediately wanting to see just how far he can push his luck. 

And he knows exactly what to do. “Get in the bath with me.”

You immediately snapped your shocked eyes back at your husband in shock, immediately feeling your cheeks warm at how he was staring at you expectantly. Although you’ve seen each other naked before, with him being so obsessed of having an heir of his own - it would be a surprise if you haven’t see him naked in all his glory. It wasn’t like he was bad to look at either - from all the training puts himself through to perfect his Technique, you would be lying to say that you’ve never stared at his strong back or broad shoulders whenever you two are alone. 

It was just...so sudden. And you immediately knew what his intensions were, yet you just pouted softly as you quietly pulled yourself up from the steps you were seated on. Just seeing the soft pout tugging against the corner of your lips had Naoya biting back a smile as he watches you strip from your kimono, carefully folding the expensive fabrics to the side. 

Soon you carefully made your way up the wooden steps of the traditional bathtub, thanking your husband quietly as he held a hand out to help you into the tub. You awkwardly knelt down between Naoya’s knees, still a little nervous to touch him even though he was the one who invited you into the bath with him. Naoya found your fear quite amusing, and without missing a beat he grabbed your hand in his before he pulls you close; chuckling at the squeak you let out when you landed against his bare chest. 

“Don’t need to be so scared, my wife,” Naoya mumbles with a smirk, hands trailing down your soft back to relish the goosebumps that appear on your skin; his eyes glancing away from your shocked face to your fists resting against his chest.  “After all...if there is one person worthy enough to be by my side, it will be you,” He mumbles, hands that seem even warmer than the water surrounding you two resting on the small of your back.

A combination from his soft touches, to his overly sweet but frank words had your face burning up once more as you whine and bury your face into his neck, your actions causing Naoya to let out a soft but genuine peel of laughter come from his chest. “Did I startle you?,” Naoya asks in amusement, already knowing the answer to that question. Yet he wanted for you to answer the question yourself, since he lives for seeing you getting embarrassed over the smallest of interactions with him.

You fluttered your eyes close to try and calm you rapid heartbeat, yet you nodded your head gently to answer his question. “A-A little..,” You mumble back quietly against his skin, heart skipping a beat a little at Naoya’s soft chuckle that he breathed against the shell of your ear. Naoya did not want to admit it, but he finds this subconsciously clingy side of you quite endearing. Whilst he hates it when others touch him, even if they grazed him by accident; he does not mind it when it’s you.

Maybe he has gone a little insane after marriage. 

After you’ve managed to gather your wits, you quietly pulled away from him before you reached back to grab the wash towel you had grabbed from earlier, Naoya curiously opened one of hi eyes when you shifted against his chest. Just having you pressed up against his chest, along with the warm water surrounding him had lulled him into a tranquil and sleepy state. But he didn’t stop you as you wet the wash towel before you carefully lathered his body wash into the fabric. 

Quietly you started to wash his body like you would usually every night, yet this time it was a little different since now you were in the bath with him. Something that he has never really allowed before, since he views his bath time as his personal time. You would usually help him bathe before you leave the bathroom to prepare for bed and whatever wifely duties you need to fulfil for the night. 

But if you were being honest, as you carefully washed your husband clean, you did not mind a change to your routine. Yet you did not voice your inner thoughts as you continue gliding your hands over Naoya’s arms, making sure to keep quiet to give him the silence he enjoys whenever he’s in the bath. However, Naoya was in the mood to talk today. 

Whilst you were carefully washing his chest, Naoya’s hands started to wander along your body once more once more. “So, what did you get up today whilst your husband was out at work?”

You blinked up at your husband curiously, to which he just raised an eyebrow in response at the look you threw his way. “Can a husband not know what his wife gets up to when he slaves away at his desk?,” Naoya asks with a soft raise of his brow, his words causing you to widen your eyes as you shake your head immediately. Not wanting him to think that you’re questioning his authority. “O-Of course not! I-I just...thought...you’d like some quiet in your alone time..”

A soft sigh was your only response, to which you awkwardly looked away from your husband’s eyes to stare at his hard chest; worried that you’ve angered the man. “You know...I want to hear about your day too,” Naoya mumbles after a few tensed seconds of silence, a finger gently crocking under your chin to coax your eyes to look up at him. He did not have a smile on his serious face, yet there was a soft look shining in his usually hard eyes. “I get curious sometimes when I have time to breath...what does my beautiful wife do at home when I am away? Does she miss me? Does she take the free time she gets to pretend that she is not my wife? What could you be possibly be doing when I am away from home..?”

When you heard his words, you tilted your head softly as you scanned his face, trying to understand the meaning behind his message. He wasn’t dumb - he was more than aware of the whispers of the maids that thought he was not around, how people feel bad for you that you are married to a man like him. He honestly doesn’t care what others have to say about him - he never cared about what others have to say about him. Because he knows that when they need power or need something to get done, they will always turn to him with fake smiles and praise dripping from their tongues.

However, he was genuinely worried about you - he was worried that the whispers of his past will start to scare you away. Make you think that you are an idiot for marrying a man like him, and slowly but surely take you away from him. For once he was worried that you are going to leave him, because for once in his life, he finally understand what it truly means to be home. The very thought of you leaving him shakes him down to his very core, and he will do everything in his power to prevent that from becoming his reality.

“I don’t...think like that, you know.”

Your soft voice snapped his train of thought as he glances back into your eyes, blinking when your soft hands rest against his cheeks gently with a soft smile gracing your features. “I knew the type of man you were before you came to my family estate that day, and I have heard of all the rumours of your attitude even whilst you were courting me. But that didn’t change my decision because I genuinely enjoyed having you around.”

Your words had Naoya widening his eyes as his mind went blank at your confession. And seeing your usually stoic and arrogant husband looking stunned had you giggling as your thumbs started to stroke at his high cheekbones. “Yes, you may be a little colder and stricter then I am used to, but you are still a good man. You’ve been nothing but a good husband to me, and far from the rumours paint you to be. So don’t worry too much about my thoughts on our marriage, because I am nothing but happy to be your wife.”

Quietly you gently tugged his face close, resting his forehead against yours with a smile. “I know that you grew up in a different world from I did, and that you were brought up with different morals from mine. But I also know you’re trying for me, and that is more than enough for me at the end of the day.” You mumble softly, revealing to him that you were more observant than you let on. Yet you faked ignorance for his sake because you genuinely cared for him as a person. “Because at the end of the day, a wife is knows all of her husband’s sides the best.”

For once Naoya was completely stunned into silence, having never expected for you to be so candid about your feelings. Your response to his stunned silence was a quiet giggle as you lean forward to press a soft kiss against the tip of his nose. The feeling of your warm and soft lips snapped him back into reality, and upon realising how close you were, his pale cheeks flushed up from embarrassment. Immediately one of his hands pulled itself away from where they were resting against your bare hips to cover his cheeks with the back of his hand, eyes darting away as he leans away from you immediately.

“I-I want to get out of the bath now...”

You let out a giggle at the sight of your husband so out of character, yet you made no other comment as you nodded with a smile. “Lets get ready for bed then, my love,” You hummed out as you carefully got out to grab the towels for the both of you, biting back your smile at how cute you find him to be as you dried yourself before you did the same for him. 

It was only later into the night, long after you’ve fallen asleep when Naoya really calmed down. You had long fallen asleep, face tucked away underneath his chin whilst your arms wrapped around him loosely. He knows he needed to sleep in order to function properly tomorrow, but his mind has been racing the moment you two got out of the bath to prepare for bed together.

He still cannot wrap his head around the idea that you willingly stay, even knowing that there is a chance you might see a less ideal version of himself. You choose to stay knowing all of the rumours about him and his, admittedly, horrendous behaviour and morals. And whilst he does not know what was it that he did that had you landing in his life, he is 100% sure he will never let you go.

Quietly he presses a soft kiss against the top of your head, a soft but content sigh leaving his lips as he closes his eyes to try and get some sleep before his alarm would go off later. Signaling to a start of another long and boring day away from you once more. 

“You’re the best thing that has happened to me,” He mumbles softly into the quiet bedroom, a soft admission to you whilst you’re far away in dreamland, dreaming of things unknown to him. But the least he can pray for is that he wouldn’t become the enemy in your nightmares.

Because at the end of the day, it’s a husband’s duty to protect the happiness of their wife from the evils of the world. Even if the biggest evil in their lives is themselves. As long as he is your husband, you will have nothing to fear.

He will make sure of it.

© roscgcld — all rights reserved to me, rose, the author and creator of these works. do not repost/translate/claim my work as yours on any platform.

[madpanda75]

“Penance”

For @thatesqcrush’s kink bingo--I’ve been loving everyone’s contributions to the challenge so I thought I would try my hand at it!

Jonas Nightingale x Reader for the Gags square ( my first Jonas fic! Warning-- I’ve never seen “Leap of Faith so please be kind)

Double Warning: This is SUPER NSFW. There’s BDSM, ball gags, fisting, squirting, forced orgasms, and a pinch of priest kink (even though Jonas is a “reverend” not a priest)

Hold on to your butts and get your splash guards out!

Sam Nightingale sat cross-legged in front of the pulpit. A frigid blast slapped her in the face and she silently praised whoever invented air conditioning. Rather than pitching a tent and sweating her ass off in an abandoned field out in east Jesus nowhere, the local pastor had insisted that she and Jonas use his church for their revival.

With a glint in her eye, she gazed down at her lap overflowing with dollar bills. Ten. Twenties. Fifties. Even a few hundreds from the wealthier church patrons. Every dollar counted, she could hear a cash register cha-ching in her brain. Ah, the simple-minded naivety of the Midwest. It was like taking candy from a baby. “Damn, Jonas.” She shook her head in amazement. “We made bank today. Who knew Nebraskeners were so generous? I swear you wave around a Bible and the promise of redemption in front of folks and the money flows.” 

Her comments were greeted with silence. “Jonas?” She glanced up to see her brother lying on the front pew, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought. “Hello? Earth to Jonas!” She grabbed her pack of menthols and chucked them at her brother, gaining his attention.

“Huh? Ya’ say something?” 

“Uhhh, yeah.” Sam made a show of flipping through a large wad of cash. “Here I am drowning in Benjamins and you’re out in la la land. What’s with you today?”

Jonas shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You sure about that?” She walked over and knocked his feet off the pew, plopping down right next to him. “Cause you were distracted during the church service. I had to basically feed you your lines through the microphone. Please tell me you haven’t found your moral compass or something.”

He snorted a laugh. “Hell would freeze over before that happens.” Coming back to his senses, he spotted the sea of green nestled in his sister’s lap and whistled. “All that came from today?”

“Yep.”

“We should add an afternoon service if we stick around here. We’ll make twice as much.”

A dramatic sigh of relief below past Sam’s lips. “There’s the swindler I know and love. You had me worried there for a moment.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jonas grabbed the cash and began counting the bills when the door opened. “The Senior Bingo is being held around the corner in the rec room,” he said over his shoulder.

“Actually I’m looking for you,” a soft sultry voice called out. A voice that made Jonas whip his head around.

“It’s you,” he whispered and shot straight up out of the pew, the dollar bills in his lap now floating to the floor like confetti. 

Sam immediately began to pick up the stray money while Jonas stood there, staring at you. You were wearing a demure, white cotton sundress that screamed virgin, but the ruby red shade of your lipstick purred vixen. His sister was right, he had been distracted and now that distraction was standing in the middle of the aisle. He could feel his pants begin to bulge at the mere sight of you biting your bottom lip.

 “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” you said with an apologetic smile.

“Oh don’t worry about it.” Sam stood up and patted her brother on the back, noticing the way his demeanor changed the minute you walked through the door. “This guy has been out of it all day. Although I think I’m beginning to realize why.” 

Jonas glared at his sister before turning back to you. “How can I help you?”

You fidgeted a bit, wringing the leather strap of your purse. “Actually, I was hoping we could speak in private, Reverend.” 

“I’m gonna go check on that bingo. See if they have someone to call the numbers,” Sam said after an awkward pause. She gave Jonas a sly wink before walking out the door.

“Please have a seat.” Jonas ushered you to a pew. His heart was racing and sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead. There was something about you that made him nervous. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was, you disarmed him completely. 

He took a deep breath and tried to recover. After all he was the King of Sin. If he could con people out of money under the guise of salvation, he could certainly handle talking to a beautiful woman.

 “I’m glad you came in today,” he said.

“You are?”

Jonas nodded his head and took a seat next to you. “I noticed you during the service. I could sense that something was weighing heavily on your soul.”

You looked down for a moment, hesitant to speak before finally confessing. “There is.” 

“Don’t be bashful.” He reached out and patted your knee in reassurance, his thumb gliding across your skin. “You can trust me. I help all those who are lost and right now you look like a little lamb that has strayed from the flock.”

“I...I... struggle with the sin of lust,” you replied in a voice barely above a whisper. Your cheeks turned bright red, nearly matching the shade of lipstick you were wearing.

Jonas felt his interest peak. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“I have certain...proclivities. I’ve tried to quell these dark desires, but I need help. My need is constant.” You let out a shaky breath, your eyes fluttering shut.

Little did you know, you were an answer to Jonas’ prayers (if in fact he ever did pray). It had been ages since he had gotten laid and you were just his type. It was as if the heavens opened and a choir of angels were singing ‘Hallelujah.’ He cleared his throat. “I think I can be of service.” 

“Thank you!” Relief washed over your face before you became serious. “But I have to warn you others have tried and failed.” You leaned forward, your knees now touching his. He could smell the seductive notes of your perfume: lotus blossom and black orchid. “Do you think you are up to the challenge?” you practically purred.

Jonas licked his lips and let his eyes drink you in from head to toe. He felt smugly satisfied noticing your heaving chest, the way your nipples hardened against the fabric of your dress. “Sure, I’ll guide you on my cock,” he thought. 

But rather than make this blunt point and risk you running out of the church, disgusted. He gently cupped your face and stared into your eyes with a deep sincerity. “I can assure you, I won’t stop until we tame the fire that burns deep within you. I am relentless in my dedication to saving souls.” 

What happened next sent shockwaves down the wily con artist’s spine. Parting your lips, you took his thumb into your mouth, sucking and gliding your tongue against the digit. Jonas gasped, feeling you bite down on the meaty flesh before pulling off with a pop. 

You tucked your purse under your arm and stood up, smoothing down your dress. “Thank you, Reverend. I’ll be in touch.” You went to the door before pausing and looking over your shoulder. “By the way, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”  With an innocent smile, you left Jonas sitting there, completely stunned. 

*****

The old secretary glanced up as soon as you walked into the church office. “The Reverend will be with you in a moment. Why don’t you take a seat.” She motioned towards a chair. 

“Thank you.” You sat down and crossed your legs, admiring your new black Louboutin heels. 

The sound of an old fire and brimstone preacher played from a radio on the secretary’s desk. “Fornication is not just a sin against another person. It is a sin against ourselves. It is self destructive and we must avoid it at all costs!”

You arched a brow at the secretary, who gave you a tight smile and turned down the volume. You couldn’t help but bite back a laugh. The irony of the sermon was not lost on you.

It had been three weeks since you met Jonas. You were in town for a few months visiting your grandmother and she insisted on dragging your butt out of bed to the sunrise Sunday service at her church. Luckily for you, instead of the regular reverend (who was as old as Methuselah), there was a handsome, charismatic guest preacher in his place. Having never been an avid church-goer before, you were quite taken with the eye candy professing salvation for all sinners from the pulpit. 

After the service, you dropped off your grandmother at her bingo game and decided to have a little fun by giving into your more baser instincts. How else were you supposed to entertain yourself in a dusty dried up old town? You knew how to play the game. With your chaste couture and coquettish ways, you caught Jonas Nightingale--hook, line, and sinker.

Just then Jonas walked into the office, freezing in his tracks the second he laid eyes on you. “Ms. Y/L/N.” He took off his aviator shades and smirked. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I know we had a session yesterday, but I think I need more spiritual guidance.” You ran a delicate hand down the slope of your neck and gave him a shy smile.

Jonas ran his tongue across his teeth, a low growl emanating from his chest. “Of course, please step into my office.” You stood up and followed him. Before shutting the door, Jonas turned towards the secretary. “Why don’t you get out of here and take a long lunch.”

“Are you sure?” the secretary asked, leaning over the desk to try and peek into his office.

“Absolutely. It’s been a slow day. Go out. Live a little.” Jonas sighed in relief, watching as she grabbed her purse and needlepoint. She was on loan to him from the church. The woman was your typical nosy, uptight old bat with a stick up her ass, but she made great coffee and would bring in freshly baked cookies every week.

As soon as the secretary left, he stepped into his office and locked the door. “I thought you were supposed to come by tonight. Just couldn’t wait, could ya?” he teased and removed his shirt, leaving him in a black tank top. 

You bit your bottom lip, staring at his muscular arms. “I had to come here.”

“Oh you did?” 

You blushed and fidgeted with your coat. “You see, I was very, very naughty. I was thinking about you all morning and I had to touch myself. I sinned, Reverend and you told me that those who disobey God’s laws must do penance.” You made a show of unbuttoning your coat and letting it fall to the floor, revealing that you were completely naked.

Jonas stalked up to you, looking like the big bad wolf. He walked in a slow circle around you, inspecting every inch of your flesh before stopping right behind you and grabbing your hips, pulling you flush to him. His lips brushed over your pulse point and all too soon he walked away.

With the crook of his finger, he beckoned you over to the chair in front of his desk. You obliged his silent request and sat down. Sinking to his knees before you, he planted a brutal, bruising kiss on your lips, thrusting his tongue into your mouth. He pulled away and went over to his desk. “You remember the safe word?” he asked, opening a drawer.

“Bakker,” you replied. 

Jonas chuckled. When you two began these escapades, you picked “Bakker” for your safe word. The last name of the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, two TV televangelists who were found guilty of fraud in the 80s. It was your subtle way of telling Jonas that you saw right through him and didn’t believe his act for a second. As long as your grandmother didn’t give him any money, his secret was safe with you. Besides, Jonas was just as much a freak as you were and he was the best sex you ever had.

Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out several items, one of them being a blindfold. “You know, I can’t promise that I’ll be gentle,” he purred as he covered your eyes.

A smile tugged at your lips. “You should know by now that I don’t want you to be gentle. Don’t hold back.”

“Challenge accepted,” Jonas thought as he grabbed some nylon ropes. He grabbed your arms and began to tie them behind the chair.

Your pulse quickened in anticipation. “Tighter,” you demanded in a breathy moan.

He yanked the ropes taut making you gasp. “Let me be the judge of that,” he growled, biting your earlobe. He spread your legs, tying each one to the leg of the chair. Your pussy glistened as you were already wet from masturbating all morning. The scent of your arousal filled his nostrils and made his cock twitch.

Tied and blindfolded, you thought Jonas would get down to business, but he had a few more surprises up his sleeves. He took out a white ball gag with a leather strap and some honey. After squirting some honey onto the ball gag, he cupped your chin and forced your mouth open. “Don’t you dare spit this out,” he threatened, fastening the leather strap behind your head.

You felt the ball wedge between your teeth. The sweet hit of the honey coating your tongue. Jonas has done his research. He knew that the combination of the honey and the ball gag would make you drool, giving you that hint of humiliation you craved. 

He sat back on his haunches and admired his work: the knots of nylon binding you to the chair, the way your lips wrapped around the ball gag, the rise and fall of your flushed chest. You were a work of art. Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel and Jonas had you.

He knelt down and kissed the top of your right foot before slowly dragging his tongue up your leg, nibbling on your inner thighs and then trailing down your left leg, planting a final kiss on your left foot. 

He parted your swollen pussy lips and licked your pink, quivering flesh, reveling in the way you whimpered and squirmed. When he wrapped his mouth around your clit, you jerked forward only to remember that you were restrained. He alternated between fucking you with his tongue and lapping at your clit. Being blindfolded only heightened your senses and right now it felt like Jonas was eating you out as if you were an all you can eat pancake breakfast.

You threw your head back and moaned, trying to arch your hips to give him even more access to your core. He reached his hands up and began to massage your breasts, pinching your nipples until they swelled and ached in pleasure. Your thighs began to shake and Jonas knew you were close. One final tweak of your taut nipple and your orgasm rippled through you. 

Jonas groaned and nodded his head vigorously, flicking against your nub as you rode out your ecstasy. “Jonas!” you wailed in a muffled tone, although the ball gag was preventing you from speaking much. 

He hummed in contentment and smacked his lips together, tracing your entrance with a single digit. You squeaked in surprise.“Shhh,” he cooed. “Calm down, my angel. We’ve barely begun. How many fingers do you think you can take? One?”

You shook your head no.

“Two?”

You shook your head again. Jonas arched a brow, even though you couldn’t see him. He knew what you wanted. When he got up to five. You nodded. 

“So fucking greedy.” He spread you even wider. “You think you can take it?”

You nodded once more and undulated your hips. He began to finger fuck you, starting with his index finger, thrusting into you hard and fast while pressing on your clit until you howled. The second finger, he scissored you, slowly stretching you out, stroking your walls, studying the way you whimpered and wailed. He slowly added a third digit, finding that secret spot within you that so few men ever find. 

The buildup was unbearable as your hips stuttered forward, coming once more. Even though you were soaking wet, Jonas squirted lube onto his fourth finger firmly believing in the philosophy of, “the wetter, the better.” He slowly moved in and out of you, swiping against your clit. 

With each digit he added, you came harder and harder. Tears slid down your face from underneath your blindfold. Your muscles began to spasm, your nerve endings tingled. Jonas cruelly laughed. “Look at you, creaming on my fingers like a little slut.” 

You wailed out another orgasm in response. How long had you been sitting there? Hours? Your body experienced a rollercoaster of emotions. Every time you came, you loathed it. You craved it. You wanted him to stop. No, don’t stop! Don’t ever, ever, ever stop! You wanted more and more and more and that’s exactly what Jonas gave you.

After adding even more lube, he tucked his thumb into his palm, tapering his fingers and slowly penetrating you, pushing past the knuckles until his entire hand was deep inside you. Jonas had never fisted anyone before, but you had untapped desires within him that he had no idea even existed.

He began to rock his large hand back and forth. You sobbed in pleasure. You were stretched and filled to the brim, feeling tremendous pressure. You couldn’t catch your breath. Being tied, blindfolded, and gagged, all you could do was take it. While fisting you, Jonas leaned forward and began sucking on your clit. 

Your muffled moans of “Oh fuck! Oh yes! Yes! Yes!” filled the room as he unleashed his torture on your slick, hot cunt. He crooked and wiggled his fingers, massaging your G-spot. You screamed in ecstasy. Your orgasm was earth shattering. You felt a gush of liquid and squirted all over Jonas’ face.

“That’s it, my sweet angel. Squirt for me,” he groaned, almost coming in his pants at the sensation of your sweet nectar all over his face, a puddle amassing beneath your chair.

Jonas slowly took his hand out, one finger at a time. He reached up and cupped your face, you could feel your arousal from his one hand, coating your cheek. “You’re not done yet. I want one more from you,” he commanded as he began to unbound you.

You meekly nodded your head. He gave you an open mouth kiss over your ball gag and gently lifted you up so he could sit down. You were still blindfolded. The sound of a zipper and rustling of his denim, alerted you that he had taken out his cock.

You rocked against his length, his crown rubbing against your overly sensitive clit. Moving at a snail’s pace, you sank down onto his cock. Jonas’ fingers may have been long and thick, but nothing could replace being filled by his cock. After your initial meeting, you quickly understand why the man exuded a prowess on the church stage, swinging his big dick energy at anyone with a pulse. 

Jonas let out a strangled moan and grabbed your hips, encouraging you to fuck him.

You bounced up and down on his cock. He had given you so much pleasure and now you wanted to return the favor. You contracted your muscles, squeezing around him. Drool dribbled down your chin and onto your breasts from the combination of the honey and the ball gag. He lowered his head to lap it up and suck your nipples.

Smothered by your chest, he growled and gripped your hips, thrusting up into you. Your head lolled back. You loved this, being used as a sex toy. Your whole body screamed. Take me! Devour me! I’m yours! 

The wooden chair creaked and was on the verge of breaking, but neither of you cared. “Fuck! Jesus! Jonas!” you mumbled, climaxing one final time, your vision fading to black while riding out your orgasm. Pain and pleasure melding together.

Jonas’ hips began to stutter. “Oh Y/N!” he moaned. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” He grunted like an animal, pulsing inside you, filling you with his cum. His body tensed, coming so much that it seeped out of you and pooled around the base of his cock, creating a mess. Not that either of you noticed, you were both already plastered in sticky sweat

You went limp and melted against him, snuggling into the crook of his neck, mewling like a kitten. Once Jonas caught his breath, he pulled you away to take off the gag and blindfold. Gazing up at you with the sunlight illuminating your face, that feeling of disarmament overpowered him once more. He was completely at your mercy, bared to you. There was no escaping your trance. 

This was meant to be your penance. Your punishment. But instead, it was Jonas that choked out one final word, “Amen.”

Tag List:

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[peakascum]

As Long As I Breath pt. 2

This is technically a prequel requested by an ANON! Part one here: PART 1 

He felt a ringing in his ears as the words left Arthur’s lips. The world stood still for a moment and his heart almost gave out. Arthur called out his name in repeat as John tentatively put a hand on his shoulder. He had escaped the hands of death many times, never really caring if he survived or not. But you- you had never been exposed to it in spite of growing up with him, Tommy always shielded you from violence and gore. 

“Brother, please we- we need you here right now.” Arthur pleaded as he held his hat between his hands. He stared at his brother’s eyes in despair, never having seen him in such a state. 

Tom slowly put his hands on his desk and stood above it, shoulders hunched and face reddening by the second. John left his side slowly, afraid to be in the way of his brother’s wrath. 

In a split second Tommy let out a toe curling scream that penetrated through the walls of the already empty betting shop. His fist came in contact with the surface of his desk repeatedly, littering glass and papers over the floor. He grabbed the gun from his holster and began walking out of his office screaming incoherences, making the family duck and others run towards him in fear of what he might do. Spit and words of rage slipped from his mouth as he shot the gun repeatedly into the ceiling. 

“What the fuck- Tommy! Shit.” Arthur said as he reached towards his brother in an attempt to calm him down. John took the other side to corner him and prayed that no stray bullet would hit him. Finn grabbed Polly’s still frame and placed himself in front of her, unaware of the damage his brother could cause, for Tommy looked and felt as if he was already grieving. 

Tommy suddenly held the gun up to his temple and placed his finger on the trigger as he let out one last scream. John knocked the gun from his hand as Arthur pinned him to the wall by his chest and neck. “It’s all right brother, it's all right. We’ll find her, eh?” The brothers stared into each other’s eyes and Arthur swore he could see Tommy’s soul slowly dying. 

“Fuck Tom,” John let out as he opened the gun’s chamber to see only one bullet left, “fuckin’ hell, just-“

He emptied the single bullet and held it up to his brother’s face. “See this? It already has Sabini’s name carved.” 

“That’s right Tom, in fine fuckin’ print.” 

Tommy would never admit this to anyone, but that sleepless night he prayed to a rosary Polly had gifted him and asked any that might care to listen, to spare your life and take his instead.

It took them exactly two days to find your location. Sabini’s men boasted about Tommy’s “broken bird”, which was overheard by one of the men recruited for your search. Arthur was the one that first found you, a memory that still haunts him every time he sees you. Sabini held you by your arms as your legs dangled lifelessly on the floor. Arthur took cautious steps holding his hands beside his head to show no threat to the enemy.

“All right, you got us here. You can let the girl go.” 

“Let her go?” He laughed humorlessly, “She’s been a good doll, haven't ya’ girl?” You whimpered at this. He grabbed you by the hair making you shriek in pain. “A nice little plaything we found ourselves.”

Tommy entered the room with John in tow, both unable to register the sight. Despite seeing men lose their limbs in the Somme, they had never expected to see something so gruesome, much less with someone they deeply loved. 

Tommy’s heart almost gave out at his lover’s unrecognizable face. With tears brimming his eyes and a lump in his throat he pleaded gently with Sabini, “You can have me, j-just pass her over.” The enemy looked ahead dangling you by the hair. Scalp on fire that could've been lessened, but your legs gave out long ago. “I’ll back off, burn my own pubs, seize control,” he said shakily, “just pass her to me and we can negotiate whatever it is that you seek.”

Sabini pondered his words for a minute as his hands tightened around your throat and hair. “Mr. Shelby you have humiliated me countless of times.”

“I have never humi-“

“You have humiliated me!” He caught him off quickly shaking you in anger. You choked on your own blood and saliva as he restricted your airways. Tommy tried to maintain his composure at the sight of your struggling frame. 

“I’ll give you you back the club and 50% of last month’s earnings.” Arthur looked at him wearily, “Tom-“ 

Tommy cut him off with a hand gesture. “My wife for my club and 50% of the earnings.”

“You mean my club, the one that you so graciously took from me, for this little fuck doll.” The room stilled for a second bathing itself in his words. “Let me guess,” he said chuckling darkly, “by order of the Peaky Blinders?”

As John retreated his gun the enemy forcefully bashed the side of your head against the wall. A sickly crack was heard across the room. Bullets fired and blood coated the floor. Tommy’s eyes went dark as he took an already dead man and decorated his body with bullet holes. No noise came from his mouth, only loud gasps for air and whimpers of despair. Once the last bullet left his gun, he picked you up bridal style, cradling your head to his chest carefully. 

Arthur and John screamed incoherences as they drove with you to the hospital, but Tommy could only focus on your weak pulse and the ring on your left hand. This, this is what death felt like. This is what awaited for him in hell, your frail body reduced to nothing, almost falling apart before him. 

_________________________________________________________

Tommy spent every waking moment in the hospital room. He watched the sun set and rise from behind the clouds and basked in all its warm glory. A new day meant you were still here, still breathing, still alive. And you did get better, slowly. He would sit beside you talking mindlessly about your favorite books and memories swallowed by the hands of time. When your face recovered its normal features and your life was no longer on the line, the doctor had warned of brain damage, how you could remain a vegetable or suffer memory loss. So he spoke in code, just as you had done since you were kids. Every specific and important word was accompanied by a squeeze to your hand. 

“Remember that, love? Could never hold your alcohol.”

You frowned and squeezed his hand twice.

“Could not! Second glass and uncle Charlie’s jokes had you pissing yourself.”

To which you would respond with a squeeze and a light tap of your index finger.

And when he had to leave, his family would gather by you. Finn taught you key words you had forgotten, Polly spent her days spoon feeding you and retelling old folk tales she knew you enjoyed. With time you giggled and regained strength. 

One particular evening, Tommy was held back by the usual business. He frantically ran through the hospital doors cursing himself for leaving you all alone. And once again life had proven to Tommy that there was such a thing as love. For a man that had lost everything, the thought of compassion and kindness had been thrown out the window. But as he arrived at your hospital door his insides began to flutter once again. 

You lay in bed with Finn and Michael by your side as John and Esme danced horribly at your feet. Arthur clapped lacking any sort of rhythm, might I add. The Shelby’s weren't known for their musical skills. Your laugh filled the room for the first time in months making the corners of his mouth tug slightly. Your eyes met and lips parted in unison. 

“Tommy.” 

“Y/N.”

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Walk Me Home - Ch 4

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension. 

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 2702

Author’s Note: At last!!! I almost didn’t make it, but here I am, literally in the eleventh hour (well, okay, three minutes to go until the eleventh hour, but still)! All the thanks to @mskathywrites , @fang, and @cracksinthewalls for editing, revision, flailing, and all that stuff I need. I still love this story, and I hope y’all will, too! 

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. 

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 4

Kimber knows she’s staring, but she can’t stop herself. His fingers, rough and strong from years of the hardest work, brush circles over her wrists that send her pulse fluttering through her veins. So many emotions flicker behind his eyes, some of them mirroring her own, some of them alien and unreadable. So many years have passed, so much water under the bridge, as the saying goes. 

The thing is, he was completely right earlier. She could have called him, once she learned who he and his family were, once she found a way.

But he had left town with her phone number memorized. He was in a much more logical position to get in touch, and right away, at that. And he never did. She knows he had a good reason, a completely reasonable one that would make sense if she just asked him.

But she’s scared and drained and confused and more than a little ashamed, and she’s tired of making a fool of herself.

She drops her eyes before the tears fully form and murmurs a quiet thanks as she loosens her hands from his grip. Though walking away is not what she wants to do, she forces her legs straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a firm click. 

She’ll feel better after a hot shower. That’s all she needs, a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. They’ll figure this out tomorrow, and then Dean and his brother will ride off into the sunset, and everything will go back to normal. She’ll go back to her classes as usual, helping out the occasional hunter or scholar with some lore, and she’ll bury all these feelings behind her heart again, drown them so deep they’ll never dream of resurfacing.

At least, that’s the fairy tale she tells herself as the scalding stream washes the saltwater from her cheeks. 

She actually does feel moderately restored by the time she steps out of the bathroom. She feels a little ridiculous in Dean’s clothing. The sleeves of the t-shirt hang past her elbows, and the pants legs are rolled up several times to keep her from tripping. 

At least the waist has a drawstring, she thinks as she rounds the corner back into the room. She pulls the towel from her hair, shaking it out a little just as Dean looks up from his laptop at the small table. His mouth opens, eyes widening. She’s not sure because of the poor lighting of the room, but his face seems to color a little as his eyebrows lift.

She is suddenly, acutely aware that she did not put her bra back on when getting dressed in his white t-shirt that is probably not nearly as thin as it feels.

Dean clears his throat, turning back to his computer, swallowing whatever comments have entered his mind. Kimber can’t decide whether to laugh or blush even harder and settles for the third option of hanging her office clothes up so they can air out a little before tomorrow. 

With nothing else to do, she drops onto the edge of the bed gracelessly, feeling every minute of the last few weeks catching up with her. Uncertainty and fear claw at her, ripping away what little defenses she has left. The image of the mutilated doll flashes before her eyes, red paint splashed luridly on her favorite comforter. Her lungs clench, and she sags on the mattress. 

She presses her fingers hard against her face. Acid burns at the back of her throat, bitter and biting. Her fingernails are just beginning to dig into her scalp when she registers the click of the laptop closing. Half a moment passes, then the bed dips beside her. 

She doesn’t consciously decide to move; her body simply molds itself to his side as Dean slides his arm around her back. He turns into the embrace, his other arm gathering her tightly against him. His cheek comes to rest on top of her head. The silence between them is the comfort she needs, his warmth and solidity the anchor that keeps her from drifting too far into panic.

When he finally speaks, his words rumble through her nerves, settling heavy and soothing in her chest.

“We’re gonna get this son of a bitch, Kimber. I’m sorry they got into your house, but I’m glad I was with you. I…” She rises gently with his deep inhalation, pressed as she is against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

She hears what he isn’t saying, and her hands drop from her face, her arms slipping around his middle as her eyes close.

“Me, too, Dean.”

...

“That pumpkin pie was somethin’ else,” Dean murmured. His arms were folded behind his head as he stretched out on top of Kimber’s bedspread. He crossed his ankles, settling in like he belonged there. His thin t-shirt stretched across his wiry frame, jeans lying enticingly low on his hips, and she could just see a glimpse of pink toe through a hole in one of his socks.

A pleasant, off-balancing thrill skipped down Kimber’s spine, twirling through her stomach and making her head spin a little. Dean’s jacket was hung carefully on her desk chair, his boots lined up on the floor underneath, and his button-up overshirt folded neatly on the desk.

Her parents had gone to bed long ago, and she had snuck Dean in the back door. After their exhilarating but chilled stroll that afternoon, she’d decided against the treehouse. Dean had been amused but willing, although he’d had one stipulation that had nearly made her laugh aloud.

“We get caught and your folks kick me out, you’re bringing me your mom’s leftovers to school every day for breakfast. I’m not missin’ out on home cooking just because you can’t stand to be away from me.”

Now, seeing him so comfortable on her bed, like he just belonged...Kimber knew the smile on her face was on the goofier end of sappy, but she couldn’t help it. He was just so damned…

“Cute,” he said, smirking up at her. “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not cute. I’m adorable.”

She sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Fine, you’re gorgeous, adorable, vital, the absolute most. Now close your eyes so I can change.” Smirk still firmly in place, Dean dutifully closed his eyes. She knew, despite the short time she’d known him, that she could trust Dean to keep his eyes shut.

She spent a few seconds regretting the lack of any silky, dramatic nightgowns or cute, sexy little matching pajama sets. Oh, well; couldn’t have everything. She stripped quickly, tossing her school clothes into the hamper and slipping on her “Aaahh!!! Real Monsters” t-shirt. Thick socks and plaid pajama pants completed her night ensemble. 

That she had just been naked (however unseen said nakedness had been) in front of Dean Winchester had not escaped her. She licked her lips, cheeks warm, and turned slowly back to the bed. He lay still, chest rising and falling steadily, and she marveled, not for the first time, that he was here, in her room. Just for her.

Her pulse jumped, her lungs tightened, and for just a second, Kimber panicked.

“You can, uh...you can open your eyes. I’m gonna go brush my teeth; I’ll be right back.”

She fled silently down the hallway, brushed her teeth in record time, and then stared in the mirror. Her hair was just her hair, nothing amazing or horrifying; no point trying to fix that before bed. Maybe…make-up?

“Kimber. What the hell?” she muttered. “You’re not seducing him, just be cool. Jeez. You can’t wear make-up to bed.”

She splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing her skin dry with a hand towel more forcefully than necessary. She gave her reflection another once-over and took a deep breath.

“You’re his choice, too,” she reminded herself. “Just chill.”

She found him exactly as she’d left him, completely relaxed on the bed, eyes still closed. She thought for a moment that he might have fallen asleep. Kimber wasn’t sure if she felt more disappointment or relief.

“You left in a little bit of a hurry,” he murmured, eyes still closed, and she started. “Everything okay?” She almost put him off, could feel the brush-off on her lips, but his eyes slid open, pinning her on the spot. She got the eerie sense that he would know, that he already knew she was trying to put on a front, and she deflated a little.

“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted. The heat in her cheeks turned up a few degrees, spreading down her neck, and she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “I’ve never...snuck a guy to my room before. I just...this is mostly new to me, but with you, I want...I don’t know.”

Without a word, Dean slid from the bed and crossed the room, his mesmerizing eyes never leaving hers. He stopped a few feet away and waited, his arms open. With the bed suddenly out of the equation, Kimber felt a hidden knot of anxiety untie in her chest. 

She let out a breath and stepped into his embrace, her arms circling his waist in a way that felt easy and right. Dean’s lips pressed a warming kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “This is your room, your space, but even if it wasn’t-” He paused, leaning back and brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Kimber, look at me.”

She did, and his earnest expression left no room to doubt his next words. It barely left room for breathing.

“ ‘M not here to make you feel uncomfortable or scared. I’m here because you want me to be. The second that stops, the second I make you feel something you don’t want, that’s it. Period. Does that work for you?”

His eyes, so plaintive and weathered in that moment, cut right to her heart. Never in her life had Kimber felt so safe, so protected, and so very sad. She couldn’t think of any words that lived up to the magnitude of what Dean had just said, so she simply squeezed him tighter, pressing her face against the side of his neck. 

“Can you stay?” she asked. She knew he had obligations, probably needed to get back to his brother or at least check in with his dad. She felt terribly selfish in her warm, safe house with her parents right down the hall. Still, she asked. 

“Yeah, I can stay for a while.” His smile, soft and open, laid her doubts to rest. They settled onto the bed, fumbling a little awkwardly to find a position they both liked. There was some bumping, mumbled apologies, until they finally sorted out a comfortable twist of limbs that didn’t set her heart beating out of her ribs or threaten to cut off blood flow to anything important. 

She relaxed by increments, her cheek resting on his collarbone. He hugged her close with his left arm, his right hand combing slowly through her hair over and over. The silence settled around them like a second blanket, soothing and heavy.

“What do you want to do when you finish school, Kimber? College?”

“Probably,” she murmured. “I don’t know specifically, but I like research.”

He snorted, and she poked him in the side.

“Shut up, you jerk, I do. And I like sharing the information. I like helping people. I don’t really want to be a teacher, but maybe I can find something where I can do all of that.”

Dean resumed combing her hair, having paused when she poked him, and they settled a little more closely together.

“Dean?”

“Mmm?”

She blinked slowly, sleep pulling at her eyelids. Her thoughts spun out languidly, losing their urgency as his warmth seeped through the thin fabric of her pajamas. 

“How about you?”

His answer came quickly, rehearsed and without thought. “Join the family business. Dad’s been training me for years. Don’t have a lotta choice, but I know I’ll be good at it. Was raised for it.”

Her fingers crept up, her eyes staying closed for longer and longer periods between blinks. She slid her thumb over his chin, just brushing the line of his bottom lip before sliding slowly up his jaw. 

His words weren’t emotionless, but they were automatic. There was so much he never said, and she hated to push him, afraid he would just leave or shut down, but…

“But what do you want?” She persisted, drowsiness interfering with her usual restraint. “Who do you want to be?”

He was silent for so long, she nearly gave in to fatigue. She drifted on the edge of unconsciousness, fingers stroking through the silky strands of hair behind his ears. She felt his face turn, his lips press against her wrist.

“I want...this,” he said. Even half-asleep, she couldn’t mistake the raw longing behind his words. “I want...I want to work a boring, regular job and come home to someone who missed me all day as much as I missed her. I want my kids to cannonball into my legs so hard they knock me over. I want…”

His words choked off, and she stilled her fingers against his cheek, waiting for him to continue.

“I want a house. No...I...when I was little, Dad would come home, and he would just...sweep Mom up sometimes, swing her around, when they weren’t fighting. Even when they were, he’d do it sometimes anyway just to get her to laugh.”

She felt his face shift beneath her hand, but his smile didn’t feel quite right, and she moved closer. His arm tightened around her back, and he smoothed the palm of his free hand down to cup her jaw.

“I want a home. I want to be a dad, a husband. I want a family.”

She felt childish, shallow next to the depth of his simple declaration. Dean wanted what she had, what she took for granted every day of her life. This was the first time he’d spoken of his mother, and though curiosity burned hot inside her, she didn’t dare ask further questions, afraid she’d break the spell of the moment.

Dean’s voice dropped until she could feel it more than hear it, his lips pressing softly against her forehead.

“I want to come home and hold someone until I fall asleep every night. I want to wake up to her and know that my whole day, every day, is gonna be just that, all over again.”

She lifted her face to his then, and in the darkness of her bedroom she could only just make out the barest lines of his features. Their noses brushed, his hand gently pulling at the back of her head, and their lips met. His cheek was damp under her fingertips, and her heart clenched. 

She pulled his head down, brushing her lips over the tears trickling down his cheekbones more by feel than by sight. Both his arms came around her then, pulling her against his chest as he buried his face in his hair. They breathed together, memorizing each others’ scents, heartbeats, rhythms as the night crept by. 

The moment didn’t pass so much as gradually relax until Kimber felt him shift beneath her, smoothly sliding her off his chest and down to the pillows. He kissed her temple, and her face automatically turned to his, chasing his lips. She felt him chuckle against her mouth.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I gotta go. Need to check on Sammy, make sure he got dinner, did his homework, all that mess. I’ll see you tomorrow. Walk you to school?”

She nodded, humming her agreement even as she blindly reached for him. Something soft brushed against her fingers, and she automatically pulled it down, cuddling against the fabric. 

“Hold onto that for me. I’ll get it back from you sometime.” She felt a kiss press to her forehead, and then the click of her door closing. She breathed in, Dean’s scent surrounding her as she slipped under again, his button-up shirt pillowed under her cheek and tangled in her fingers. 

…

Chapter 5

[joonsdiary]

the first date

↳ part two of the: (not) the love of my life series

pairing. ceo!seokjin x hotelier!reader (female) genre. arranged marriage au // humour with a dash of fluff and a sprinkle of angst word count. 3,0k

chapter summary. having your first date after getting proposed to definitely seems backwards, but you’ll do anything to keep a semblance of ownership of your hotel.

     ⇀ alternatively. will seokjin live up to his reputation and sweep you off your feet? or will it be just another business meeting for you and him both?

the proposal | the first date | the ceo’s keeper | the engagement

“Did he say eight on the dot? Or a little after eight?”

Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you paced back and forth at the lobby of Hwang Hotel, irritating Joohyun who stood behind the front desk. You were unsure why you were feeling nervous like a teenager. It wasn’t like you haven’t gone on dates either — you had just gone on one yesterday, no matter how terrible it had been.

“You’re making me nauseous,” she deadpanned but her complaint did nothing to deter your rhythm.

“Good. I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

“What’s got you so jittery, anyway?” she picked up a clementine from the complimentary bowl in front of her and began peeling the fruit carefully. “I thought you said this morning that you weren’t going to let him under your skin.”

“I’m not,” you snapped at her, but she only gave you a smirk. “I’m just unsure how this will go. He’s practically well-versed when it comes to the female anatomy.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased, and the realization of your statement sent your pulse humming. You snatched a piece of orange from her, the taste of citrus reminding you of the night prior. “The bashful look on your face says it all, honey.”

She winked, and you could only reply with an eye roll.

“You’ll be fine, I’m sure you’ll knock him dead with your usual charm.” Joohyun encouraged.

“I don’t even know if we’re on the same playing field,” you chewed the bottom of your lip nervously.

“If anything, you’re way out of his league. Trust me.”

You rolled your shoulders back in an attempt to calm down.

“You’re right. If anything, this will be exactly like a business meeting. I mean, it’s not like any of this is real anyway.”

But the façade can only go so far before you began breaking down once more.

“Why did I even agree to this?” you groaned, leaning the weight of your hips against the cold marble desk.

“Because,” Joohyun leaned over and grab both your shoulders, “you love this place too much to see it be gentrified by those good-for-nothing billionaires.”

“I don’t know…this place could use a little fixing up.” You turned your head to see Seokjin, immaculate as ever while donning a grey slim fit suit that accentuates his broad shoulders.  His shiny black shoes glint underneath the bright lights of the hotel, and you think to yourself how much more expensive they probably were than your whole outfit alone.

“Future wife.” He greeted, right hand hovering the small of your back. You flinched away from his touch and his frown doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Mr. Kim.”

He inhaled sharply through his gritted teeth and Joohyun snorted, unable to hold back her own amusement. It was your turn to wink at her before turning to address Seokjin.

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Let me just grab my coat.”

                                     *  *  *

“Where are we going?”

Seokjin stopped at a red light, loosening his grip on the wheel before turning his full attention towards you.

“You know that new restaurant a few blocks from— ”

“Absolutely not,” you looked up at him in horror, and Seokjin’s eyebrows raised inquisitively. “I was there last night, and it was the most terrible experience I’ve ever had. They barely served real food.”

You rolled your eyes and shivered with disgust to make your point, but Seokjin was more interested in why you were there, instead.

“You were there last night? Don’t take this as an insult, but I didn’t peg you as the type.”

The light turned green, and he cursed the traffic from taking his attention away from you.

“None taken. It was totally not my scene. But if you must know,” he felt you shift in your seat as you continued, “I was there for a date.”

Oh.

Unprompted, Seokjin swerved to the farthest lane on the right, jamming his foot on the break. This sent you hurtling towards the dashboard, but the seatbelt thankfully held you back from getting hurt.

“Chateau’s it is,” Seokjin said resignedly. He didn’t like the new place either, anyway. It was more of his younger brother’s scene rather than his. He wasn’t sure what type of restaurant you preferred — or if you even cared for that matter — so when Taehyung suggested an allegedly popular place that had just opened, he’d agreed.

“A little warning would be nice.” You grumbled under your breath, but he didn’t make the effort to apologize.

He pulled his foot away from the break as he steered to the left, swiftly making a U-turn.

“Nice to know my fiancée is going around on dates. The press will love that, for sure.” Seokjin aimed for nonchalance, but his voice dripped with discontent more than he wanted it to.

“Oh, please, I barely garner any attention. And it’s not like we’ve officially revealed our engagement, so the public has no reason to speculate,” you stated pointedly.

She’s right, Jin. Be reasonable.

“Also, I was doing it out of spite for my parents.”

“Of course.”

Did that mean the dress you wore when he came by Hwang Hotel was because were on a date with some random egghead hours prior? The thought had him gripping the steering wheel tighter until his knuckles grew white. He thought you looked breathtaking in a classic mini black dress with your legs that went on for days. Seokjin licked his lips, his mouth running dry. Lucky bastard, whoever he was.

His eyes flitted briefly to your knees, only to discover it’s covered by cream-coloured slacks. Disappointment coursed through his veins when you’d dressed up more like a business arrangement rather than a dinner date.

Duh, this is a business arrangement.

“Besides, weren’t you also on a date just a few days ago? Daily Gossip said so.” He smirked at your accusation, and from the dim streetlights they passed through he could make out your unimpressed expression.

“You actually read that tabloid crap?”

“No. Yoongi told me.”

He did a double-take on the unfamiliar name. Was he the lucky date from last night? Seokjin would have to figure that out later.

“Don’t worry, future wife. Unlike you, I’ve been a faithful fiancé,” Seokjin grinned wickedly, liking your stunned expression a little too much. “It was strictly business.”

“With the president’s daughter?” you pressed on, unknowingly feeding his ego.

“Aren’t you ever the little sleuth,” he turned to you before winking. “We’re here, fiancée.”

He exited his side of the car before promptly opening your door. He took your hand, before placing it on the crook of his elbow.

                                     *  *  *

Seokjin ate up the attention like he was a man who hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. You had your doubts about actual paparazzi showing up, but despite the last-minute decision to hightail to Chateau’s, the camera’s flashing in his direction. To be fair, it’s not as if they were all professionals; some were regular folks who just so happened to recognize him. You secured the loose strands of your hair and slid away from him without him noticing.

The moment of unbridled freedom only lasted a few seconds, as he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer towards him. He leaned forward, lips brushing the tips of your earlobes.

“Don’t you dare move away when the cameras are pointed right at us,” his voice rumbled low in his chest, sending a shiver down your back where his hand rested comfortably.

“Um, we didn’t make a reservation. Unless you own the place, I don’t think we can get in on a whim,” you gathered your hands in front of you, unsure where to place them. Seokjin looked at you with slight amusement tugging the corner of his lips. Your eyes widened in late realization. Of course, he owns the damn restaurant.

As soon as he waltzed in the place, the waiter did not even bat an eyelash and immediately guided you to a semi-secluded spot near the back. It felt low-key enough for a private conversation, while also allowing a few eyes to speculate and linger.

“What would you like?” Seokjin asked as he flipped through the menu with a blasé attitude. You watched the waiter pour champagne in two flute glasses.

“Anything goes for me,” you shut your menu with a soft thud, not bothering to go through the whole list. You weren’t really feeling like dinner anymore, craving Yoongi’s sweet and sour fried chicken, instead.

Seokjin eyed you with suspicion, but you gave him a curt smile. He handed the waiter the menu and proceeded to order an array of delicacies without a pause. You’ve been to Chateau’s only once during your college days and only because you lost a bet, so it was probably safer to let him handle everything.

“At this point, I won’t be surprised if all the property in downtown Seoul belongs to you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t purchase government buildings.” His arrogance seemed to prickle your skin, and every second he kept that ridiculous smile on made you want to claw your eyes out.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” you folded your arms protectively as the fabric of the blouse you wore chafed the skin on your forearm. It took you awhile to put together an outfit that didn’t seem to forward or eager (because you definitely weren’t eager) so, you went with something you would normally wear to work.

“You weren’t about the lawyer life your parents had, so you decided to go into business?”

Nodding mutely, his inquisition brought about your parents’ disappointed faces at your refusal to take over the family’s firm. Being their only daughter, your estrangement only placed a wedge on your already strained relationship. You were never attracted to their uptight lifestyle, and perhaps if you had a different outlook on how other lawyers’ lives were, you’d change your mind.

They weren’t always like that, however, especially your father. But things started changing when they you realized they were grooming you to become like them, which was something you didn’t want.

“Something like that.”

“You weren’t aware of them selling the hotel, though?”

“No. I was idiotic enough to trust them with the financial side of the business, thinking they’d somehow have better insight than me. They never mentioned the hotel had been swimming in debt for a while now,” you heaved a sigh as the food arrived. Undeterred by the presence of the waiter, you continued. “Then again it’s probably what they wanted so I’d crawl back to them and ask repentance for my sins.”

“The prodigal son,” he suggested. You laughed softly, nodding. “Is that why you’re pushing to finish your masters?”

“Colour me impressed, Mr. Kim. Your research is thorough,” he rolled his eyes, motioning for you to finish your story. “Yes. I only have this year left, and I’ll be done with my studies. I’m assuming you did the same?”

Seokjin shook his head, fiddling with a piece of meat on his plate with the silverware. “I could only stick it out for four years.”

“Because you were certain of your future as CEO.”

His head dipped in agreement. Must be nice to not have to question your own future.

“Until recently.”

“Well,” you smiled, picking up your flute glass in a mock toast. “You’re welcome. I’m here to whip you up in shape and help you secure the bag.”

“I’ll be forever indebted to you,” he raised his own glass before sipping, eyes not leaving yours.

“That’s not necessary. That’s why you’re returning my hotel to me, right? We’ll be even. Fair and square.”

He smirked but as soon as he saw your plate, his mouth formed into a straight line.

“Chateau’s cuisine not up to your standard?”

“It’s not that at all.” You stabbed your fork and brought the food to your mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing with difficulty. “Slightly traumatized by last night’s dinner, still.”

“With Yoongi?”

Your friend’s name rolling off Seokjin’s tongue was something you hadn’t expected, so you choke on your food slightly. You reached for the champagne, downing the whole glass. Seokjin reached for the bottle, giving you a refill.

“No,” you gave him a curious gaze. “I don’t even remember the guy’s name.”

He nodded mutely, but his aura had shifted once more from laid-back Seokjin to business Seokjin. You were sure you’re going to leave this restaurant with a whiplash.

“So…” you began, unable to bask in the uncomfortable silence any longer. “How did you get the epiphany?”

“What epiphany?”

“This whole I’ll-fake-being-in-love-so-I-can-convince-my-father-to-retire-and-hand-me-his-position charade.”

Seokjin’s expression was stoic as he answered. “It was Taehyung who suggested it.”

You sifted through your memory in an attempt to put a face to the name. When you didn’t say anything, Seokjin filled the gap for you.

“My youngest brother.”

Right. Three strapping sons of the Kim family.

You were ready to bring up more small talk to prevent the atmosphere from spiralling. But it was as if Seokjin remembered the whole purpose of the two of you being here and dove right to business.

“The engagement is going to be announced next week on a Friday, in case your parents haven’t told you.”

You nodded despite being unaware.

“The wedding is on Saturday — exactly three weeks from now. You don’t have to worry about the planning; I believe my side of the family is doing all of that. I convinced them to make it a small event, much to my mother’s chagrin.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t elaborate further.

“It’ll be happening at my estate instead of Kim Hotel’s wedding hall. I thought the change of scenery would make it more intimate and believable, especially if it’s happening in my house.”

“Wait, back up — your estate?” you gave him an incredulous look.

“Why is that so shocking?”

“I thought you lived atop that lonely tower of yours, Rapunzel. I didn’t know you have a castle.”

Seokjin’s mouth curled up in the slightest, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.  

“It was something I bought for myself after being COO.”

You felt like there should be a but that followed, but it never arrived.

“I’ll mail you the prenuptial agreement and anything else that requires your signature. It’s nothing we haven’t talked about before, but I’d like you to read it thoroughly in case I missed something.”

“No.”

Seokjin’s head snapped up in confusion. The momentary show of emotion was a welcomed event.

“I’ll visit you in that giant building of yours and sign whatever you need me to. We’re supposed to be in love, so it would look better if I’m there because I just can’t resist seeing you.” You said the last words sardonically, not one hint of truth within them.

“Good catch, fiancée.”

The lightness in his tone made your heart leap, and you cursed yourself for being so weak. But the feeling doesn’t last, so you told yourself it’s just something new to get used to. Kim Seokjin wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture in your life, so you’ll have to find a way to keep him at arms-length but the same time, somehow stay unaffected by his hot-or-cold nature.

As the night wore on, and the vibrant atmosphere you initially had with Seokjin faded, completely flatlining by the end of dinner. Prior to getting on his red Porsche, he’d kissed your forehead while you stood stiff as cardboard. You asked him to drop you off at your hotel instead of your apartment and he did without much question.

“Night, Rapunzel. Have fun in your tower.”

Seokjin shook his head, lush lips forming a small grin. Maybe being fake-real-married to him wouldn’t be so bad.

Mr. Park’s friendly face greeted you as soon as you entered, and one look at the front desk told you Joohyun had gone home for the night.

“Yoongi?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t see him come through today.”

“Oh,” you slouched defeatedly. Yoongi usually had weekend shifts, but this is probably a rare night when he’s off. You’d just have to fill him in through texts, then. “Thanks, Mr. Park. Have a good evening.”

“You too, Ms. Hwang.”

You made a quick beeline for Grigio, wanting to get coffee before you head up to your office. Jungkook’s familiar face behind the bar was a welcomed sight.

“I’m glad you’re here, at least,” you groaned, slipping into your usual spot. It was a little bit more hectic than the previous night, as Jungkook was evidently joined by another bartender you don’t recognize.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hwang, I won’t be able to cook your cure-all soup for you,” Jungkook teased, pouring the contents of the cocktail shaker into a martini glass.

“I don’t need that tonight, thank god,” you propped both your elbows on the table and rested your chin on your palms. “I do need the best coffee you can possibly make for me tonight. I’ve got lots of work waiting for me upstairs.”

“You’re not staying?”

“Nah, I don’t want to bother you. It seems busy here tonight, which I’m glad, of course.”

He looked like he wanted to say something more but instead, he bit his lip and nodded. While he busied himself with preparing your coffee, your mind lingered to the night’s event. Sure, you hadn’t stayed long for a casual chat, but you did get a lot accomplished. The two of you coordinated on which days you were both free and planned a few more dates.

You can do this, Y/N. Just tough it out through the wedding and a few months of pretending. Then you’ll have everything you want.

Hope blossomed in your chest as determination coursed through your veins. You were never the type to back out of anything, so you were more than willing to leap over a few hurdles on the way to your end goal. As long as you kept your head clear of any other obstacles, winning the prize will be an easy feat.

NEXT ;

hope you enjoyed! feedback is always appreciated ♡

[kerwritesthings]

The Start of Our Love Story

Summary: Before there was a me and you, there was me and there was you

Word Count: just a hair over 7k (buckle up y’all)

Warning: fluff and feels, a little bit of angsty longing, a little bit of messy, a bunch of sweet

Author Notes: So this is another one of those that festered from a tiny germ of an idea after something @fallinallincurls​ said and it kind of became, well this. It’s how it all started for these two. A look at their backstory. I kind of really love this. For me, I always want to make things I write feel real, that it’s not too much of the storybook, easy cliché. I want it to feel like this could actually be a thing that happens. This one feels more like that than anything I think I’ve written. I’m quite proud of it. 

As always, this falls in my yet to be named verse. The rest of my works can be found here at my newly cleaned up and shareable masterlist. This honestly, if you’re just starting to read my pieces now, would be the first to read, then follow the rest as I’ve got them down on the master. However, it can be read as a solitary one shot. Much love to @whenidance​ for listening to me whine constantly at stupid o’clock that I’m writing more fic yet again and to @fallinallincurls​ for being the kickstart to this and for being the best damn cheerleader.

Toronto was never in your plans. Work wise, you were grinding away, working like crazy to make a name for yourself. That’s what mattered. Nothing else outside of work, your tiny apartment on the Upper West Side, brunches at Sarabeth and Jacobs Pickles and abusing Class Pass studios with your best friend Didi made it on your radar. But when the SVP of Charitable Corporate Giving came to you to chat about the expansion of their presence through the other international offices outside the US, more so growing and figuring out new ways  to introduce corporations with their donations and their CSR programs with new charitable efforts; specifically an opportunity that would have you sitting possibly between New York and Toronto for a few months, eventually leading to full time position in Toronto, you sat up to listen. She immediately sets up time for you to head to Toronto along with a dossier of meetings with key folks there.

Didi came with you the first time you went up to Toronto for the exploratory conversations. The both of you came to love your time traipsing through Canada, Toronto and Montreal specifically. Plus, you both have friends scattered between the two. “This also means we can go harass the shit out of Hirashan, who we have not seen nearly enough of,” she trills off gleefully. “Plus, you know he throws killer parties, if we both visit you know he’ll do something fun.”

She was right. As soon as Hirashan found out you were coming into town, aside from the key smash that you may be in town for more than a brief trip if all works out well, a calendar invite for dinner shoots through immediately, then with a quick follow of ‘my friend Tristan is already having a few friends over for drinks that Friday night, we’re crashing’ which had you and Didi rethinking your packing knowing how Hirashan rolls.

After a day full of productive, thought provoking meetings that have you questioning everything back in New York, dinner with Hirashan, his boyfriend Miguel and Didi was exactly what you need to put the heavy thoughts in your head back a bit, at least for now.

“Tristian’s place is like Architecture Digest worthy,” Miguel raves, arm in arm with you as you head into the building. “The views of downtown and the CN are ridic. I’d say splurge if they want to drag you here and give you budget, but I’d much rather have you closer to us.”

“There is no way I’d be able to afford this building, let alone this neighborhood,” you quip, heels clicking on the tiles as you head up past the front desk to the elevators. Tristian’s ‘few friends over’ was tamer than you had expected, a solid number of people are scattering through the condo, but enough room to still feel like you could breathe.

Hirashan introduces you around like a proud parent, it’s sweet and not nearly as embarrassing as you thought he would be. There’s no way that you’ll remember everyone, your brain already feeling at max capacity after the day you had. However, luckily for you after the first full round of the room, you fall into an easy conversation with Tristian. He’s down to earth, a transplant from Georgia, and someone you could easily see becoming friends with if this move becomes an actual thing

“I have to introduce to my friend S,” Tristian says his thick southern twang bleeding through, craning his head around looking for him. “Normally, you can’t miss him he’s so dang tall. Whenever he gets here though, I must make the intro. I think y’all would get along well. He’s my neighbor, well not directly, but he lives in the building too.”

Didi and Miguel pull at you, passing around shots, and passing you around to meet and talk with other people. Your head is spinning, less from the whiskey you’ve been plied with through the night, more with the sheer fact that this night is making you see that Toronto may have to become a thing; and you’re smiling.

“Wait, here she is,” you hear Tristian first, before you feel him tug at your elbow before you go stumbling forward before tipping sideways. Another pair of hands come to steady you at your waist.

“Easy Tris, don’t break the girl before I can meet her,” the voice belonging to the hands at your sides retorts. He helps right you on your feet and you’re met with a pair of the prettiest eyes you’ve seen in awhile.

“As promised my dear,” Tristian grins, throwing his arms around the both of you. “This is Shawn.” 

He looks oddly familiar, but you can’t place it or him. He’s quite stunning though, gorgeous really. And unlike some of the others around the apartment, he’s dressed for the occasion. A well put together man is a weakness for you. Let alone one with eyes like this, a swath of riotous dark curls and a bright smile.

You fall into talking easily, not even noticing when Tristian leaves. This Shawn of his is well spoken, funny and it feels like you’ve known him for much longer the way the two of you chat. You wander into the kitchen at some point to grab another round of drinks, a glass of white for you, a beer for him, continuing the conversation of why you were up in Toronto this week in the first place.

“Sorry man, I need to borrow this one for a few if you don’t mind?” Tristian calls from over the breakfast bar. “Couple more folks I need to introduce her to before they head out.”

“It was really lovely talking to you Shawn,” you say, smiling. “I’ll find you before I leave.”

A few minutes turns into an hour, Tristian and Hirashan passing you around through a new group of people that just arrived. Next thing you know, it’s almost 1:30 am and the boys are starting to fade. You’ve lost track of Tristian, as well as his friend Shawn. You were hoping to see them both before leaving.

“Can I steal you for a minute before you go?” Shawn inquires, as you’re grabbing your coat from Didi’s outstretched hand. Miguel just smiles, elbowing Hirashan and pushing Didi towards to the door.

“We’ll go down and wait for the Uber,” Miguel says, nudging you forward.

You slide into your coat as he walks you around the perimeter of the living room, out the French doors to the balcony.

“I didn’t want to ask in front of everyone, especially your friends,” he gets bashful, a light pink flushes his cheeks. “But I really liked talking with you tonight, getting to know you. Can we stay in touch? Even if Toronto isn’t in the cards for you, I’d still like for us to talk more. Become friends even.”

You nod, smiling softly. “Yeah, I’d like that. Here’s my card. Everything is on there. Cell, email.”

“I’ll text you in the morning, so you have mine,” he replies, squeezing your hand after sliding the card from it. “Let me walk you to the elevator.”

He loops your arm through his, guiding you back through the groups of people in the apartment, down the hallway and to wait for the elevator to pop back up.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” you say softly, hands in your pockets so you don’t do something like reach out to grab a hold of his.

“Yeah I do,” he smiles, and it seems like he shifts closer to you. You get a whiff of his cologne, and you hope in lingers in your nose for the rest of the evening.

The elevator doors slide open. “Thanks for the lovely night, Shawn.”

“We’ll talk soon,” he responses with a smile and a cute little wave before the doors close in front of you.

“Good night?” Didi asks flopping down onto the bed in your hotel room. “I saw that look on your face a few times, this is gonna be a thing now isn’t it? I should warm up the Star Alliance frequent flyer number soon, eh? Figure out the best flights from LaGuardia up here.”

“It’s feeling good, I want to really think on it though once all the big brass talk everything over,” you start, changing quickly, the day finally catching up to you. “And more so what they’re thinking with transition plans and comp package.”

“You do realize though you were all chatty flirting tonight with Shawn Mendes, right?” Didi fights through a yawn once they’re in bed. “Major thing to throw in the plus column for this. He looked all smitten kitten too, especially when he came over before we left. Get it girl.”

You’re suddenly not as sleepy as before. “What the fuck, no way Dee.”

“Mmhmm, why do you think the three of us let you guys be for as long as we did. Tristian mentioned him coming by. Thought right off the bat you two would get along after you and Tristian got to chatting. Tris was right and I’m glad he made that happen,” Didi mutters, face smushing against the pillow. “Plus, he’s so your type. One of us needs to tap that, and I think Tomas would be beyond pissed if I did, so it’s your mission now. And you must share all the details once you get dicked down by that hot piece of man candy.”

You throw the smaller decorative pillow on the bed over at her face. “I didn’t, I mean. We were just talking Dee. He looked familiar, but. Oh god, Didi,” you grab the other pillow and place it over your face to scream.

You try to put it out of your mind, especially with everything else going on around the Toronto whirlwind. Even more so when a few days go by and you don’t hear from him. He flat out asked for your number, you slid him your card which had your cell and your email address. He said he was going to text you, so you had his number, and he wanted to stay in touch. You thought he was being sincere. You try not to let it get you down. Thinking of it now after everything, he’s a massive pop star, what would he want to do with someone like you? He was probably just being polite. You’re about to pop into the meeting with the SVP of Charitable Corporate Giving, when a text pops up from a number you don’t have in your phone.

Hi it’s Tris! Found your card in my guest room, must have slipped out your bag at some point when you were here last week. Let me know when you make your decision. Welcome to crash here until you find a place if the decision is a YES!

The only card you gave out that night was to Shawn. Did he lose it? Did he leave it there? Too many questions, you had an important meeting to get to.

Your apartment is almost completely packed up, the movers coming in a few days to take everything. It was a no brainer to say yes, though it meant less time of a transition and more of an immediacy in Toronto. You decided to spend your last full Sunday in the city at some of your favorite places. Breakfast at BEC, a facial from Facehaus, a wander through Strand Book Shop and an afternoon at Té Company. You manage to snag your favorite table: a half-padded booth in the back corner next to the window. A pot of tea and a book that has nothing to do with work and you’re ready to take a deep breath or three.

“That young man asked me to bring you over a fresh pot of whatever you were having,” the server gestures, swapping the steaming pot in her hands with the cooling one you have on the table. “Shall I bring over another cup?”

You look up from your book, and from her, to see him. Your breath catches for a moment. He’s got a shy smile, looking straight at you. Beat up black boots, dark jeans, cozy grey sweater, a vintage black leather bomber. Curls a windswept mess and eyes bright. He looks like he belongs here, in your perfect Sunday afternoon in New York City. You don’t know how you feel about the fact you’re thinking that way, especially after everything. Damn your subconscious. You’re too polite to ignore him or flip him off, so you nod and wave him over.

“Of all the gin joints, Shawn…” you sigh out softly.

“This is so crazy, that you’re here. Hi. So, I owe you an apology,” he explains carefully, sitting down across from you despite wanting to slide onto the bench next to you. “Because the nervous asshole I am, I totally put your number in my phone wrong. I tried texting you a few times, and nothing. I figured when they weren’t going through as iMessage I got it wrong and then I realized I lost your card, so I had absolutely no way to check or get in touch. I also didn’t want to look desperate or completely pathetic tracking down your friends through Tristian to hound them for your number when I had already asked for it myself, especially the way I did, or stalk you on social that would have been worse.”

He’s adorable when he’s flustered. “Take a breath, Shawn,” you smile softly. “Tris has it. He texted me the following week that he found it in his guest room.”

“I went in there after I walked you out,” he runs his hand through his hair, messing his curls about even more than they are already. “Needed a minute cause the pretty girl I talked with all night actually wanted to keep in touch too. I sat on the bed and put your number, or what I thought was your number, in my phone. I thought I slid it back into my pocket, it must have jostled out.”

“I thought, well, honestly I didn’t know what to think,” you begin. “I didn’t realize you were, well you until after I was back at the hotel with Didi. I thought you looked familiar, but I just couldn’t place it. Then when you didn’t reach out, I was like what would this guy, this Rockstar, want to do with me?”

He shakes his head at first. Then, he slides his phone out of his coat pocket, flipping through a few things before sliding it across the table to you. “Go ‘head,” he nudges it closer to you.

There were four or five green text bubbles in the open message window, an 8 in the place where the 0 should be in your number.

I know I said I would wait until tomorrow, but I just wanted to say how nice it was to talk with you tonight. It’s Shawn btw :)

I know you’re probably crazed with just getting back but wanted to see how decisions were shaking out? I’m bias but I’d be happy to talk up Toronto some more.

Let me know when you’re back in town? Would be great to see you.  

I may be in New York soon, would love to see you in your element. Can we grab a drink if you’re around?

Chat soon?

“He was kind of taken with you right away. Because that night? He got to just be just this guy Shawn talking to the prettiest girl in the room, who also happened to be so easy to talk to and laugh with,” he says honestly.

“It’s happening by the way,” you respond, pouring him a cup of tea despite your shaky hands. “Toronto. Next week. It’s my last full Sunday in New York, I’ve been hitting some of my favorite spots today as a last hurrah, including here. Movers come Tuesday; I fly out Thursday.”

“I found this place on my first solo trip to New York, and have been coming here ever since,” he sips at the mug that looks awfully small in his hands. “How many times do you think we crossed paths here and didn’t even know it?”

“We did on the time it really matters though didn’t we?” you smile over your mug.

You’re there for hours without even realizing it. Talking about whatever comes to mind. Everything from Toronto to New York to music to hockey, life and everything in between. After the second pot of tea, he moves to sit next to you on the banquette. By the third, he’s turning to face you straight on, head resting on his left hand with his knee pressing warmly into your thigh. Not once did anyone come to interrupt or bother the two of you, no wonder he’s gravitated to this place. By your fourth, you’re mirroring him, turning towards him. It’s comfortable, he’s comfortable. It’s easy, too easy actually. There are no awkward silences, no weird blips in conversation. It scares you. You’re already on the precipice of something majorly life-altering. You’re not sure you can take up another major change. And you believe him and his rambling explanation before. You do. But there’s a part of you that’s scared. Maybe you were just meant to have these pockets of time together, these brief beautiful moments. Nothing more. Your head is a swimming mess of emotions.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you two, but we’re getting ready to close,” the older gentleman you’ve come to know as one of the managers explains.  

“Holy shit, it’s almost 8,” you stretch, popping your shoulders. “I didn’t realize it was that late.”

“What time did you get here?” he asks.

“Only 20 minutes before you did,” you say, timidly, resting your hand over his that’s resting on his knee. “But this was a really good way to spend my last Sunday in New York. Honestly.”

He flushes brightly, “I’m really glad I came in here today.”  

“Now, may I please see your phone?” he questions, a sly little grin creeping up one corner of his mouth.

You nod, reaching for it out of your bag and unlocking it.

Shawn takes the most ridiculous selfie, you can’t help but fight giggling, then flipping back to poke at the screen before handing it back to you.

“You’ve got mine and I sent a text to make sure I’ve got your right number this time,” he expresses, his finger tracing over the knuckles on your hand. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate and it’s all going to be crazy for a good while for you, but I’d like to keep whatever this may be going.”

You duck your head, threading your hair behind your ear, nerves suddenly rearing their ugly head. Your stomach flips at his touch.

“I don’t want to lie to you Shawn, or lead you on,” you exhale, voice shaky. “This is all a lot. The new job, the move, this, you. I’m pretty fucking terrified as it is. But then add this in? Especially cause you’re you and… This isn’t a no, but it’s not a yes. It’s a not right now and I know that’s a lousy answer and the last thing I expect is for you to wait, because why would you. I’d like to text, when I can, at least for now.”

You know that answer wasn’t what he was expecting. Honestly, it wasn’t what you thought you would say to him either. You want but you also know you to listen to what your gut is telling you, despite your head and your heart fighting to have a say in this too. You’re afraid to look up, to meet his eyes, as you fear it could be the last time you see them up close and in person like this.

“Hey,” he replies softly, nudging your chin up with his pointer finger knuckle. “You’re turning your entire life and everything you’ve known upside down. I get it. It also means a hell of lot to me that you’re being honest. It also means you’re not placating me, which I’m appreciative of. It’s actually really refreshing and kind of a turn on. I’ll be here and I’d really like it if you still texted, call if you want even. I promise you I’ll answer, anytime ok?”

You nod, trying to fight back the fog shifting across your eyes, a small sniff breaking through though. “I’m going to just…” you say gesturing to the ladies room.

“I won’t leave,” he states.

You quickly splash water on your face, blow your nose, grateful you had your facial before, so you don’t have a mess of makeup to clean up. Taking a few more deep breaths, you head back out. He’s got your bag in hand, your coat over his arm. He’s making this whole not now thing hard to stick to, but you know truly know that if it’s meant to fall into place, despite everything, it will.

“What about the…” you start, looking around the table for the billfold the owner left.

“Taken care of,” he cuts in before you could finish, holding out your coat to help you into it. You itch to hold his hand as you head out and down the steps, but you don’t want to go back on everything you just said. Instead, you set to order an Uber. You peek over, and it seems that he’s doing the same, looking at you out of the corner of his eye as well.

The nip in the early spring air is out, now that the sun has set, and you snuggle further into your coat. He shifts closer, rubbing his hands lightly over your arms. You’re coming to realize how much touch is a part of his language.

“I won’t let you say goodbye, because it’s not that. I won’t let it be that,” he murmurs. “It’s a see you later, ok? And, I’d like, if you’re comfortable with it, to give you a good luck I’m here for you hug before you go.”

You nod, thankful it’s dark so he can’t see you blushing. He takes you in his arms easily and holds you close. He’s warm and solid, he smells like fresh laundry, boy and springtime wrapped together and it feels like you fit just so. He leans his head down to rest on top of yours, squeezing his arms around you tighter. “I mean it,” he whispers. “I’m here ok? However you need me to be, whenever you need.”

He keeps you in his hold until a car pulls up, and of course it’s yours that comes first; the driver calling your name through the open window.

You pull away slowly, reaching for his hands and squeezing them in yours. “We’ll talk, I can promise you that, Shawn. Just bear with me?”

He nods, squeezing your hands in return, “Travel save and go be awesome.”

Your resolve lasts a whole four days, texting him simply a photo through the plane window of the approach into Toronto.

She’s looking all pretty for your arrival – welcome to your new home! he texts back with a Canadian flag emoji and a red heart.

It’s not easy, you knew it wouldn’t be. Your new apartment is lovely but it’s still not feeling comfortable and like your home yet. You’re thankful that you have friends that have taken time to wait for the cable guy, accept furniture deliveries and your moving truck because you don’t have the time. Not with work. Work is hard, harder than it was in New York. They throw you right into the fire immediately. It’s new office politics, it’s a new role, new everything. Even the fact you don’t have your favorite Starbucks baristas nearby anymore to supply you with your afternoon pick me up the way you like it when things are crazy irks you. You look back through your texts, hovering over the chain you’ve got with Shawn. You haven’t texted him since that flight photo. You want to, but it would just add more to an already full plate.

Bringing you dinner and a surprise! LMK what you’re jonesing for comes through from Tristian late Friday afternoon after your second full week in the new office.

A gigantic bottle of white? you text back with the side eye tongue out emoji. He’ll think you’re kidding. You’re not.

I’m bringing a few bottles and Japanese. I’ll use the spare I need to drop back off. See you in a bit!

The surprise, you come to find, once you’re both on the couch with chopsticks in hand, is even a mystery to Tristian.

“I couldn’t say no,” he fights out around a mouthful of shrimp teriyaki, pointing at the package on your coffee table with his chopsticks. It’s carefully wrapped in butcher paper with a pretty silver ribbon. It’s a box, thin and flat, nothing too large with a white notecard underneath the ribbon. “I’m not going to butt in on what’s going on with y’all, but we had drinks after he got back from New York. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that besotted, but all he’d tell me was that he’s playing off your lead. He’s not pushed or anything. So, when he asked me to help get this to you, I had to. At least I didn’t give him your address, girly.”

“It’s complicated,” is all you can really give to Tristian to explain or encompass it. Because that’s exactly what it is. You slide everything off your lap to exchange it for the box. Carefully, you unwind the ribbon, it’s too pretty and something you’ll want to keep to use in another way. It’s two notecards under it, and they fall out into your lap. They’re handwritten in deep blue scrawl, to match the border of the card. You pull the shorter of the two notes out first.

I’m really hoping this isn’t too much or crossing any lines. I saw this and thought of you immediately. It’s just a little something as you’re conquering the world. – Shawn

The little something is a gorgeous journal, soft deep midnight blue leather covered in silver embossed vintage maps with a silver pen slipped in the loop.

“Damn,” you mumble, fingers tracing carefully over the leather for a moment before snagging the other notecard.

I know you’re probably still figuring everything out and exploring. I’m giving you a list of some of my favorite places in the city, so don’t go spilling my secrets ok? :) If you go to the link at the bottom, it’s a Google Maps planner so you can save it to your phone.

“This boy,” you sigh, leaning your head back on the couch. It’s sweet and thoughtful and just on the right side of tugging at your gut. Damn him.  

“Tell me why y’all aren’t knockin’ boots yet?” Tristian quips, leaning over you to grab a Spider roll.

“Because I still don’t know my head from my ass up here yet and he’s Shawn fucking Mendes, Tris,” you take a large sip of your wine. “And I’m just some girl.”

“By the looks of it, you’re not just some girl. Just saying,” he says, nudging your shoulder.

Well after a few bottles of wine are polished off and Tristian on his way back home, you’re finally in bed. You’re still not used to the sounds of this city and you’re fidgeting, tossing your phone back and forth between your hands. It’s late, too late to call. So, you do something completely out of character, you record a voice memo to send to Shawn.

“I wanted to call, but it’s too late and I’ve had a little bit of wine that would make my resolve even weaker if we actually talked on the phone and I heard your voice. But your delivery boy came by this evening,” you speak quietly and carefully. “Thank you, Shawn. It’s perfect and so beautiful. I’m going to start using it on Monday. Then that list, with that Google link? That’s the absolute sweetest. I know I haven’t reached out and I’m sorry, really, I am. This is a lot harder than I thought. I miss home, this doesn’t feel like home yet. I know it will, but it’s not right now. Work is kicking my ass, and I’m grateful they trust me and for the challenge, but it’s so different than New York. It’ll all come together, but right now it’s just a fucking lot. I think though that this weekend, I’m going to try some of your list and I’ll try to share my adventures along the way. I promise you though Shawn, I am thinking of you and I want to get through this and feel like I’m good to talk more to you, with you. Thank you again, sweet dreams.”

You can’t bear to listen back, so you just save it and quickly shoot it off in a text to him with an old school t9 heart. You wait a solid 20 minutes before setting your phone on do not disturb, plugging it into charge and flipping over to try to get some sleep.

The next morning, your phone is scattered with different alerts: a missed FaceTime call and a handful of text messages, some with attachments, from Shawn. You press play on the memo first.

“So, please forgive me for trying to FaceTime, especially at like 1am, but you sounded so defeated in your message and it just killed me. Then I realized what time it really was and hoped you were already asleep, or your phone was off, and I didn’t wake you. I was in the studio head down working on something when you sent that, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you right away especially after I told you to reach out at any time,” he rambles before taking a breath. “First off, you’re welcome. I spotted it and knew it belonged with you. Please do let me know what you think of these places, I’d offer to come with you especially since you’re having such a hard time, but I’m going to respect your wishes. Just know, if you do need company, I’m good for it. I’m sending you a couple things to read and to listen to, too. Things that have helped when I’m on the road and just feeling overwhelmed or scrambled. I hope they help some. I’m here, remember that ok?”

You send him a video of your mug of tea next to the journal on your coffee table, steam swirling from the mug with his latest album playing in the background.

Step one – making this journal about me and for me, not about work, with my favorite tea at the ready and I may or may not be listening to something special today to get me started.

You do something you haven’t in a long time, you write. You journal, and you let yourself feel and get everything out. Including about this darling boy who keeps making his way into the forefront of your mind.

I feel honored – need to know what your fav is, you know for reasons ;) I’m hoping it gives you a bit of a breather that you’re needing.

You spend the day concentrating on you, hitting two spots off his list: the tea shop and the record store, purchasing way more than you need at both. Once you make it back home, you feel lighter, more at ease. You spend time setting up the new record player, immediately sliding the first item you searched for onto the turntable and snapping a quick picture.

You sound better on vinyl btw – please don’t make me pick a favorite, I kind of love this whole entire album.

From there, you keep randomly texting, haphazard things, no rhyme or reason. Just talking and photos and whatever comes to mind, and it goes both ways for the both of you and you keep that up for a few weeks. It’s easy, it’s fun, neither of you putting pressure on the other for what’s next or what’s to come.

A touch over a month after you sent him the vinyl photo, he texts you a Dropbox link one afternoon.

A little something since you liked the album so much. Hope you enjoy.

That little something? It’s the whole album, acoustic, just him and his guitar stripped down. It’s soft and intimate and absolutely amazing.

Shawn, are you kidding? This is stunning. How come I haven’t heard any of these before?

It’s only late that night when you’re about to fall asleep that you think you hear your phone chime. You don’t pick up, waiting to look at the message the next morning. There as plain as day is his very simple response.

Because I worked on it for you.

You want to call to really talk to him, hear his voice, you want to see him, something, anything. But you can’t. You’ve got an important meeting at 9 am sharp that you cannot be late for, a jam-packed schedule the whole day and an event that night with one of the new clients, a charity benefit showcase at Horseshoe Tavern they asked you to go with them to. You don’t want this to be a brief tete-a-tete either with him. You quickly send off a string of every heart colored emoji there is because right now that’s what it feels like, your heart is exploding in its feelings.

The club is filled to the brim that night, your clients are overjoyed and your new boss keeps texting how she’s pleased the clients are happy. However, you’re frowning at your phone. Nothing from him, not a peep all day. You normally wouldn’t be concerned, but after yesterday, you’ve got a little bit of worry niggling at your stomach. You can try him after you’re out the doors of the club later, but for now, you need to put on a smile and make sure the rest of the night goes smoothly. The talent wrangler for the evening is dragging you backstage with your clients. A surprise guest is coming to perform and the CEO wants them to all meet before this person heads up to the stage for the last songs of the night, a thank you to your clients for their support of the charity. Backstage is a shit show to say the least, you’re jostled around trying to make your way back to the green room before being slammed by one of the sound guys and his massive rig bag.

“Watch it,” you call out, rubbing at your hip as you try to catch up to the rest of the group ahead of you.

“Damn, are you ok? It was a hell of a hip check if I ever saw one,” you hear from behind you.

You know that voice. “Shawn?” you ask, turning around to face the voice.

His eyes grow wide, his smile even wider.

“Oh, I see you’ve met our special guest,” the wrangler says, nudging Shawn forward. “Shawn, you can head back with this group if you don’t mind? I need to find a few other folks for this meet and greet.”

He agrees easily, shifting closer to you as you head back to the green room. “Fancy seeing you here. An unexpected surprise for sure. The best one really.”

You nod, biting your lip, the corners of your lips quirking up. “It is. Let’s get the business stuff out of the way first. Then maybe, after everything, and the show’s done tonight, we can talk?”

“I’d like that,” he snags your hands, squeezing them in his before he lets you go to you knock on the door.

The green room is small given the venue, but it’s a loud cacophony of sounds and people, and you’re both pulled in opposite directions immediately. You can’t help but catch sight of him here and there, he’s one of the tallest in the room so it’s not difficult. He looks good. His hair’s a little longer, curlier. You can’t help but smile, for a few reasons now, but at this moment you hear his laugh from across the room and it’s bright, infectious. It simmers in within you, but you can deal with that after the event’s over. The rest of the evening flies smoothly. You manage to sneak a drink from the bar in time to catch Shawn taking to the stage. You stay out of sight, tucked in the corner, wanting to observe him in his element.  Him performing is nothing like you’ve seen before, especially in such a small venue. This could easily become something very addictive. Just as the show wraps, you shoot him a quick text.

Need to get my clients out the door then I’m free, maybe take me 10 more min. Somewhere around here good for a drink of some kind? Quiet?

His answer is quick, quicker than you expect, in two rapid texts.

Yes, Suite 114: https://www.suite114.ca/

It’s a 20 min walk from here, about 2km not bad - but I saw your heels so there’s none of that tonight. Uber over? I’ll meet you there as soon as I’m done with packing up and I have to say goodbye to the club owners. Promise I won’t be long.

Once you’re wrapped, an Uber comes quickly, surprising for a Friday night. It’s a quick hop over and the bar is cozy, dimly lit and decadent. A modern-day speakeasy vibe. He’s right though, it’s quiet, not overly full and there’s a couch you can claim towards the back of the room. You order something simple, a champagne cocktail with grapefruit and St. Germain, to sip on as you wait for him. Something light and celebratory. It was a good day all around.

“Am I allowed to say you look beautiful tonight?” you look up to hear him say, your cocktail and a rocks glass in hand with a few fingers of something dark in it.

“Only if I can wax poetic about seeing you perform live tonight,” you reply, fingertips brushing his hand as you slip the glass from his grasp. You may have done it purposely.

He blushes, settling down close to you with his arm stretching across the back of the couch. “I just might have switched songs at the last minute, after seeing you. Wasn’t supposed to do Lost tonight, but it just felt right.”

“Special in a room like that, like that small and intimate yeah? It felt that way at least, from watching it. You’re something else up there, Shawn,” you muse, twirling the flute carefully between your fingers, eyes catching his.

“Had a pretty girl I needed to impress tonight, so,” he drawls, looking down at the drink in his hands. “It was the best thing seeing you there tonight.”

“I wanted to call you this morning,” you begin, sliding your free hand to his forearm on the back of the couch. “But I didn’t want to rush the conversation. I had meetings, this tonight. I just. I had to send something, so I exploded all those hearts in that text. I needed to make sure I had the time I wanted, that, after your text with what you said, and that Dropbox. Shit, Shawn you’re making me all jumbled and to be perfectly honest? After seeing that text when I woke up? All I wanted to do was to hear your voice, talk, laugh, spend time with you, hug you tightly. I didn’t expect any of that. Whatsoever. It’s thrown me for a loop. A good loop, but still a loop.”

He places his glass on the table next to you, slides yours out of your hand to take a hold of it. “The last thing I want to do is scare you or overwhelm you. But. Is it okay if I say I feel the same? After Tris’ thing, then even more so after New York, I knew I needed to have you around, whatever way you’d let me. Your call and your speed. I was drawn to you in a way that I hadn’t been to anyone before, and I didn’t want to give that up. I was so glad to hear from you, after Tris got you that package. Your voice I mean. And then, the last couple weeks, not going to lie here. I’d look forward to your texts, those random little photos you’d share of those looks of how your life was settling in here. When you went to Sonic and it was my album you got and started listening to, it just hit me and I went into my studio at the condo to start laying those tracks down for you. That was, it meant a lot to me, so I wanted to just do something for you just as special.”

You lean your head on your hand, the one that’s still laying on him, now closer to his wrist and take a deep breath. “Honesty continuing? I’m scared. This whole being here is still such a rollercoaster, and then add in what this could be, especially… You’re you, Shawn. Shit, I don’t want to sound like that but it’s there. There’s a lot that goes with it, you get that right? I don’t think…”

“Take a breath,” he murmurs, slipping a piece of hair that’s fallen across your cheek behind your ear and trailing his finger down your cheek ever so lightly before tanging his fingers with yours. “I understand. I do. I’d like to, if you’re game, see where this goes. No pressure, nothing but the two of us. Only the two of us. Can I take you out on a proper date? I’d love to, please?”

This boy, this sweet, kindhearted adorable boy, this ridiculously famous pop star, really wants to take his time and spend it with you. This time, you listen to what both your head and your heart are telling you. Take the jump.

“I’d really like that, Shawn.”

 TAG LIST: @whenidance, @parkerdavis, @sinplisticshawn, @hollandraul, @fallinallincurls, @itrocksmysocks, @rainbowshawn, @lasingphomustra, @illumecherry​

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Devil You Know: Part Two

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,304

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

The air is thick with tension, and no one has the nerve to say anything about anything. If the angels and other hunters know what you did, then surely Crowley must know. Plus, if he has been listening to what’s been going on in this car, then he knows about all the arguments you and Dean have when Sam isn’t around.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Crowley finally speaks up.

“Talk about what?” Dean gruffs.

“The baby.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No, Crowley’s right. We should talk about it,” you say and turn to face Crowley who is sitting in the back. “You see, I want to have a mature conversation with him about why I did what I did and why I kept it from him. He’s being a baby about it and whines whenever I bring it up like I don’t have any feelings.”

“No, Crowley, tell her if she had any feelings about it, then maybe she should have come to me. We should have made this decision together. Instead, she went behind my back and took away my child without letting me know I even had one!”

“We discussed this already Dean!” you shout and turn to Dean to face him head on. “Sure, I was wrong to do it behind your back, but we literally had this conversation weeks before I got pregnant! What, your decision changed in a blink of an eye?”

“I guess we’ll never know, now won’t we?” Dean shouts back.

“You’re both acting like children!” Crowley yells louder than you two, which gets you to shut up. “Maybe I should have brought Sam along. Look, can we focus on what’s in front of us?”

“Whatever,” you scoff and turn to the office building in front of you where the demon Brady was.

You look through your binoculars and see people in the lobby just talking to one another.

“Demons?” Dean ask.

“No, human shields,” you answer.

“Demons are on the twelfth floor. How did you know that?” Crowley asks you.

“I can see a black ring around their bodies if they are demons. A white one if they are angels.”

“Do you see one around me?”

“I’m surprised I can see what your vessel looks like at all. You’re practically covered with the stuff. Way to blend in,” you scoff.

“Regardless, we’ll have to find a way in through the back.”

“You Winchesters make everything so complicated,” Crowley groans and disappears from the car.

“Where did he go?” you ask Dean.

“Shit,” he mutters and looks through the binoculars.

You take one look to see the demon behind the security guard at the front desk. He waves and then slits his throat just like that.

“Shit!” you yell and scramble to get out of the car.

Dean follows you to the front of the building, and you tap on the glass door to let him know you’re here and he needs to unlock the door.

“It’s open!” he yells. You and Dean run inside to see him wiping the blade on the security guard’s jacket. You and Dean look at him like he just murdered innocent people, and he only shrugs. “What?”

“You fucking killed them?” you yell.

“We're on a tight schedule. Come on,” he taps your shoulder lightly and heads over to the elevator.

You and Dean get on, and Crowley reaches inside to press the button for the twelfth floor. He steps away from the doors with a smile.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“You're not coming?” you ask as you stop the doors from closing.

“Oh, no. It's not safe up there. There's demons.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“Look, just do what I told you, a-and try to be convincing. It'll work like a charm. Trust me,” he encourages and pushes you back into the elevator.

The doors close, and you’re trapped inside the metal box for twelve floors with Dean. The silence is intense, and it feels like hours until the doors open again. Brady is in the main office, but in order to get to him, you have to get past his demons.

They charge at you with hatred in their eyes, but you’re ready to take them on. Dean leaves your side to take care of two while the other two focus on you. There is one on either side of you, and they start charging at you as if they can take you down by doing so. Your right hand reaches out to the demon on your right, and blue magic shoots out of your hand to swirl around his neck. You do the same to the demon on your left, and now both are under your control.

They fight for breath, and you waste no time defeating them while you can. They follow your movements since your magic links them to you, so you move both arms in front of you which causes the demons to head slam into each other. You take a couple of steps towards them and place blue hands on their heads. Much like before with Pastor Gideon and his team of hunters, the demons in front of you began to seep from the pores of their vessels. The longer your hands are on their heads, the more they are being expelled. Only when they are completely out, do you take your hands away. The bodies drop to the floor as the smoke disappears back to hell, and you look at Dean who watches you.

“What? I told you I can do this now.”

“Come on,” he rolls his eyes and heads for Brady’s office.

It’s like the demon knows you’re out there, so he uses his demonic powers and opens the door for you.

“Dean Winchester and Y/N Singer. What, no appointment?”

“Like you’d accept ours,” you mutter and head inside.

Dean wipes Ruby’s knife on a jacket hanging by the door to clean it, and the doors behind you close on their own.

“Well, then, you're just on time. Have a seat. How's your brother?” Brady asks. Dean gives him a death glare, and you both take a seat in front of his desk. “Well, down to business, then. What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it's about what we can do for you.”

“Really?”

“Me, Sam, and Y/N dropped two of your jockeys. I think you know that.”

“Yes. I got the memo.”

“Well, we kept their, uh, secret power rings. Which is why we’re here. I hear some folks saying that you want them back, and you were willing to pay.”

“Hmm. Where are they?” he asks with his hand on his chin.

“Not here,” you answer. “But because you want them, you’ll come with us civilly out of this batcave here, and we can discuss a transaction.”

“Who says I want them?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who says I want them?” he repeats slowly.

You and Dean exchange looks of confusion, and he’s the one to speak next.

“You know… folks.”

“You see,” Brady clears his throat and gets up from his desk to circle around to the front, “with War and Famine, even if I could cram the rings back on their bony fingers, I doubt it would do much good. They're withered husks right now—fetal position on the floor—all thanks to you two. So, I don't want the rings. What I want is retribution, and I'm gonna rip it right out of your asses!”

“Look out!” you yell and lunge toward Dean to protect him, but Brady is much faster.

He holds out his hands in front of him and locks you and Dean in place. Your throat begins to close as much as Dean’s is, and the demon throws you out of his office and into the hall. You land right next to Dean with a groan and look up to see Brady walking slowly towards you two.

“This is so good,” he chuckles. “Therapeutic, for sure.”

He lifts his hand to do some more damage, but you’re quicker this time. Your magic forms a force field over you and Dean so that it blocks Brady’s powers temporarily. The demon grows frustrated, but because he is the Horseman’s right-hand man, he’s a lot stronger than he lets on.

“Come on, we have to go,” you groan in pain.

“I don’t think so,” Brady growls, and uses all of his strength to throw you across the room despite a force field.

You go flying into a small table, hitting your head on the corner. The room spins as things get blurry, and you’re seeing three of Dean and Brady. As much as you want to help, you can’t do it in this state. You groan and lay limp on the floor with nothing else to do but watch.

“You know, Dean, I really owe you one, buddy, 'cause I feel,” Brady kicks Dean in the stomach now that you’re out of the way, “so,” another kick, “much,” another kick to the stomach, “better!”

“No, Dean,” you mutter.

Despite him hating your guts, you can’t help but love the man. Your magic goes into overdrive as it tries to help you fight to stand up, but even as you try to stand on your own, you crumble to the ground.

“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart,” Dean says as he uses all his strength to hold you against his body.

He saw an out and took it, taking you with him along the way. The room is still spinning even as your magic courses through your veins. You mumble incoherently as you use Dean as a support system for your body.

“Dean, Y/N, where are you going? We're just getting started!” Brady yells.

Dean presses the buttons fast, and the doors close before Brady can get close to it. Without any distractions, you move away from him and use the handlebars on the back of the elevator as support.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you blink rapidly to make the blurriness go away.

“I’m fine,” he sighs.

The elevator reaches the lobby, and the doors open to reveal what you left behind: dead bodies. Crowley is nowhere to be found, but at the moment, you don’t seem to care. You exit the elevator cautiously because Brady can appear almost anywhere at any time. It’s eerily quiet—too quiet. Neither demon is anywhere to be found, so you leave the elevator as quick as possible.

Suddenly, you’re hit in the exact same spot as you were before, and you go crumbling to the ground. Dean is next, and Brady stands behind you two with a wicked smile.

“Good meeting, Dean and Y/N. You know, I'm excited,” he laughs.

You turn on your back and watch as Crowley comes up behind Brady with a burlap sack that has demonic symbols on it. He shoves it over his head and begins bashing his head with a crowbar. Brady falls to the ground in a bloody mess.

“Evening, Uncle,” he grins.

“What the hell was that?” Dean coughs and stands up.

He offers you his hand, and you take it to haul yourself up. Your vision is blurrier than before, and you press your hand to the tender spot.

“That was perfect.”

“Perfect? He didn’t want the fucking rings. He wanted us, you dick,” you spat.

“Imagine the surprise on your face,” Crowley laughs.

“What?”

“Your ignorance and misinformation. I mean it’s completely authentic. You can't fake that,” he says, and you and Dean give him the death glare. “What? I-it went like clockwork.”

“Not for us, you fucking bitch!” you yell then wince at the pain in your head.

“That's what you get for working with a demon,” he tsks.

“Oh wait till I get my hands on you,” you threaten.

“Not in that state, darling. Come on, we need to hit the road before more come back.”

You and Dean are in the front seat, and Crowley and Brady are in the back. Dean is driving while dabbing his head with a rag he found to stop the bleeding. Your head is throbbing, and you have one blue hand on the wound to heal it from within and without. Crowley is busy doing whatever he’s doing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

“Dean let me heal you,” you sigh.

“Yeah like you can in that state,” he scoffs.

“Stop being a dick for once and let me heal you god damn it!”

“Pass,” he says and throws the rag down by your feet.

You roll your eyes aggressively and look away from him to avoid another argument. Your head is feeling better by the second, and soon, you’re no longer in pain. You turn back to Dean to try and convince him to let you heal him when you hear something squishing in the back seat. You and Dean look behind you to see Crowley carving something in Brady’s chest.

“Hey, hot stuff, watch the upholstery!” Dean barks.

“Up yours, mate. This bit of carving will tie our friend here down. No zapping off and no smoking out. He’s locked in the meat suit. It’s an important piece of our bargaining strategy. Now, up here, we don't want I-50. Take 93 north.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“Look, we can't take this guy back to Sam.”

“Why the hell not?” Dean demands. When he gets no response, he grows angrier. “Crowley!”

“They got history, alright?”

Dean doesn’t take this as an acceptable answer, and he slams on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop, and you have to put your hands on the dashboard to prevent yourself from going through the windshield.

“You want to go anywhere, you start talking. What history?”

Crowley takes a deep breath and begins his story.

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[emotionalsupportfiction]

Stages of Love Lukas

Wow this is long. Most people would say Python is hard to write but in my experience Lukas is where I struggle. I hope I stayed as in character as possible and did him justice

Attraction:

•    Lukas falling in love with you was a long process as his priorities were elsewhere •    You came from a noble family but had abandoned them. Now a priestess from the Novis Priory, you enlisted into the Deliverance. Your family had aligned with Desaix, bled the common folk in your area dry with cruel taxes, and hired brigands to harass the nearby towns so the common folk would seek help from the nobility. Your family, in their greed, crippled the people they should’ve been protecting, so you left them for the Priory. •    You and Lukas would often strategize together, your family had a sizeable personal army and if you came to blows, it would be disastrous for your side. You were Lukas’ assistant in terms of managing the army. Spending so much time with each other brought you closer together and he mentioned in passing that he’d met you before at some celebration, you apologized for not remembering as you hated going to those parties and often your mind was elsewhere. •    A friendship developed as both of you had roughly the same background. Coming from noble families but ultimately leaving them. Both of you didn’t care much for social status but wanting to find their place in the grander scheme of things. You had an uncanny ability to peel back some of Lukas’ defensive layers and pick up on what was happening with him internally. •    You shared one of your observations of him, how his eyes have this different look to them out on the battlefield. “Quite the observation, I admit, it’s one of the few times I feel… something.” He folded his arms behind him and twiddled his thumbs “Does that frighten you?” he quirked his head to the side trying to read your expression. “More saddened than afraid really… Lukas, I wonder what could’ve happened in your past that caused you to be this way. To only come alive when your life is in danger.” He closed his eyes, purveying his thoughts “I can’t say with certainty if it's my upbringing or if something in me is broken. Perhaps I’m not normal.” There was resignation in his voice, you reached and presented your hand to comfort him. He looked at it perplexed “You don’t need to hold it if you aren’t comfortable Lukas. But if its any consolation, I don’t think you’re broken and I’m here for you if you need a companion as you try to figure out life.” He gave your hand a tentative touch then pulled away, folding his arms behind him once more. •    He picked up the conversation about not being normal, it was freeing to talk to you so openly. He confided about his insecurities regarding his personality, his coldness, inability to express emotions freely, his desire to feel something intense for once, all of which he deemed imperfections in his personality. You assured him they weren’t defects, that these “flaws” are what makes each of us a unique human being. That feelings aren’t to be forcefully felt, they just happen in varying intensities depending on the person. •    Lukas was drawn to how understanding you are and how you didn’t color his kindness towards you. As the friendship deepened you were slowly able to gauge what his boundaries were and the little tics in his personality. As he opened up more to you you never met him with comments like “See you can express emotion?” but you responded with gratitude he was opening up more to you and assurance he can take things at his own pace. •    After the war and Duma’s defeat, you and Lukas started teaching new recruits basic education (reading, writing, arithmetic, and history.) Most of your pupils were commoners but you both enjoyed spreading education to every social class. •    Lukas began noticing very unfamiliar feelings within him, catching himself staring at you, little things would remind him of you, and the sound of your voice and your smile was always on his mind. He’d feel “something” whenever your hand would brush against his or when you’d give him a pat on the shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to share the same space with you and he knew he had feelings for you but he wanted to make sure if it was romantic or leaned more on platonic.

Confession:

•    It took time for Lukas to fully process his feelings for you, never had he anticipated he’d develop any form of romantic attraction/affection towards another person. So he gave himself ample time to let the feelings sink in, to accept and be sure that his feelings were romantic. Lukas did not want a repeat of pursuing someone only to find out he was not emotionally invested whatsoever. •    He began courting you by spending more and more time with you ( just the two of you ), doing small favors, or giving you tokens of appreciation. You’d have tea together while going over lesson plans, spar, he’d gladly accompany you if you wanted to visit the priory at Novis from time to time, or you’d find gifts of either flowers or food you like on your desk with a note from him “You’re always on my mind.” “I thought of you when I saw these.” “Have you eaten yet? I hope you like these.” Are some examples of his notes. •    Lukas had never outright asked you if he could court you and this had been going on for a few months. You opted to confront him, he dropped by your desk  with his usual care package then you asked “Lukas, be honest, are you courting me?”  he folded his arms behind him and began to twiddle his thumbs, finding the right words to say  “I am.” A succinct response but you wanted more out of him “Well this is unexpected. You never mentioned being attracted to me or wanting to court me before… I’m just surprised.” He cleared his throat and looked at you sincerely, there was anxiety in his eyes “Perhaps I wasn’t being honest with myself in the past or I kept denying my affections for you. Granted everyone had described me as cold and emotionally subdued, I thought that was who I am, unfeeling. “ he reached out to hold your hand, you didn’t pull away. He intertwined his fingers with yours, the warmth of your hand giving him confidence. “I’ve stared a crazed dragon god in the eyes and felt little to no fear, yet when I look at you I feel so many emotions all at once. Happiness, longing, fear, and so many others. I am certain my feelings for you are romantic and I’d like to explore this side of me, hopefully, with you by my side.” You squeezed his hand “Of course Lukas.” This was the first time you ever saw Lukas smile up to his eyes. Layers of repression crumbling away, he finally found someone he could be wholly open to.

First Date

•    Lukas isn’t one for grand gestures and overly fancy dates. He prefers very intimate and private ones. Having a dinner date where both of you cook it together is very much his speed. He admits he prefers making desserts but doesn’t mind helping and learning how to cook your favorite meal and you don’t mind learning how to make his favorite desserts. •    He has his own brand of playfulness, you’ll ask for an onion to chop and he’ll roll it slowly towards you. Or if you ask him for a utensil (that’s not sharp or pointed) he won’t let go of it immediately, initiating a light tug-of-war with the faintest playful smile on his face. •    Dinner is enjoyed with deep conversation and warm banter. At this point, Lukas is comfortable with holding hands to the point he doesn’t let go of yours. After the meal, he’ll offer to do the dishes, pressing a soft kiss on your head. It warms your heart so much that Lukas is more giving and accepting of physical touch, it shows how secure he feels. •    He walks you back to your room in the barracks, hand in hand enjoying the moment. Walking about while holding hands would’ve been scandalous for Lukas’ past standards, now he isn’t so conscious about that trivial things, he’d rather enjoy every moment with you at his own pace. Right before you reach your room, he gets this sudden impulse. He quickens his pace, leading in front of you and in one fluid motion twirls you as if you were dancing. The gesture is sudden but romantic, your face is flush but with a wide smile on your lips “Well… what’s that all about Mr. Romantic?” you giggled, he cups your cheeks and slowly presses a kiss on your forehead then resting his against yours. “I’m not too sure myself… But I’d do it again,” Lukas gave you face a light squeeze before pulling you into an embrace.

First Kiss

•    Your first kiss was an accident. You were hesitant to push Lukas and make him uncomfortable while he was surprisingly bashful about asking you for more physically intimate interactions. •    Although at this point Lukas was comfortable with hand-holding, embraces, and kisses (on the cheek, forehead, hair, and hands) minimally in public. He was very forward when asking for cuddles during your one-on-ones •    Both of you were cuddling in bed, he had one arm wrapped around you as he read a book while you nuzzled into his shoulder. Maybe he was too engrossed in reading his book he didn’t notice you staring at him lovingly, thinking about how far he’s come opening up and being more comfortable with intimacy. You whisper his name and go in to kiss him on the cheek or jaw, whichever comes first except that doesn’t feel like his cheek. Then it clicks what had just happened, he heard his name and turned his attention towards you, your lips clumsily catching half of his. You quickly pull away, you feel like you overstepped his boundaries “Gods! Lukas, I’m so sorry, I only wanted to kiss your chee-“ he’d went ahead and kissed you right then and there, parting just enough to get some words in “You don’t have to be so hesitant with me love. I appreciate you being so considerate but we’re well past that.” He molded his lips onto yours with more passion “You’re the only one who’ll see this side of me, you’re the only one who can bring it out…” he locked you into a deep passionate kiss, pining you onto the bed…

First Time

•    Your first time together was also your first kiss, this intimate moment was many months (or up to a year) in the making. There was much build-up and one kiss was all it took for the dam to break, perhaps a little spontaneity was required to things going. •    Lukas is a simple guy, not one for tricks or adventurous positions for your first night together but that did not diminish the fervor and passion. You won’t hear him talk dirty but his kisses on every inch of your body spoke volumes of how much he adored and “needed” you. •    His gaze was intense as he hovered over you, one hand keeping his balance while the other was clasped tightly around yours, your grips growing tighter with every thrust. You couldn’t decide what to do with your free hand, it alternated between covering your mouth or entangling it in his hair. The way he looked at you and his focused silence melted your insides, you just knew “that” look was reserved for you and you alone. His breathing grew more and more labored, a moment later you heard his breath catch in his throat as he stopped abruptly. You felt him pull out of you and you whined in response to the sudden emptiness. Lukas spread your legs wider and went down on you, lapping at you with his tongue. He put his neck into, nuzzling deeper in between you sending shivers down your spine making squeeze his head with your thighs. He grunted then gripped your thighs to keep you steady, his hold was tight and you knew it would leave a mark. You felt your core tighten more and more then you just felt yourself melt into his mouth, Lukas gladly drank you in. Though spent from your orgasm, you’d gladly return the favor but Lukas said he’s in a giving mood that night. The sight of him looking at you, framed between your thighs stirred you once more. Lukas was certainly very generous that night and you’d repay that generosity once he was in a receiving mood.

Proposal

•    Another year into the relationship and Lukas brought up the topic of marriage. He’d become more forward with things he wanted to do, happen, or try out in your relationship. While you were open to getting married, both of you were preoccupied with serving the One Kingdom as knights. The thought of having your knightly responsibilities conflicting with wedding planning or married life wasn’t something you looked forward to. Lukas agreed on that point, he didn’t see himself staying a knight for the rest of his life and he had another long term goal in mind aside from marrying you. •    He asked what you’d do after retiring from knighthood. You enjoyed teaching recruits and wanted to do that full-time once you retired. It made Lukas very happy that your long-term goals were exactly like his, he suggested opening a school together. The way his face lit up made you ecstatic, you wanted nothing more than to do this together. •    Both of you filed your retirement, while Clive and Alm were slightly saddened with your departure they both respected both your decision. Clive went ahead and found a building that could be used for the school, both of you were grateful for the investment. You inspected the building on your last day of service, it had 2 floors, the first floor spacious enough for two classrooms. The second floor, as per Lukas’ suggestion, could be modified to be your shared living space. That word “shared” caught your attention, perhaps it would’ve been more convenient and cost-effective to co-habit than find separate housing. •    He had one more place he wanted to take you that day and to your surprise, it was the goldsmith. “Lukas…” he turned to face you “Not the most romantic and this is a round-about method.” You interrupted him “It doesn’t have to be fancy, we both made sizeable down payments for the building because we didn’t want Clive to pay for it all.” He inched closer to you and placed something in your hands, it was a ring. “That’s my family’s signet ring, that’s the only token I have proving my lineage. As you know I hold no familial connection with them since my enlistment to the Deliverance, that ring, in its current form, has no sentimental value.” You enclosed the ring tightly in your hands as he cupped your face and looked deeply into your eyes. “You’re my family now, I’d gladly melt that ring and forge a new, much more meaningful one with you.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous in thinking we both want to spend the rest o our days together?” you couldn’t help yourself, you wrapped your arms around him “YES! YES! I’d be more than happy to Lukas! You know what? I have a family heirloom as well, we can melt that down too!”

Marriage

•    The ceremony was simple and private, only your closest friends were in attendance and Lukas was stern about not inviting anyone else much to Clive’s dismay. You both requested that you’d both take a new surname, both of you had cut ties with your families. •    Married life was absolute bliss, both of you were pursuing your passions together. Your students were very appreciative and felt part of your family. Later on, the school had taken in a few orphans, you and Lukas made for excellent foster parents. •    Something about Lukas changed, he seemed more alive now that he had settled down and taught full-time. There was a certain “fire” in him now, not raging but akin to a well-kept flame in a fireplace, cozy and peaceful. No one would ever describe him as “cold” anymore. He was animated when he taught, a few hand gestures here and there, moving around the classroom, and more inflections in his voice. A stark contrast to the way he was in the Deliverance, hands always folded behind him and speech almost monotonous. This was Lukas’ “water”, this was his element, this is where he meant to be. •    His eyes lit up when students would ask him questions or he’d see improvements. Your students adored the both of you to bits, some wanted to board and stay in school forever, which caused a few problems but it was just a sign of how great you two were as instructors. •    Some students even slipped and called either of you “mother” or “father”. Neither of you complained though. “Dear, I heard little Timothy call you ‘father’ in class. Did you really have to tease him so?” you poked your dear husband’s side “I can jest every now and then. It isn’t the first time he’s called me that either.” Lukas smiled as he put away some books, as you laughed “But you said ‘excellent answer my son’ I swear Timothy went beet red!” you playfully tapped a roll of parchment on Lukas’ head. He turned his attention to you and squeezed both your cheeks “I only tease those I’m very fond of. You’d know this because you receive the brunt of it.” He pressed a kiss on your lips he then smooshed your face. You swear he’s been getting pointers from or being influenced by Python. •    Now married, Lukas is more comfortable with physical touch. There was never a morning or night he didn’t greet you with a kiss. If you were in separate rooms doing your separate thing, he’d come in at least once and kiss your hair. If he’d run into you between classes, he’ll give your hand or shoulder a squeeze. These were new ways he’d show his love for you but there were the standard little affectionate notes on your desk or treats he’d find time to get you that he’d been doing before. •    While you weren’t the overly lovey-dovey kind of married couple it did not diminish the depth of your bond. Both of you felt loved and most importantly, understood. You couldn’t have asked for a better half and Lukas felt the same way about you.

[uas-fics]

Chapter 2 Of ‘The Pandering Country Western Star’

Chapter 1 - Epilogue 

---

Kiwi snuggled down in Tweek's hair as Tweek tapped his finger on the table top. Craig's livestream would start any minute. Would Craig use the script Tweek edited for him? No, he probably scrapped it. It was too much. It didn't make his fans feel good about Craig keeping his personal life a secret from them.

The more Tweek thought about the whole situation, the angrier he got about it. Coming out is hard and terrifying. No one should be pushed to come out to the world like this — especially not at the hands of a bitter ex. Craig was right to break up with him! He dodged a bullet, as far as Tweek could tell.

Tweek's phone dinged and he picked it up, keeping one eye on the laptop in front of him. 

The text message was from Craig. 

"I'm going to start my livestream soon. Wish me luck? :)“

"Luck ;)" Tweek typed and chewed his lip. 

This was too risky to send. He didn't even know how long ago Craig broke up with his ex. Was it a month? A year? Two weeks? Was he pushing too fast? 

Besides, Craig probably didn't even see Tweek like that. He was a famous country star after all. There were men much more like him out there he could pursue. Men who were famous and used to Craig’s lifestyle.

With a sigh, Tweek went to delete the wink and replace it with a star or a smile, (he hadn't decided which one) when Kiwi took hold of a lock of Tweek's hair and pulled. Tweek yelped, his thumb going right down on the send button.

His heart froze in his chest as he stared down at his mistake. A scream rose up from his throat but died down the moment the livestream started a few seconds later.

Craig smiled at the camera, waving. He held up the black and white guinea pig from his wallet photo and moved his paw to wave as well.

"Howdy," He greeted, and Tweek realized just how much of an accent Craig put on for his fans. "There's quite a crowd here, huh, Astro? I think this is my biggest livestream yet."

Astro didn't look all that impressed. Craig set him down in his lap.

"I'm guessin' you're all here because I said I've got some really big news. I can tell from the chat, you all seem to think it's music related." Craig's smile strained. "It ain't."

Craig took a deep breath, scooting a little farther back. Best Tweek could tell the livestream took place in Craig's living room, which was nothing but Western aesthetic: decorations made with wood, barbwire, and rope covered the wall behind him along with a rustic painting of a pasture with some tiny black, white, and red dots (probably cows or horses, Tweek realized) on it.

"This isn't how I wanted to do this." Craig sighed. "I had other ideas. Plans much classier than this, when I was in a much happier place in my life, but circumstances changed. I want y'all to hear this from my mouth and not the front page of a magazine."

Craig shook once. His face twisted like he was going to vomit, but he swallowed any bile back down.

"I am gay," Craig stated simply, pulling Astro so he pressed against his stomach. "I have always been gay. Since I was still in my mama. That's just how it works. That's how God made it work."

Tweek tensed. Around this part was when he started to edit out the pandering. If Craig went on about God and how He has a purpose for him, then he threw out all Tweek did and went back to the first draft.

Craig's eyes flicked up, looking beyond the camera, then back. "This has been a hard decision for me and a shock for many of you, I'm sure. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe you could all tell and never bothered to let me in on the secret."

Tweek let out a breath he did not remember taking. He slumped forward so abruptly that Kiwi fell from his hair. Kiwi landed, somewhat gracefully, if a little wobbly, on the table.

"Sorry!" Tweek reached out to comfort Kiwi, but he turned and flew up to his perch in his cage.

Craig continued, "Like I said, this isn't how I wanted this to happen. I’d rather had y'all meet my husband after we got engaged or married, but that ain't gonna happen now, I guess."

Pain flashed across his face for a fraction of a second. "I'm sure y'all find out why when Country Western Living comes out since that's where my ex outs me. I think publishing it is downright dirty and shows a lack of journalistic integrity, but I'm not a rich ol' magazine editor." He shrugged. "What do I know — besides you don’t tell other folks secrets for money?"

Tweek couldn't help but smile. Craig was going to throw that magazine right under the bus for this, wasn't he?

"I can say, I spent years hiding myself from people, both family and friends, and from the world itself. It was hard, and I felt like a liar. I heard conversations about folks like me that made my stomach churn. Conversations that I'm sure wouldn't happen if the people in the room knew I was like the people they were talking about."

He cleared his throat. "Even if it's not a perfect coming out story, I think I'll be much happier now, and I know I can make music truer to my life and with more passion than ever before. I want this to be a good thing for all of us."

Astro pipped and began to roll out of Craig's lap. Craig smiled down at him then set him on the floor.

"Don't worry about Astro. I'm still keeping an eye on him. He's safe," Craig reassured. He settled himself back in his seat before continuing, "Now, I know some of you don't ‘agree' with people being gay, and, well, I can't change your mind, but if you don't, it isn't my problem."

Craig fixed the camera with a hard look, his accent falling for the last sentence.

That wasn't part of the first draft or the edited one. Craig was supposed to offer to answer questions from the livestream after he mentioned how coming out would make his life better.

Tweek leaned so close his nose nearly touched the laptop screen. 

He was proud for Craig. 

Even as he answered, somewhat invasive, questions about his sexuality, he seemed relaxed, as if a heavy weight hanging over him just dropped to the ground and missed him.

Well that's what it was, wasn't it? No more hiding. No more lies and fake girlfriend stories. No more feeling like a gay fly on the wall when people bash the community.

"Ok, um, Little.Shop.Of.Yaoi280, I don't know what a ‘uke' or a sea...seem...see-mee? Whatever are and I don't think I want to," Craig was saying as he read through the comments. "Yes, KittyKatLover, I have read the Old Testament. I also read all the verses that say God loves me and made me how I am. That's all I want to say about that."

Tweek finally fell back in his chair, running his hands through his hair, with a goofy smile on his face. Craig handled those kinds of questions a little better than Tweek did the first few times he got then online. Nowadays he deleted invasive or backhanded comments on sight. He used to argue, sometimes with sources, sometimes without, and it would keep him up at night with worry.

He'd have to advise Craig to copy his current method and not his old one.

"Ok, I think Astro wants to go nap with his brother and sister, so one more question," Craig muttered, more to himself than the stream. "Let's see...I like this one. PikachuKetchumAll151 asks me if I could have come out like I wanted with a husband at my side, what would I have said."

He hummed a moment. "I would have announced the man with me is the love of my life and I am blessed to introduce you all to him, but that isn't going to happen any time soon, unless," Craig smirked, "I get very lucky with dates in the near future." He winked.

Tweek fell out of his chair and to the floor, eyes wide. No. Craig didn't. He didn't just ask him on a date on a livestream like that, did he?

"Oh, jeez!" Tweek's mouth gaping open like a freshly caught trout as Craig finished up.

The screen was dark for only a few seconds before Tweek's phone began to ring. Shaking, Tweek answered it without looking at the number.

"Tweek?" Craig asked. His voice was nothing but excitement. "It's over. Did you watch it? All of it?"

"Did you ask me out on a livestream?"

"Hmmmm, no," Craig replied, almost coyly, and Tweek remembered how to breathe properly. "I wanted to ask if you'd like to hang out, actually. I'm not ready to date anyone else right now, but making friends who are also gay and have been out longer than me? I would like that."

Tweek forced his voice to stay steady as he replied, "Yeah, I'd like that too."

---

Red tapped her nails against the lacquered wood of her desk. Her stomach twisted with disgust. She might just vomit over all the negativity surrounding Craig.

She shook her head. No, it's a very vocal few. Most of the reaction towards Craig coming out as gay had been positive. He had plenty of congratulations and even some fanart for him with the Pride flag. Some celebrities even tweeted they were proud of him.

"About time. You'll be happier now, Craig! #LoveisLove" The frontman of Moop, Stan Marsh, tweeted. His partner, Red's old friend, Wendyl, as well as the rest of Moop, also sent Craig their support. Wendyl even went as far as to argue on Craig's behalf in the comments. 

Not that Red planned on showing that to Craig. She couldn't risk him getting involved in an online shouting match and ruining his aloof country boy persona.

Her eyes drifted over the copy of the magazine on her desk. Craig and Thomas were on the cover, walking out in a park and holding hands. Craig’s focus was solely on Thomas and not the beautiful scenery. They must have assumed deep in an isolated park would be a safe place for a secret date. Clearly, they were wrong. 

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Red skimmed the article. The picture Thomas claimed they would publish, one of him and Craig kissing, was nowhere to be found. Red didn’t believe Thomas lied about the photo. When he called, he was stammering nervously and the stress made his tic act up so badly he had to keep starting his sentence over and apologizing.

From Red’s best guess, the photo was probably on private property and the magazine couldn’t legally publish it, but this could use it against Thomas anyway. Not that it mattered in the end. Thomas already admitted he and Craig were dating in the article. 

Red closed the magazine then tossed it aside. Even if Thomas had been tricked into talking, he still was the reason Craig had been strong armed into coming out before he was comfortable, and that pissed Red off.

Grumbling to herself, she turned back to scrolling through the comments on Craig’s latest post, a picture of Petunia in sunglasses and a tiny cowboy hat. It never ceased to amaze her how much he dotes on his pets and treats them like his own children.

Unfortunately, even on a post of a rodent dressed as a cowgirl, people were making hateful comments and asking invasive questions.

Kevin opened the door, steaming bowls in his hand.

"I have leftover chili or microwave ramen." He held up the bowls in turn. "Which do you want?"

Red didn't look up from her computer. "Ramen."

Chili was too heavy and spicy for her stomach to handle. Kevin watered down the romen every time, so she didn't have to worry about making herself sicker.

He slipped the bowl next to her then looked over her shoulder with a frown.

"You need to take a break from those," He told her before spooning chili into his mouth.

"I want to, but I can't." She slurped up noodles. "I'm going to report every bashing comment that might break Twitter's terms of service so Craig doesn't have to see it." Twitter probably wouldn't do anything, even if the comment did break their TOS, but it made her feel better anyway, since Craig decided deleting comments would only make things worse.

Kevin rubbed between her shoulder blades. His hand was warm from the bowls, relieving some of the tension.

"Craig's a big boy, Red. He can handle some hate comments. He's probably been preparing for it for most of his adult life." Kevin set his bowl down to walk behind her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders then rested his chin on her head. Given how tall she was, when she sat was about the only time Kevin could do this.

"I know, but..." A noise of uncertainty left her throat.

He kissed the top of her head. "It'll be alright. Someone else will do something worse soon and everyone will forget about Craig being gay."

Red set a hand over one of Kevin's, smiling softly. He was such a good husband, so caring and sweet and understanding. She hoped Craig would find someone like that for himself one day.

"Hey, do you know who the guy Craig's been texting nonstop is? Some gay internet celeb, right? The one who helped him with the script?" Red asked abruptly.

"Tweek Tweak, I think is his name," Kevin replied. "I checked out his channel: he's got an alright voice and seems like a good guy. Craig really likes him. We should take bets if this is another case of Tuckers falling in love instantly."

Red rolled her eyes at the joke.

“Good thing I’m a Stoley now, huh? Or you would be worried."

Kevin laughed. “Good thing for both of us!”

Red hummed to herself a moment before pushing back her chair, nearly sending Kevin to the floor. She jumped to her feet and spun around.

"I'm done with this for tonight," Red announced, taking Kevin's hand. "You're right anyway. Craig is a big boy." She kissed his cheek. "So, com'on, let's go watch ‘Battlestar Galactica’."

---

The house was much less "Cozy Ranch, Sweet Tea with Lemon on the Table Next to a Fresh  Rhubarb Pie" Charm than Tweek expected, Craig could tell just by the confused expression on his face as he looked around the living room. After the livestream, Craig put most of the western decoration back in the attic where it usually stated. If he had to stare at a ‘Live, Laugh, Ride Horses’ on the wall all the time, he’d vomit. Every time he had tried to ride a horse before, it either nearly threw him off or tried to eat his fingers. He could live and laugh  just find without them

"Something wrong?"

"No. It's just...big. Wow. Way bigger than my apartment." Tweek spun around. "If I let Kiwi loose here, I'd never see him again."

"It's not that big," Craig defended, deciding not to mention that was the main reason he didn't like his own pets wandering outside their pen without him around. Once he and Stan and Kevin spent the better half of a day searching for Stripe when he escaped from the pen

"I think my parents' coffee shop could fit in here," Tweek muttered, bending down to get a closer look at a stone carving Craig got from a trip to Peru.

"You're parents own a coffee shop?" Craig put his hands in his pockets. "So you're from a business family?"

"It is why I have my degree in business management." Tweek reached his hand to touch the nose of the carving but flinched back. "Did you ever go to college? I mean, I think Stan said he met you in college, didn't he?"

Craig picked up the carving, making Tweek stumble back a few steps.

"I left to become a music star," He twisted the carving over, brushing his fingers along the maker's mark at the bottom, "but I was learning about the physics and chemistry required in the fuel propulsion of jets and rockets."

Tweek blinked at him. "So you left college to be a rocket scientist to sing about drinking beer and trucks."

"You know," Craig set the carving back on the table, "my parents had the same reaction."

"You could have gotten us to Mars." Tweek straightened up. "But, you know, I admire that you took the chance and left that path to follow your dream." He grinned. "Really. It's admirable. My parents would have flipped out if I dropped everything to tour." 

He paused then quickly added, "Not that I want to. I like being able to record from my house. Little stage performances are enough for me."

Craig laughed. "No, I understand. It's pretty heart pounding to have a million eyes on you at once."

Tweek shuddered at the thought.

"Hey, come on, my kids are excited to meet you." Craig put his hands on his shoulders and steered Tweek out of the living room and down the hall.

"I've been telling them only good things these past weeks," Craig continued. "How talented you are and what nice handwriting you have." He paused at a door. "I let Petunia sniff your revision, and she loved it so much she nibbled on the paper."

Tweek snorted as Craig opened the door.

The pen took up a sizeable corner of the room and was surrounded by a knee height fence. Inside were several beds and many toys and hidey holes for his pets. Craig noticed one of the sipper bottles was getting low and made a note to refill it, along with their food dish which somebody (Probably Stripe) knocked over into the bedding again.

“Wow.” Tweek’s mouth gaped. “I thought guinea pigs were kept in cages like hamsters, not something like this.”

“I built it myself,” Craig proclaimed, “though, I went a little overboard in size. Three pigs don’t need this much room.” 

His plan was to let Petunia have a litter and have himself an army of guinea pigs, but once recording and touring started up, Craig found it was hard enough providing enough care and affection for the ones he had, so he took all three to the vet to be neutered. According to the vet, they  would live happier and healthier lives that way anyway.

One of the guinea pigs shuffled around in the hammock and poked a nose out. Petunia looked around before spotting Craig. She gave a squeak and scrambled out to hurried over, probably expecting treats. Her noisy journey from the hammock made the other two peek out from sleeping under a fake log.

Craig stooped down and picked up Petunia. He held her out for Tweek to hold.

"She doesn't bite," Craig mentioned when Tweek hesitated. "Promise."

Tweek took her and held her carefully to his chest. Stroking her long, brown fur, Tweek leaned over the small fencing to look at the others.

"She's soft and those two are really cute," he complimented with a nod to Astro and Stripe the Sixth.

"Thank you. I'm proud of my boys," He reached over and scratched Petunia between the ears, "and my baby girl."

Petunia moved her head against his palm with a happy noise.

Astro grew jealous at the attention Petunia was getting and began to get rowdy in the pen to steal some of it for himself. With a smile, Craig stepped into the pen and sat down. Instantly, Astro was in his lap with Stripe the Sixth settling down next to his leg.

Tweek wavered a moment before following after Craig and taking a seat in the pen.

He opened his mouth when his body went stiff.

"Ack!" He pulled his hand to his chest. "She licked me!"

A grin spread across Craig's face.

"That means she likes you." He scooted closer so they sat side by side, much to Stripe’s annoyance as he had just got comfortable.

"Like a dog?" Tweek stared down at Petunia in awe. Clearly, Tweek hadn’t had more interactions with rodents than average house mice.

"Yes, they are very affectionate critters." He pressed his leg against Tweek's, resting his palm on Tweek’s knee. Tweek tensed, but relaxed a moment later and didn't move away.

"Oh? They are? Well, you know, this," Tweek whistled softly, "is what birds do when they like you. They talk around you and sing."

"I didn't know that." Craig leaned a little closer. Their shoulders were touching now.

"Yeah. They sing and tweet all day if they're happy and safe."

Craig hummed a wordless tune, raising his finger to brush a lock of Tweek's hair back. Before his hand left, Tweek set his on top of it to keep it against his cheek.

"Do you want to know what guinea pigs do when they like someone?" Craig tilted his face towards him.

Tweek mimicked the action, twisting his body a little and disturbing Petunia. She made a whining squeak, alerting Tweek that his action displeased her, though he paid her little mind.

"What else?" He asked as his fingers gently squeezed Craig's hand.

"Something a little like..."

The gap between them grew steadily smaller and smaller until Craig pressed his lips against his.

"This." He pulled back, tapped the ends of their noses together, then pressed his luck to kiss Tweek again.

After a few blissful moments, the two parted completely.

This time when Petunia was disturbed she crawled out of Tweek's lap to trot to Craig's. She climbed over his crossed legs and snuggled down next to Astro.

"W... w... " Tweek stammered.

For a fleeting moment, Craig's chest gripped with worry that Tweek might be trying to say "Why did you do that?!" or "What made you think I wanted that?"

"’Wicked’..." Tweek finally breathed.

A snorting laugh escaped through Craig's nose. "I guess it was. Maybe even ‘radical’ or ‘tubular’?" He teased.

"No, I mean," Tweek chuckled, "'Wicked' like the musical. Jimmy gave me tickets to a performance he's helping with next month. Would you like to come? Like as a date?"

If he could grin any wider, his face would have split right down the middle.

"I'd like that, but you know what I'd like even more?"

Tweek's face dusted pink but he smiled too.

"What?"

"You let me take you out for a date tonight since I don't want to wait a month." Craig moved Stripe to his lap as well. The two already there made irritated squeaks but allowed their sibling to snuggle down between them.

Tweek nodded, pushing his hair back from his face.

"As long as there's no mechanical bull wherever you take me." He laughed. "My friend, Jason, rode one once and broke his arm when he fell off."

Craig's expression twisted into disgust before he could stop himself. Tweek furrowed his brow, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"Tweek, I have a confession:" he took a breath, "I hate country music."

Tweek stared at him before bursting out into laughter.

"Oh, right, uh-huh." He elbowed him in the side. "That's a good one. If you want to go someplace with a bull, that's fine. Just don't expect me to ride it."

"I'm serious," Craig deadpanned. He leaned to allow his head to fall back. "I guess ‘hate’ is a strong word. I used to like it. I was raised on the stuff, after all."

Tweek lifted himself on his hands to turn to fully face him. His prompting look encouraged Craig to continue.

"When you said you thought it was admirable that I left school to pursue my passion, well, it was actually the opposite. Rocket science is my passion. Music is a job."

"What?" Tweek shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. That's not how it works."

"That's how it ended up." Craig shut his eyes. "Stan needed help taking all his Moop stuff to a venue, so I offered my car. The owner's daughter overheard me singing to myself and said she'd pay me to sing for her."

"Did you?"

"Thirty dollars for singing a cheesy country love song to a girl? Hell yeah, I did." Craig snickered at the memory. "After that, she told me she could get me on stage for a bit if I wanted. I didn't want a glamorous life of a music star, but I was a broke college student and performing there got me a free dinner and whatever tips I made."

He opened his eyes with a frown. "Then it all kind of snowballed from there. I got asked to come to sing there more and more and soon other places were asking for me, and Red offered to be my manager and before I knew it," he fell back, startling the guinea pigs, "I was famous."

Tweek stared at him, big blue eyes searching his face before he took a breath. "Why would you keep doing something that makes you unhappy?"

Craig shrugged. "Money. I sing what people want to hear from me and, until recently, pretended to be what they wanted completely. Just a good old Southern boy who sings songs that pander to other good old Southern boys."

"So, are all your songs just pandering? That can't be all you ever wrote." Tweek chewed his lip. His brow furrowed. Craig could only assume he was thinking about all the songs of Craig's he knew to check himself.

Craig pushed himself up onto his forearms. "I didn't write any of my songs, actually. When I was first starting, Red introduced me to a lyricist. He'd make the lyrics. I'd help with the instrumentals if he needed it."

"That...really?" Tweek moved to sit on his knees.

"Yeah, his name is Thomas." A pang hit his stomach, but he took a breath and went on, "Thomas actually did live a country life, a little. More to draw from than I have. He has Tourettes, and his mom sent him to a ranch camp for kids like him every summer from when he was eight to eighteen."

"Wow, so you’re really a fake," Tweek replied, unamused.

“I don’t auto tune myself or lip sing during concerts. Besides, I’m not the only one. An old member of Moop, Eric Cartman? He left to make a Christain Rock band called Faith+1. Fucker’s as far from a holy Christain man as you can get.” Craig snorted. “He’s even more in it for the money than I am. At least I care about my fans a little. That man would push them into the fires of Hell himself if he was offered a dime for it.”

“But you’re still faking! I mean,” Tweek ran a hand through his hair, “all of your songs can’t be pandering party songs, can they?”

"I do have one song that wasn't just a cash grab."

"Oh, yeah? Which one?"

"‘Hazel Eyes.'"

Tweek’s face twisted in thought as he tried to recall the song. Craig couldn't blame him if he didn't know it. ‘Hazel Eyes' barely broke the top forty for a week then faded into song obscurity. It was still his favorite, though for bittersweet reasons now.

Craig hummed the first two bars at the start of the chorus before he sang, "Black hair; Hazel eyes, looking at me with love long disguised. Hold my hand where dad and mom can't see. Let me with you and you with me. Please never look away from the future of we, my lovely hazel eyes."

Realization crossed Tweek's face.

"I remember that song. I really liked it, but didn't know the title."

Craig bobbed his head. "Thomas wrote that for me."

"Didn't he write everything for you?"

"No, I mean for me. Thomas...he was my boyfriend. I'm the ‘Hazel Eyes' the song talks about." Craig winced, realizing that bringing up a love song his ex wrote him with the man he just kissed was not his best plan.

"Oh..." Tweek chewed his lip "Wasn't Thomas the ex who..."

"Yeah, that Thomas," Craig confirmed. "I think that's another reason I don't like country much anymore. Everything I sing is by him. It's just salt in the wound."

A hand fell on his shoulder, so Craig lowered his gaze from the ceiling. Tweek smiled softly at him.

"Do you want to write a song with me? I'm not the best. I didn't go to college for it or anything, but maybe together we could make something good."

"So, what I told you isn't a deal breaker?" Craig asked.

Tweek shrugged. "No, I guess not. Maybe I can help you break into other genres, or if you want to leave professional music altogether and be a rocket scientist, I can help with that, too, if you want. I find people are much happier when they can be themselves and follow their passions."

Craig stared at him before chuckling. Tweek was such an amazing person.

---

The night wind was pleasant as Craig and Tweek walked side by side down the street. Craig readjusted his coat. For once, he didn't look like something a western store threw up on: A blue zip-up jacket over an old Moop shirt, black skinny jeans, and a chullo hat with a geometric pattern and yellow tassels.

Tweek mocked the skinny jeans when he first noticed them until Craig pointed out that's what he had on as well. At that point, Tweek blushingly hurried them into the theater to find their seats.

Craig raved excitedly about the play they'd watched. Tweek was so pleased that Craig liked it. He'd suggested it on a whim. It was the first idea his brain could provide him with that wasn't ‘kiss him again, you fool!' He hadn't expected Craig to actually agree, but he hadn't expected Craig to confess he’d grown disenchanted with singing country music, either.

"Alright, so were Elphaba and Glinda low key in love or something? Or am I just reading that subtext now that I'm allowing myself to?" Craig wanted to know, lightly swinging their combined hands while they passed under a streetlamp.

Tweek laughed. "I've never read the book, but in the musical, it's platonic, I think."

"You've never read the Wizard of Oz?" Craig stopped and fixed Tweek with a startled expression.

"What? Of course, I have!" Tweek scoffed. "‘Wicked' is based on a book that’s based on the ‘Wizard of Oz’. I've never read it, so I don't know if Elphaba and Glinda are lovers there or not."

Craig chuckled. "Well, I'm going to assume they fucked at Shiz at least once."

With a chuckle of his own, Tweek began to reply when a new voice cut him off.

"Hey! Hey! Craig, you—cocksucker!”

Tweek flinched, spinning around. Sooner or later, he knew some crazed fan would come to harass them. Why did it have to be tonight though? Even with the skinny jeans thing, the night was going so well!

As the man neared, Tweek’s heart pounded in his ears. They weren't too far from the theater, so there had to be more patrons nearby who could call the police if a fight broke out, right? 

Scanning around, he saw only a huddle of people across the street, though they seemed to pay the couple and the yelling man no mind.

A disheveled man with short, messy hay-colored hair ran up to them and Craig stiffened. The man had bags under his eyes so deep that they rivaled the ones Tweek had when he was in the worst of his teenage anxieties.

"S-sorry!" He stammered, doubling over to pant. "I didn't mean to say--fuck!--that."

Tweek straighten. He wasn't much taller than the man, and nowhere near as tall as Craig, but he could be intimidating if he wanted to be.

"What do you want? We're busy right now," Tweek told him firmly. If they left quickly before this man started shouting at them, the night could still be salvaged.

Craig put his hand on Tweek's shoulder. He turned to him, and Craig shook his head.

With a deep breath first, Craig looked to the man. In an uninterested tone, he greeted, "Hello, Thomas."

Tweek stifled a gasp. Thomas? The Thomas? The one who forced Craig to out himself? That asshole?

Rage bubbled up in Tweek. He gritted his teeth and curled his hands into fists. If this jerk tried to cause trouble he would—

Craig wrapped his hand around his and squeezed without breaking eye contact with Thomas.

Thomas looked at their hands then looked away guiltily.

"Craig, I need to talk to--asshole! I need to talk to you." He chewed his lip. "Please."

"Why? So you can sell whatever I say to a magazine again?" Craig somehow remained coolly detached when he spoke. Thomas winced as if Craig just punched him in the gut.

"Craig, please, I didn't mean to. They had--they had a picture of us and--Balls shit!--we were kissing. How could I reply to that? Mother fucker! There was nothing I could have done! They would have run the picture anyway if I didn't answer. I--shit cock!-- I had to tell the truth!"

Thomas slumped forward, shrinking down like a dog about to be scolded for breaking a vase.

"I'm sorry. I did what I thought was best for you."

All at once, Craig’s aloof attitude broke. A low growl ripped from his throat as he stomped forward a step, getting into Thomas' personal space.

Jabbing a finger at his chest, he snarled, "‘Best for me'? If you wanted what was best for me you would have called me when it happened. Not Red. Me. You would have stood by me and helped me figure this out, but you wussed out on me and didn’t even answer my calls."

Thomas’ breath shook as he took it. He blinked hard, but under the streetlamp's light, he couldn't hide that his eyes were wet. 

A pang of pity hit Tweek's stomach. 

Thomas still loved Craig and probably did do what he thought was best. The cold indifference then a blast of sheering hot fury must have hurt more than Thomas let on.

Tweek reached out and grabbed a tassel of Craig's hat. Pulling it, he managed to make Craig step back.

"I'm sorry. I got scared, Craig! I'm not...Look at me! Who would want to come out dating someone like me?" He whimpered.

"I did — would! I never gave a fuck about your tics or how you looked." He squeezed Tweek's hand so hard, that Tweek bit back a yelp. Craig didn’t notice. "But that doesn't matter now, I guess. Goodbye, Thomas."

Craig pulled Tweek down the street. Tweek looked over his shoulder to see Thomas sigh heavily and slowly walk the way he came. The huddle of people instantly turned their attention to him when he neared. They started to console Thomas, but Craig took Tweek around a corner before he could see more.

"Craig..." Tweek started, "Um...that was—"

"Harsh?" Craig stopped, and Tweek bumped into his back. "Yeah, I know. It's the first time we've seen each other in months. He's been avoiding me. I guess it all came up at once."

Tweek twiddled his thumbs. It wasn't his place to say, but he couldn't hold his tongue on this. "I think he really was sorry."

"Yeah, I know," Craig repeated. "I know." He sighed. "Sorry. I just...I'll forgive him some time, but not right now. He threw my whole life out of sync and didn't even have the guts to help me set it back up. I think I'm entitled to making him squirm a little."

Tweek shrugged nervously. "Yeah, maybe, but you're not going to make him suffer too much, right?" 

At least Thomas seemed to have friends to help him through Craig’s retribution, but Tweek still felt pity for him. Breaks up hurt, he knew that from experience, but all Tweek's breakups had been over issues much more trivial or minor than what Craig and Thomas went through.

"Another couple of weeks or a month, and I'll reach out," Craig muttered after a moment's thought, "but, Thomas and I are over. I couldn't ever trust him fully again." He flashed a smile at Tweek before taking his hands gently in his. "At least, I got one good thing out of this."

He bent down and kissed Tweek, slow and sweet. Tweek chuckled and rested his forehead against his.

"I wish I'd been able to meet you when I was younger. I think you would have made an awesome first boyfriend," Craig said with a lopsided smile. 

"You know, I think I just thought of a great idea for a song if you'd like to head back to my place for the night and work on it," Tweek offered.

"I'd love that."

---

AN: Epilogue posted in a week

[whentommymetalfie]

Kiss with a fist

A/N: This was great to write! Maybe I’ll write one from Alfie’s POV in the future.  This contains fluff, some sexual/will he try to shoot me?- tension and stupid humour. And some drunk!Tommy, because I couldn’t help myself. I hope you enjoy it Anon! And everyone else reading it of course <3 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Summary: The beginning of Tommy and Alfie’s relationship. In which there are innuendos about riding, a lot of banter, rum (the good kind) and just generally just a lot of confusion on Tommy’s behalf.

Link to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13345668

Wordcount: 4000 

Just a few days Tommy’s first meeting with Alfie Solomons, he receives a phone call.

“Thomas,” a familiar voice comes through the line. Why is this man he’s met once calling him by his first name? Tommy is instantly suspicious. It’s some sort of move in a fight for dominance in this partnership, definitely.

“Mr. Solomons. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” Solomons says. “You were in quite the state. All bashed up and everything.”

Tommy is so baffled that it takes a moment for him to respond. But he's calm when he does. “That is very considerate of you. The trip home went fine.”

“And how’s your pretty head?”

“That’s just fine too,” he says, furrowing his brow and frantically trying to figure out what Solomons is playing at here.

Solomons hums. “That’s good. Bloody good. You’ve got to take care of yourself, yeah? Dangerous business we’re in, you know.”

“Indeed it is.”

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Such a waste. Still young and all. And with those nice fucking eyes.”

Right. This is some sort of mindgame, Tommy states firmly. Luckily, he’s rather good at those. He’s glad to have figured it out. But before he can form a response, Solomons speaks up again.

“Well that’s all for now. Got business to attend to, and all that. We’ll talk more when I come to Birmingham next week, yeah?”

Tommy falters. “What?”

“I have to take a look at my new business partners’ domains, don’t I?” Solomons says, and Tommy can somehow hear that he’s smirking. “You can show me the sights. If there are any, right, in that fucking shit hole of a town. Or town... more like just a group of houses around a muddy patch from what I've heard.”

“Yes. Of course,” is all Tommy manages to say, before Solomons hangs up.

This deal is not working out the way he’d hoped it would. All that it’s resulted in so far, is to get him beaten half to death, and an unwelcomed visit from this clearly insane man.

Tommy has a distinct feeling that this will all go straight to hell.

Sure enough, Solomons does show up a week later. In the Garrison of all places. When Tommy can’t hide that he’s mildly surprised to see him, he just laughs. Tommy’s first thought is that he’s got a rather nice laugh. In hindsight, it’s at that point things really start to go wrong.

“Well Thomas, you are fucking easy to find.” Alfie looks around the pub. “Nice little place you got here. Quaint, you may say. Shitty, you may also say.”

“A drink, Mr. Solomons?” Tommy asks, feeling that he definitely needs one.

“No, mate, I stay away from shit like that. Well, unless the situation calls for it.” Solomons says and walks over to the snug, opening the door to stick his head inside. “Would you look at that, eh? Is this where you conduct your… business meetings?”

“Sometimes.”

“You got an office? An actual office. Or do you just do your paperwork in a bloody pub? Worrying, that.”

“Not as much an office as a desk in a very small room, but sure,” Tommy gives a light shrug. “Would you like to see that too?”

“Seen enough fucking desks in my life. Let’s go take a look at that horse of yours.” Solomons turns to leave, and Tommy can do nothing but follow.

He discovers something as they walk through the streets toward the stables –Alfie Solomons talks. A lot.

At first, it annoys him. Then, he strangely enough finds himself being alright with it. Not enjoying it. Definitely not. But it’s rather nice to just listen to Solomons go on about something. Perhaps it’s got something to do with that voice of his… He must have some sort of hidden agenda with all this, Tommy tells himself whenever he finds that he is relaxing a bit too much in his company. Problem is, he can’t figure out what it is exactly. Alfie just talks about nothing. The weather, that a dog they pass is nice, which leads into this whole story about how nice dogs are in general.

“See, dogs have this reputation of being dirty, stupid creatures. But so are most people, and I don’t fucking mean anything by it, just that there ain’t no shame in being a bit dim in the head, yeah? Heard that the happiest people are. Fucking idiots. Though back to dogs, right, they really are much more clever than folks believe. I once saw this dog, right-“

He is insane, Tommy thinks. That’s the whole thing. It has to be.

And though this should cause him some concerns, it doesn’t at first. Once he’s stated that’s the case, he can at least be satisfied to know he’s figured him out. But the relief doesn’t last long. Because he soon finds himself laughing at the things Solomons rambles about. And although he catches himself each time and quickly straightens his features, the man looks unnervingly pleased with himself. Which immediately makes him think this is all part of some elaborate scheme, after all. And he’s right back to being on edge.  

“So this is our newest addition,” he says and walks up to the white horse, that immediately comes to meet him. It neighs happily when he reaches out to scratch it behind the ears. He relaxes a bit, it doesn’t do to be nervous around horses, they sense things like that a mile away. There’s also a sense of relief to not have Solomons undivided attention anymore. It’s just something about those eyes, the way they seem to bore into him.

“Fine looking animal. Fucking stupid, though. The lot of them are,” Solomons states behind his back.“Do you ride?”

Stop asking things. “Sure. As a mode of transportation.”

“Ever for... the pleasure of it, eh?”

Tommy looks over his shoulder at Solomons, who is watching him with this tiny smirk on his face. Right. This is a game he knows how to play.

“When I have the time,” he says calmly, quirking an eyebrow as he turns around completely to face him.

“You any good?” Solomons takes a step closer, somehow towering over him despite their height difference not being that great. At least it wasn’t in Tommy’s head until that moment.

“I’m very good, actually.” He locks eyes with the taller man. Solomons’ smirk widens a bit.

“I bet you are.” He stares him down, but Tommy doesn’t falter. “You should do it more often. Help get rid of some of that fucking tension. Bet that would keep you out of trouble, yeah? Less energy to start fights with the wrong people.”

“I can assure you that’s not an issue.” Tommy leans back against the wall. Lights a cigarette. “I make sure to get what I need in terms of,” he pauses, very deliberately, to draw in smoke. “Releasing tension.”

“Do you, now?” Solomons is dangerously close, and his voice is low -threatening?- when he speaks again. The smirk has transformed into something else. “And what is it that you need, Thomas?”

“Nothing that you can provide me with, I’m sure, Mr. Solomons.”

There’s this electricity in the air. Like the moment before you draw your gun on someone. Or…

“Tommy! Didn’t expect to see you here today!” Charlie’s voice suddenly breaks the tension. Tommy’s eyes snap to the entrance of the stable, and Solomons backs off. He’s got that stupid fucking grin on his face again. Like he knows something Tommy doesn’t. Fuck this.

“Charlie, this is Mr. Solomons,” he says. “Associate from London.”

Charlie and Solomons shake hands and exchange a few words. Tommy just tries to calm his racing pulse.

“That… man is on the phone for you, Tommy” Ada says. “Solomons?”

“He is calling you an awful lot,” Arthur says as he passes through the kitchen. “Is there trouble in London?”

Tommy just shrugs lightly and goes to pick up.

“Mr. Solomons. Italians bothering you again?”

“Oh no more than usual,” Solomons voice says over the line. That voice… “Just wanted to check in on you. You’re taking care, I hope?”

“Definitely not. I do my best every day to be a hazard to myself,” Tommy says flatly, and hears a laugh. Quite unexpectedly, it makes something flutter inside his chest.

“That would explain a lot. Like why you got involved with me. Fucking insane decision, that.” Tommy thinks that statement over –is it a thinly veiled threat? Could very well be, but Solomons sounds… happy. Though he's found that the tone of his voice usually means nothing.

“Maybe. The way I see it, every day is another chance to make an unhealthy decision,” he states in the same calm tone. They go back and forth like that for a while. Nothing of importance is said.

Tommy is confused when he hangs up. He’s getting very tired of that feeling in connection with this man.

Ada gives him this… look when he comes back into the kitchen. Smug. She looks smug.

“So, this Solomons,” she begins. “What kind of a man is he?”

Tommy leans against the counter. Takes out a cigarette.

“He brews rum. Leader of a Jewish gang in London, so he’s a good ally to-“

Ada cuts him off by waving her hand dismissively.

“No, not what kind of ‘business-man’-” She makes sarcasm in the last word unnecessarily clear. “What kind of man? What does he look like, for example?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Indulge me.”

Tommy almost feels a bit flustered. When did he last feel like that? Last time Solomons was there.

“I don’t know how to describe him,” he says and shrugs.

“Oh please, you’re not blind!” Ada exclaims and gives a short laugh. “Stop squirming and answer.”

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes, puts the cigarette to his lips again just to get a moment to form an answer. “He’s big… tall.”

“Is he actually tall, or just taller than you?”

Tommy merely raises his eyebrows at this and Ada throws her hands up.

“Sorry, go on.”

“He’s got a beard,” he draws in smoke, letting it out slowly through pursed lips. “Dresses a bit… like he does some sort of labour, most of the time.” By the look of those arms… Describing what Alfie Solomons looks like forces him to actually conjure an image of him in his head. “He’s got…” his voice trails off a bit. He thinks of Solomons face. His eyes. Of the way he looked at him in that office. With such utter self-assuredness, as if he was certain nothing in the world could touch him. Such a difference from any other man Tommy has met. Something about that confidence is both infuriating and oddly… attractive. No, definitely not attractive. “He’s got these… eyes,” he says quietly, looking vacantly at nothing in particular.

“I see,” Ada says smugly, and Tommy snaps out of it.

“What?”

“Oh, I have my suspicions,” Ada wiggles her eyebrows. “I know what this is about.”

“Do tell Ada, what is it about?”

“Well, Tommy, sweetheart,” Ada smirks. “That chat out in the hallway sounded an awful lot like banter. You know, the sort of thing you have with that special someone you might have an interest in, but who also drives you a bit crazy, and that’s secretly what you like about them.”

“It was not banter,” Tommy says firmly to stop the flow of absolute bullshit Ada is spouting.

“Call it what you want,” Ada gets up from her chair. “I know a lovers’ quarrel when I hear one.”

Tommy is, for the first time, without words. Ada is out the door before he gets the time to find any.

Solomons keeps on calling. And Tommy keeps on picking up. It’s still unclear to him where this is all leading. Solomons asks things. But just things about Tommy, never the business. Things like: yeah, it’s awful weather here today. Do you like rain Thomas? You seem like the type… These conversations are becoming a problem, because Tommy finds himself slipping, telling Solomons things he wasn’t planning on. And although it's harmless things, it’s the feeling that irks him. That Solomons is lulling him into some sort of false sense of security, that this will somehow lead to him ending up shot somewhere in an alley. Though honestly, what would Solomons have to gain from this manipulation? He controls almost half of London, what use would he have of a bookmaker from Birmingham, other than provide a bit of manpower in the business with the Italians?

Tommy feels like he’s slowly going insane.

Alfie shows up at the Garrison again. This time, he brings a bottle of rum. The good kind.

“Are you bringing outside drinks into my pub, Mr. Solomons?” Tommy asks when Alfie hands him the bottle. It’s late, approaching closing time, and only a few patrons remain in the pub.

“Yeah, figured you could use some proper fucking booze in this place.” Alfie smirks. "Feels like life is hard enough around here as it is. Don't need to be drinking shitty fucking liquor on top of it all."

“So, is this one of those situations that calls for a drink?”

“Yeah, it is,” Alfie says and walks over to the snug, opening the door and holding it in a gesture that clearly states: after you. Tommy does, on principle, not let people hold doors open for him. He stares at Alfie. Alfie stares back. Challenging him. It feels like the room has gone oddly quiet, as the other patrons watches this battle of wills play out. Tommy realises he doesn’t really have a choice. So, he gestures to Grace who hands him two glasses, before walking past Solomons into the small room.

It’s around this point when the whole thing really starts going to hell.

Tommy is drunk. He realises this far too late. Another terrible decision in connection with Alfie Solomons to add to his already rather long list. He can’t quite understand how it happened. He hasn’t had any more to drink than Solomons. He’s also too drunk to acknowledge that the other man has about twenty pounds on him.

“So… bookmaking huh?” Alfie reclines in his seat, studying him over the edge of his glass.

“What about it?” Tommy blinks slowly. Tries to focus.

“Just wondering about the choice of business, yeah?”

Tommy shrugs. “My father started it up. Stole horses. Was in to... illegal racing an’ all that. When he walked out, Polly took over ‘till me’n Arthur and John were old enough. Guess it just went from there.” He empties the rest of his glass. “’s a business as good as any. And I like horses.”

“How come?”

Tommy thinks about it. “You can’t… think about other shit when you’re with a horse. You’ve gotta just… be in the moment. It's nice. Makes my brain stop whirring for a bit. They’re good animals. Kind.” He looks down at his glass and adds as an afterthought, “You don’t get that a lot around ‘ere.”

Alfie nods thoughtfully, scratching his beard. “Me, I’m more of a dog person. Similar in some ways I guess, those animals. Dogs are good-natured critters too.” He leans closer. Somehow, Tommy has ended up sitting right next to him. “Ever thought about the fact that, ‘spite of their size, horses are prey? ‘s why they can become so jittery. They've got this-" Solomons gestures in the air. "Constant fucking need to be on the move. Always running 'round. Never fully relaxed. Got to be a fucking exhausting life."  

Tommy looks at him with half-closed eyes. “Mhm.”

“And for all their… niceness, dogs are predators. 's why they chase you, right? Could tear out your bloody throat, even the small ones, if they felt like it. Heard they can crush a fucking spine with their teeth, the biggest. So, predators, yeah?”

Had he been sober, the implications of the statement would have him reaching for his gun. Now, he just blinks slowly. Thinks that Alfie has nice eyes. Warm eyes. “Guess they are.”

“I’m following you to the fucking door, Thomas. Ain’t no point in arguing.” Alfie watches him struggle with the key for a moment before taking it and locking the door to the Garrison. Tommy can’t quite understand how Alfie is so sober in comparison to him. Solomons, it’s Solomons and nothing else.

“Fuck, remind me never to let you loose on the rum again,” Solomons grumbles. “Clearly, you can’t hold your fucking liquor.”

“As if you could tell me what I can and cannot do,” Tommy grins.

The walk home is sort of a blur. At some point, he almost falls over, and Solomons wraps an arm around his waist to steady him.

“You’ve got nice arms,” he slurs, the alcohol having removed any sort of filter between his brain and his mouth. “Strong. Like you carry around-” he has to swallow. “Carry around a lot of heavy things.”

Alfie looks down at him, but Tommy is too far gone to read his expression. “That pretty mouth of yours will get you killed one day, sweetie,” he says. “Fucking walking about, making deals with people in a whole other league. That’s asking for trouble.”

Tommy just laughs at this.

Alfie shakes his head, knocking on the Shelby household’s door quite harshly to wake someone up. How does he know where Tommy lives?

“I can get to- the inside on my own,” Tommy mutters. Everything is spinning around him.

“Like fuck you can.” Alfie knocks again. “I’m making sure someone gets you to bed. Or I’ll have one of your crazy brothers after me.”

A bleary-eyed Arthur comes to open.

“What the hell is going on here?” he looks from Solomons, to his rather unresponsive little brother hanging off his arm.

“Just delivering this disaster of a person to ya’.” Tommy hears Alfie’s voice. But he can’t see. Has he closed his eyes?

“What did you do to him?” Arthur sounds angry. Then again, he’s angry a lot.

“Believe me, he did this to himself.”

“I’ll fucking kill you if-“

“Watch it with the threats. He’s just drunk. Be happy I took 'im home like a fucking gentleman instead of just leaving him in the gutter somewhere. Could’ve ended badly, that. A lot of men less honourable than me 'round here.” Alfie’s arm disappears from around his waist, and a new set of limbs reach out to hold him upright. He takes a staggering step forward and finds himself clinging to Arthur’s shoulders.

“Tommy? You alright?”

“Sure, ‘s all fine.” Someone laughs. It’s Alfie.

“It’s been a pleasure. See you soon Thomas.

Tommy wakes up the next morning –afternoon- with a pounding headache and a death wish. Everything from the night before is just a blur. But he does remember the exchange about predator and prey. Then something about his mouth getting him killed some day. And as he lies there in bed, strongly reconsidering his life choices, he realises he will have to do something drastic about this situation. Solomons has been holding all the cards for far too long now. And he’s not the one to just sit around and wait for an opponent’s next move.

”Right. For weeks, I’ve been trying to figure you out.”

Alfie looks up from his papers when Tommy walks into his office.

“Thomas, what a lovely surprise. Take a seat.”

Tommy remains standing.

”It feels like the rest of us in this world…” he continues, doing his very best to keep his voice void of emotion. And failing miserably. “We’re in this race, right? With rules. And sure, we break them to get ahead, because maybe we were given a bad horse, and life is unfair. But at least we know we’re breaking the rules. And what rules we’re breaking”

Alfie stands up too, walking around to stand by his desk. Crosses his arms over his chest.

“And then there’s you…” Tommy gestures in Solomons direction. “Who doesn’t even seem to be on the fucking racecourse. You’re off by yourself, frolicking in some bloody field. Completely unaware of what everyone else is doing. And yet, somehow, you’re still winning the bloody race.”

Solomons smiles. And it just serves to rile Tommy up. ”I’ve spent so much time trying to understand your motives. I figured you must be some sort of genius, because I can’t for the life of me understand what all of these unwarranted… phone calls and meetings are about. But now I get it,” Tommy stops to catch his breath. ”You’re just insane. That’s the whole thing. Of course I can’t figure you out, because you don’t function like other people.”

Tommy pauses. Breathes. Feeling his pulse throb against his jaw. He doesn’t understand why this man manages to push every single one of his buttons. How often does it happen that he completely loses it like this? Maybe it’s him that’s insane. And Solomons just keeps smiling. That stupid fucking smile that makes Tommy want to… shoot him in the fucking face.

The other man closes the distance between them in two long strides. And Tommy thinks for a fraction of a second that this is it: Solomons is either going to put a bullet in his head or beat him to death. When two large hands come up to cup his jaw his whole body tenses, all of his instincts telling him to fight, thinking that those hands will soon wrap themselves around his neck. But the touch is gentle.

Then, Solomons leans down and kisses him.

And right at that moment, his head goes silent.

Without understanding what his own body is doing, he relaxes against Solomons’ larger frame. Wraps his arms around his neck and clings to him in a way that is so far from his usual self, desperate almost. The kiss is somehow both gentle and heated all at once, and when Alfie draws back slightly, he finds himself pulling him back down. Alfie –since when did Solomons become Alfie in his head?- lets his hands travel down his backside, and lifts him up onto the desk. Firm. Sure. It causes Tommy a whole onslaught of emotions he didn’t know he could still feel. It's like his body is remembering all of these things it used to do once, before the war. His knees fall open and he wraps his legs around Alfie’s hips, drawing him closer.  Alfie feels big and sturdy against him; safe, somehow. And fuck, it’s so bloody nice to not be the one in charge for once, just melt into his arms and let him take the lead. Been far too long since someone kissed him like this. Far too long since he was held like this.

“Took you long enough to take the fucking hint.” Alfie smirks and pulls away a bit. Tommy’s slips his arms down from his shoulders to support himself against the desk as he attempts to catch his breath. Feels like he’s just woken up from some insane fever dream.

“What?”

“Well,” Alfie cradles the back of his head in one of his hands. “I decided this was going to happen, right, the very first time you walked into my office. With those pretty eyes bloodshot. All bruised. Still walked in like you owned the place, yeah? You just came here, all alone- little as you are, and acted like you fucking owned the place. Wasn't just that pretty face that did it. No, it was all of that... the fucking nerve of you. So I figured I needed to have you. And I'm used to getting what I fucking want.” His words send a spike of arousal through Tommy. He likes a man who can take charge. In situations like these, at least. Or in bed. No shame in admitting that. But there are questions that need sorting out before he can let his mind drift to things like that. Because he still doesn't quite believe or understand Solomons true motives.

“You pointed a gun at me?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Had to take you for a bloody test run, right,” Alfie shrugs. “You know me by now, Tommy-boy. I can be a bit unbalanced, as they say. Can’t have you running scared when that happens. But there's no risk, I figure. Because you're clearly just as fucking crazy as me.”

Tommy realises that maybe he does know him at this point. At least a little bit. Isn’t that an unexpected development? Is he crazy, for doing this? Quite possibly.

“So, is that what all these phone calls and visits have been about?”

Alfie throws his head back and laughs. “Tommy, for all your cleverness, you're completely fucking oblivious. Can’t you see when a man is trying to woo you? Thought my next move would have to be sending you fucking flowers or some shit like that. But sure, I'm a gentleman. I could do that sort of thing. If it gets you in the mood.”

Tommy falters. He blames the kiss. The fact that he’s sitting on Alfie Solomons’ fucking desk with the man in question between his legs.

The past month's events play out in his head, and he suddenly feels very stupid. Had this been any other man, anyone but Solomons, yeah, he would’ve taken the hint. He’s not a fucking idiot. Yes, yes he always was an idiot when it came to things like this. He’s been so focused on figuring out what Solomons grand plan is that this has just passed him by…

A warm hand cups his jaw and Alfie’s thumb runs across his bottom lip.

“You lick your lips sometimes. When you’re thinking, yeah?” he says. “Drives me up the bloody wall. Got to be careful with that, pretty thing. Bet you think a whole lot around your other business associates. Could end very badly that. A lot of dangerous fucking men in this business.”

You are dangerous. I am dangerous. Tommy doesn't have time to respond to this idiotic notion. He has more questions.

“So that time at the stables, you were actually making a pass at me?”

“Bloody hell, Thomas, I couldn’t have been more obvious!” Alfie laughs again. “You think I talk that way with all of my business partners? I practically shoved you up the fucking wall. And you just stood there, talking about getting what you need and looking up at me through those long lashes of yours- Fuck, I nearly did shove you against the wall. Could've just taken you right there.”

“I thought you were just playing some sort of game…” Tommy defends himself.

“Just to see what it would take for you to become flustered,” Alfie leans closer. “I bet you look even prettier when you blush. Guess we'll see about that soon enough, eh?”

“I don’t get flustered,” Tommy states. That's a lie. “And I don’t blush.” Another lie.

“Is that a challenge? Because I’ve got quite the mouth on me, yeah? You haven’t heard the fucking things I can say in bed. I’ll bet you anything they’ll do the trick.”

“What makes you think we’ll ever be in a bed together?” Tommy challenges, but a small part of him wants to add that they could just do it on the desk. Right now. He doesn’t listen to that part.

“That you came here.” Alfie’s breath is hot against his ear. “That you let me do this,“ his hands squeeze Tommy’s thighs as if to point out they’re still open around his hips. “And that you’ll let me kiss you again.”

Tommy does let him. Several times.

[certifiedskywalker]

Another Life - Jon Snow

(Takes place during Season Five of GOT) (Words : 3131)

 Y/N has been traveling with Stannis’ army, acting as caretaker to Shireen. When the army finds itself in Castle Black, Y/N meets the famous Jon Snow. But with a coming march on Winterfell, will there be enough time to fall in love?

Castle Black was no place for a woman, let alone a ward like yourself. You felt the prying eyes of the rapists and killers as you went to simply fetch water for Shireen. Some of the eyes you didn’t mind as much. You had only managed to catch glimpses of the man named Jon Snow since your arrival with King Baratheon’s army. Even in those small glances, when you’d meet his eyes, you felt an unexplainable, overwhelming sense of fondness towards him.

Afterall, he was Ned Stark’s bastard son. Honor flowed through his veins, as obvious as his good looks. You found yourself staring at him whenever he was around. The new Lord Commander had even caught your lingering gaze in rare moments. Sadly, these moments were few and far between. Shireen had taken it upon herself to teach a wildling girl, Gilly, how to read. You were thankful to stay inside and away from the bitter cold for most of the day; but part of your longed to watch Jon practice combat with the other Brothers of the Night’s Watch.

You had only seen him practice fight once, with a little boy that was new to the Watch. Jon moved with an unmatched strength, while also holding back his blows for the younger lad. It was breathtaking to watch how he moved. Sure you had seen soldiers in Stannis’ ranks quarrel, but nothing like the way Jon moved.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Images of Jon Snow left your mind at the sound of Shireen’s soft voice. You looked at the little lady who, against her mother’s wishes, was holding up a book for Gilly to peer at.

“I’m fine, my Lady,” you said quickly, “just a bit tired is all.” Shireen nodded and looked back to Gilly who was struggling to remember the letter ‘Y’. The little girl aided in jogging Gilly’s memory and rejoiced when the woman sounded it out. You watched as the finished the alphabet, marveling at the girl’s intelligence.

“She’s a smart one,” said a voice behind you. You turned your head and quickly stood upon seeing two men clad in black. You recognized Samwell Tarly and next to him, the one and only Jon Snow. You felt a blush rising to your cheeks before you realized it was Jon that had spoken. You nodded quickly, glancing at Shireen as she continued with Gilly.

“She is indeed Lord Snow,” you turned your head back and locked eyes with his. They were such a dark shade of brown, his irises appeared black in the light. You had heard other maidens and wards whispering about the ideal man; tall, dark, and handsome. How jealous they would be to know that you stood in the presence of such a man. You must’ve been looking at him for too long because Samwell cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I wanted to be sure that all of the King’s family was settled,” Jon said, looking at past you at Shireen; before looking back at you. “It seems that you have everything covered…” You stepped forward and dipped your head respectfully.

“Y/N, maiden to Princess Shireen.” You offered up a smile, hoping beyond hope that it didn’t appear forced. Jon’s lips quirked upwards slightly when he noticed. He took your hand gently in his gloved one and brought it to your lips. You felt a wave of heat rise to your cheek at the tickling of his beard against the skin of your hand. He pulled away, shyly meeting your eyes once more. Who knew a man such as him could be bashful.

“That’s a lovely name,” he said. Your blush deepened a little at his words. Before you could speak, you felt a small hand pull at your sleeve.

“Y/N have you seen An History of Aegon the Conqueror and His Conquest of Westeros? I can’t find it anywhere and I want Gilly to try reading from it.” You met Shireen’s eyes and nodded.

“I’ll help you look,” you glanced at Jon, “if you’ll excuse me Lord Commander.” You turned around and helped Shireen look for the book. As you searched, you heard Jon and Sam exchange a few hushed words before the sound of fading footsteps hit your ears.

“I’ve found it,” Sam said, holding up the larger book. Shireen smiled at the Night’s watchman and grabbed it from his hand.

“Thank you, ser,” said she before returning to Gilly. You looked over and felt saddened as Jon’s absence. You had hoped your ears had fooled you, but you no avail. You settled back down into your seat and looked over the old books Shireen had brought with her. She had already read them all. You had no idea how she found the time.

“Jon’s right,” Sam said, taking the seat beside you, “she’s the smartest child I’ve ever seen.” You smiled and nodded as you sorted through Shireen’s reading material.

“I don’t think there’s a book she hasn’t read. At least, the novels she brought along have been read all over again.” Sam gave you a cheery smile before speaking again.

“Princess Shireen is more than welcome to what Castle Black’s library has to offer. I know it’s not much but the records are rather fascinating.” You thanked him for his generosity.

“I think my ladyship prefers the like of war stories and adventure.” Sam nodded and looked over the many shelves of scrolls. You wondered if Jon had perused the same reading materials.

“There’s actually a few books of that ilk in the Lord Commander's quarters. After Jon finishes his meeting with the wildling man we can go to ask for his books.” You blushed at the thought of entering Jon’s room, and Sam noticed. A small chuckle escaped him when he noted your expression. You looked up at him, questioning on why he was laughing.

“You like him, it’s easy to tell.” You were about to open your mouth to deny it but Sam shook his head. “It’s alright. Everyone thinks he’s pretty. Even the wildlings think so, but there beauty standards are probably a bit different.” You laughed, causing Gilly and Shireen to look up. Your blush deepened and your turned back to looking at the books.

“He is pretty,” you admitted, “but it’s more than that. From what I heard about him, he’s one of the younger Lord Commanders. He’s determined and honorable.” You looked down at your hands, “do you know anything about him? Anything interesting?”

“He’s a dear friend of mine,” he said, “you’re just as shy as him.” You smiled and hoped that Sam would continue. “Jon was with a wildling girl, you know. When he was in the army of the free folk. That’s why he barely won the election; people think he’s soft on them. But I believe we’re going to need them,” he looked over a Gilly fondly, “they’re not all bad.” You nodded, your mind still lingering on the fact that Jon Snow was with a free folk girl.

“He loved this girl?” Sam looked back at you and nodded.

“I believe so,” Sam said, “he’s a compassionate man, Jon is. He’s kind hearted, which some of the Brothers think is weakness. They dislike him because he broke his vows, though many have before. He’s far more brave than any of them put together, sometimes they forget that.” You gave him a smile, trying to hide your actual feelings; your jealousy.

“He’s a good man,” you said quietly and Sam nodded.

“He is indeed,” he leaned towards you, “and I can’t speak for him but, he looks at you quite often, my Lady.” You smiled a little, looking down into your lap. Maybe there was a chance with Jon Snow; maybe those stolen glances weren’t just nothing after all.

“Princess Shireen,” Sam said, standing up now, “how would you like to borrow the important reads of the Lord Commander Snow?” Shireen smiled widely and nodded. She handed Gilly a book and told her that it would be an easy starter read. She said a goodbye and walked over. You stood, linking your arm with hers as she walked by.

“This is so exciting,” Shireen said happily. You nodded at the young princess, trying to ignore your nerves. You were here to care for the princess, not worrying about your silly affections. You swallowed your pride and spoke.

“It is my princess, but remember to respect the man that has housed us during the snowfall.” Shireen nodded as Samwell lead the two of you to Jon’s room. He knocked on the wooden door and a boy opened it. You recognized the boy as the one Jon was sparring with.

“Hello Olly, is Jon busy?” The shook his head and opened the door fully. Sam lead you and Shireen inside. When inside, you locked eyes with Jon’s. You felt your lips turn upwards a little, against your will. But Jon seemed to like your smile, as he held your gaze.

“Princess Shireen here has run out of reading materials. Can she borrow your Account of the Five Kingdom War?” Jon smiled and walked behind his desk. You watched as his shoulder blades moved beneath his leather chest guard. You looked away, trying to calm yourself.

“It’s a good read,” Jon said as he handed the princess the book. It was large and leatherbound. Shireen opened the book and peered at the time stained pages.

“Thank you Lord Commander,” Shireen said with a smile. Jon nodded at the little girl, smiling at her reaction. “I’ll return it to you before the army departs.” Jon frowned before speaking.

“You’ll have to read quickly then Princess. Your father told me you set out for Winterfell at sunrise.” You shifted your gaze from Shireen to Jon, a little shocked at the news.

“Father said that you might come with us Lord Snow, are you?” Jon leaned down, crouching before the girl. He gave her a small smile before speaking.

“Sadly no, the King will be able to take Winterfell without my aid. But I hope you enjoy your stay there, Princess. It was home to one of the greatest, most honorable families in Westeros.” Shireen smiled at him, holding out the book for him to take.

“I won’t be able to finish before we leave,” she said sadly. Your heart broke for the little girl. You didn’t like the traveling as much as the next person, but Shireen hated it most of all. Her mother watched her like a hawk, unwavering in her attempts to steal away fun. Jon gently pushed the book back towards her, smiling softly still.

“Keep it. Only a few men in the Night’s Watch can read. It’ll be far more useful and cared for in your hands.” Shireen dipped her head gratefully.

“Thank you Lord Commander,” Jon smiled and stood up, meeting your eyes for a brief moment. Sam smiled, looking at Olly to open the door.

“I wish you well on your travels Princess,” Shireen smiled, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to your maiden.” You looked at him, his eyes meeting yours.

“Of course,” Shireen said, “I will see you later Y/N.” You nodded as Shireen and Sam walked out the door. Olly followed them, to wait outside. You turned towards Jon, whose face was illuminated by the fire in the hearth. You offered him a shy smile, one that he returned.

“Sorry if this seems forward,” he said, trying to make you seem comfortable. You walked over to the fireplace, warming yourself as Jon spoke. “I couldn’t help but notice how you were watching me,” you felt heat rise to your cheeks. Your were thankful for the fire’s warmth that hid your blush in the red glow.

“Sorry my Lord,” you said, “I was in shock that a man as young as yourself is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It’s impressive.” You wanted to add that his physique was also impressive, but you held back. You turned your head and met his gaze, trying your best not to get immersed in his enchanting eyes.

“It’s quite alright, Lady Y/N,” your breath caught at the sound of your name falling from his lips. “I was staring at you. You are quite beautiful.” You blushed, a small laugh escaping your throat. Jon cocked his head, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Anyone can look beautiful in the warmth of the hearth.” You held his gaze, wondering if he said the same thing to the wildling girl Sam mentioned. You frowned and looked back into the flames, trying to search for the visions Melisandre saw.

“Not anyone,” Jon said and you turned towards him. “Do you not believe how breathtaking you are?” You smiled and glanced from his lips back to his eyes.

“When someone of your standing says it, it’s hard not to believe.” Jon’s smile widened a little, still not showing his teeth. You longed to see a true smile on his face. Would he have crinkles near his eyes or would he have dimples? How strange it was to wonder about someone’s face like this. Jon was still looking into your eyes and you felt tension around you.

“Sam holds you on a pedestal,” you said, looking into the flames again, “he told me a lot about you Jon Snow.” Jon laughed, causing you to turn your head and look at him. He looked like a boy when he smiled, as if his manly exterior hid a small boy inside his heart.

“Anything interesting?” You smiled at him, before telling him.

“You’re brave, honorable,” you mimicked Sam’s accent, “a good man.” Jon smiled softly at your imitation. “He brought up your affinity for wildlings, which is admirable.”

“They are people too after all,” you and Jon said at the same time. You both laughed lightly and then you awkwardly looked back into the flames.

“It’s nice to meet someone who agrees, besides Sam.” You nodded, looking back into his eyes. He must’ve moved closer, or maybe you unconsciously scooted towards him, because you could almost feel his breath against your skin.

“He mentioned a girl,” you whispered and almost immediately, Jon’s face fell into a frown. “Sorry I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Jon shook his head and gazed into the fire.

“It’s alright, it’s true. I loved a free folk girl,” you nodded, watching his face as he stared into the flames. “She also filled me with three arrows,” he added, but despite the painful memory, he smiled. “She was stubborn to say the least but I loved her just the same.”

"You still love her, don't you?" Jon looked back at you, meeting your eyes. There was a sadness in his gaze and you felt bad for asking such a thing.

"I do. I hope one day it'll get better,” he said, “I’ll be able to move on, focus on other things. Other people, maybe.” You nodded, peering into the flames alongside him.

"What about your vows? Don’t they stop you with being with a woman?” From the corner of your eye, you saw Jon turn his head up to look at you. He licked his lips and you turned to face him. You couldn’t see the brown color in his eyes, due to the soft glow of the fire; his pupils were blown as he looked at you.

“Many Brothers have broken the vows, it’s hard not to,” he frowned then, not meeting your eyes, “but I don’t think I’d break them again.” You let out a breath and turned to look at the fire once more. You sighed a little, your nerves falling off your shoulders.

“In another life maybe,” you whispered and Jon nodded. “Maybe the Gods would be far kinder in a different life.” Jon stepped a little closer.

“You’d make me happy,” he said, “in this different life.” You nodded, turning your body to walk away. But you stopped to face him one last time. You were a mere inches apart now and the tension had doubled around the two of you.

“I hope you find happiness Jon Snow,” you whispered, “for you are the most deserving.” He dipped his head thankfully before leaning forwards slightly. You felt his lips press against your forehead, making your shiver slightly. His fingertips brushed your cheek, teasing the both of you with something you couldn’t have. One of your hands covered his, holding his hand to your face. When he pulled away, you stared into his eyes.

“Thank you Y/N, but happiness is scarce up here in the North,” he whispered and you let your hand fall from his. You leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, a last parting gift for the night. Without another word, you walked out of his quarters and back to Shireen’s. When outside, you let tears escape your eyes, hoping they wouldn’t freeze.

“In another life,” you whispered, walking through the falling snow.

You gently guided Shireen up on her horse, smiling as you did. The night before had been perilous on your heart, granted it was, in a way, a mutual rejection. You were leaving and Jon refused to break his vows again. When you returned to Shireen’s room, you had her read to you in order to calm your heart. Her soft voice distracted you a little from your hurt feelings.

But now, those feelings resurfaced as you looked around You noticed Jon talking to Stannis, giving advice and saying a goodbye. You shifted on your feet as Jon approached Shireen, who greeted the Lord Commander with a wave.

“I hope you enjoy that book Princess, farwell.” Shireen dipped her head from atop her horse and Jon smiled. The Lord stepped towards you extending a hand for you. He helped you get on your horse, not meeting your eyes as you did. Once seated, you looked down at his hand that still held yours. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your skin.

“In another life, Lady Y/N,” you warmed at the words; for within them there was a promise of sorts. You were enough for him and he was enough for you. But the two of you weren’t together, couldn’t be together.

“In another world, Jon Snow,” he met your eyes with a true smile on his lips. He let go of your hand as Castle Black’s gate opened for the rest of Stannis’ army. Your horse started walking behind Shireen’s, even as you held his gaze. You didn’t want to look away quite yet, you wanted to remember his face because you might not ever see him again. 

  In another life, you repeated the words over in your head at the army marched forth and towards the snowy hell of Winterfell.

[danschkade]

ANALYSIS -- BATMAN: GOTHAM ADVENTURES #17

On a recent trip to visit my folks, I went through some boxes and found, sans cover, this copy of 1999’s BATMAN: GOTHAM ADVENTURES #17. Gotham Adventures was my full-stop favorite comic when it was coming out, a combination of me being smack dab in the middle of its target demographic and it being really, really well made. Tight story, dynamic artwork, clean, crisp colors and letters. As I transition from Vacation Dan back to The Schkade That Works, I thought it would be a useful exercise to go through this issue, page by page, to see how it ticks.

I’ll be focusing mainly on the pencils and colors by Tim Levins and Lee Loughridge, respectively, plus Scott Peterson’s script — Terry Beatty is one of my favorite inkers ever and letter Tim Harkins acquits himself expertly, so I won’t have much to say about them beyond “continues to be amazing, surprising no one.”

And please, feel free to check me on any mistakes I might have made, add your own commentary, or share similar examples of good comics done well.

Batman: Gotham Adventures and all characters contained therin are of course property of DC Comics, reproduced here solely for educational purposes.

PAGE ONE

We open strong with a full-page splash. Three distinct players whose suits, hats, and bad ties immediately code them in the Timm-verse aesthetic as ‘Hoodlums’ give us immediate sense of threat. Their momentum is heading left, into the fold, against the western flow of reading; this is because they’re bad guys — their actions go against the proper order of things, up to and including the reading flow. But also for another reason, which the right-most hood’s reaction sets us up for, compelling us to turn the page.

PAGE TWO-THREE

An even stronger followup with a double-page splash. Batman smashes in through the window in a powerful left to right movement, in direct opposition to the gangsters’ movement on the previous splash. The background establishes the family Batman is there to protect, as well as the shabbiness of their apartment and clothes. The fact that Batman’s cape can still be partially outside the window while he’s hitting the hoods who just came through the opposite doorway immediately sells how small the space is. What could these poor people possibly have that’s worth three armed gunmen kicking down their door?

PAGE FOUR

This page is all about one thing: establishing Batman as an overwhelming force. Strong left-to-right movement, always dominating the panel, no signs that this is especially difficult for him. His first line of dialogue: a piece of short, relaxed, confident detective talk.

PAGE FIVE

The first two panels do a lot. Batman converses openly with the Agronas family, who clearly trust him. He’s a terrifying physical presence, but a terrifying physical presence of the people. It also shows that Nicky Agronas is bright — wears glasses, reads the newspaper. As soon as they mention the husband, the husband appears, which is a nice clean introduction for that character. There’s no reason the husband could’t have been in the double splash that introduces his wife and son, but having him coming home in the middle of this scene is a great way to inject a little motion onto a page that would otherwise just have been four people talking in a room. Lastly, the sudden use of heavy black — enhanced by Loughridge’s shift to unnatural yellow lighting — makes Batman’s suspicion of the husband feel intimidating without having to change his physical demeanor, which would have both been over-the-top and undone the work the first couple panels do to make him a sympathetic protagonist.

Academic sidebar: Setting aside that this is an issue in a series featuring one of the most famous fictional detectives of all time, how do we know Batman the protagonist of this story? Because he’s the one doing things and asking questions, moving the plot forward.

PAGE SIX

Nice one-two beat with the first two panels on this page: Panel one, Mr. Agronas is calmly answering the question — he’s a good citizen with nothing to fear from Batman. Batman still dominates the frame, though. Panel two zooms in on Agronas, putting the question of his involvement to bed with a simple, honest mini-joke. Letting him have a panel all to himself to say this is a good way to humanize him. In panel three, Batman continues to tower, but there’s no threat of violence. Here, as on the high-angle shot in panel three of the previous page, we see some shattered glass to remind us of the damage to the window and door from earlier. The money Batman leaves them for said damage is totally understated, with only the bright green color drawing attention to it. Batman’s a stand-up guy, but drawing attention to it wouldn’t fit his image.

PAGE SEVEN

There’s nothing in this first panel that says “JAIL” or “POLICE” — it’s just a bluntly governmental-looking building (I believe it’s specifically the blocky grey columns that give it this feeling), but we can tell from the fact that there’s prison bars in the next panel that that’s what the building is. No need to add extraneous detail. I like the design Levins gave the head hood, first seen on page one — the unibrow is a great way to sell the change from frowning to fear. Note also how many memorable features the big prisoner has — bald, scar, blind eye, bad teeth. He’s easy to remember, which will become important shortly.

PAGE EIGHT

Loughridge’s sickly green colors of the previous page snap back to natural lighting on this page, immediately conveying the change in environment. And hey, how great is that Commissioner Gordon silhouette in panel one? That’s some smart use of character model. Regarding the design of the big prisoner from the previous page — we see here that he’s in fact Batman in disguise, which actually saves us a lot of space on this page; instead of showing him removing the disguise and then putting on the cowl, we only need to see him opening the shirt to reveal the bat emblem, and then in the next panel, bam, he’s Batman. We know Bruce Wayne doesn’t look like that. We know it’s a disguise. We get it. It does rely on the reader having a basic knowledge of these characters and this world, but all things considered, that’s a pretty safe bet. Couple other things: Levins keeps the energy up by skewing the axis of the four panel grid, which also gives this rooftop scene a nice sense of vertigo. I’m actually not a huge fan of the last panel — I find that the upside-down pose kind of undercuts the gravity of what he’s saying, I think the leftwards movement is weird, and the whole panel is just, like, tangent city. That said, still a strong page.

PAGE NINE

Again: Batman as an Overwhelming Force. I know I just bashed the previous page for its leftward movement, but on this page it works really well — the wreckage of Batman’s assault on the house leads leftward towards the front door, up the stairs, ultimately across Zarelli’s desk, towards the man himself. I think this counter reading flow movement really effectively sells Batman as an invading presence in this man’s home. This page also shows us the wealth and power of Enrico Zarelli, who we finally see in the last panel after being mentioned regularly for four pages; The huge house, the framed artwork, the dozen armed thugs. See also the confidence of his speech, and the fact that he’s shadowed just like Batman. There’s an implicit feeling that this is a meeting between equals.

PAGE TEN

Nice that our first full look at Zarelli has him in his own panel, with the cowled shadow on the wall behind him suggesting Batman’s off-panel movement towards him. Great acting here — I love how Zarelli no-sells Batman’s gimmick.

PAGE ELEVEN

Levins (with the round panels boarders) and Loughridge (with his deceptively-hard-to-pull-off-well use of grey and sepia tones) work together well here to make the scene a flashback without drawing attention to that effect. Note how we don’t need to see Zarelli’s whole body to know he can walk, we just need to see him moving at the same height as other, presumably ambulatory people. Cool dramatic composition in the last panel, placing us in the line of fire along with Zarelli and his men.

PAGE TWELVE

This use of shadow to cleanly yet powerfully suggest something gruesome off screen is something ‘Batman: The Animated Series’ did so well, and it’s likewise effective here. Seeing Zarelli’s clenching hand (the Z ring was established on the previous page) gives us just enough intimacy to feel his pain. The use of black as a costume design element in this scene makes Zarelli, his son, and Batman feel a little more important and real than the hoods on either side.

PAGE THIRTEEN

I like that there’s a batarang laying on the ground amongst the dead/unconscious gangsters. It’s not necessary, but we saw him throw it on the previous page, so it’s a nice little piece of continuity. The final two panels have added impact because they’re the last before the page turn, giving them a feeling of isolation and hopelessness (undercut slightly by the fact that the page turns to a very colorful double page DC Kids page encouraging young readers to enter a nabisco sweepstakes, recycle this comic, and, perhaps most puzzlingly, pick up the first issue of the ‘Day of Judgement’ crossover).

PAGE FOURTEEN

Good call having Batman’s cape closed over him on this page. It makes him less aggressive, almost judge-like, befitting the respect he’s giving this man who lost his son. The cool coloring in panel four adds impact to the dicey situation Batman now faces.

PAGE FIFTEEN

Appropriately, we go from talking about sons de facto and de jure to having Batman talk it over with Dick Grayson, his son by any other name. Here, the upside down thing actually serves to break up the mood after a heavy scene. The fact that they’re talking about serious business while casually practicing acrobatics makes the scene particular to these specific characters — even when there’s no one to punch and nothing to detect, there’s still always Batman stuff going on in this Batman comic.

PAGE SIXTEEN

This page rules. I love how much motion there is, even down to Dick’s change of arm position in the background from panels one to two. It makes the motion of Bruce pulling off the mask seem smaller and more intimate by comparison. And that last line is just all-american grade-A understanding of character. It’s informed by Bruce’s origins, but not directly referencing them. He can’t put his personal desire to see Zarelli’s empire destroyed before his human duty to give Nicky the chance to know his biological father. Panel two of this page also features our first and only bleed art (art which extends beyond the edge of the physical page, as opposed to art contained within the boarders of a panel), which further gives the Batcave a sense of hugeness, and nicely breaks up the layout of the page besides.

PAGE SEVENTEEN

Note that the only characters we can clearly see on this page are Nicky and Zarelli — the scene is about them, not Batman and the goons, who are all either far away or in shadow. Nice touch, the goons all being in casts and bandages. I can’t even put my finger on why that works so well; they’re not really there to guard anything, since Batman already went through them once without much trouble. I think their main purpose on this page is to make us feel how Nicky feels in this place; this big house full of men with guns, this intimidating world this man is asking him to be a part of.

PAGE EIGHTEEN

This page is lit warmly, with lots of sympathetic angles. It’s not until the last panel that Zarelli’s pitch is thrown into any kind of suspicious light. “Without family, you have nothing” — but family with Zarelli means gunmen, tainted opulence, and the looming, annihilating specter of Batman.

Now, I’ve eschewed ads in my scans until now, but I include this one as a particularly good example of how even the best writers have no control over what image might end up facing an important emotional moment.

PAGE NINETEEN

The first page dedicated entirely to Nicky and Zarelli. The very sympathetic first panel transitions into an intense close up in panel two that makes Zarelli’s offer feel almost like a threat, even though that’s clearly not how he intendeds it. Zarelli can’t help being the dangerous gangster he is. The first time Nicky speaks, it’s to ask about his parents, and I love Zarelli’s castoffish response, “The people who raised you?”

PAGE TWENTY

Another page solely of Nicky and Zarelli. If the last couple pages have been all about Zarelli’s pitch, this one is entirely about Nicky’s process. The Thinker’s a little on the nose, but I dunno, it works. And it goes towards our ongoing theme of Nicky Is Smart. He’s staged strongly throughout, reflecting the strong decision he makes. The choice to include the background in panel four helps reinforce Nicky and Zarelli’s spatial relationship, which heightens the act of walking away. That it’s this close to the end of the story and Peterson can still devote an entire page to this moment shows how well-paced the issue is.

PAGE TWENTY ONE

The goons become useful again in this final action beat. Batman Overwhelming Forces them into the doorjamb, a good use of the environment to make it clear he gets to them before they can get after Nicky, but his real rage is saved for when he turns around toward Zarelli. He’s huge in this panel, as aggressive and dangerous as we’ve seen him in this issue. Zarelli, by contrast, is made small by a high angle shot, his hands folded in his lap. The four panel grid is even skewed so as to squeeze him into the corner, in addition to making the action in the previous panels more dynamic.

PAGE TWENTY TWO

It’s Batman and Son again, with the green glow of the batcomputer establishing the change in location. The note to Lucius Fox in panel two is a nice large scale version of him leaving the money on the Agronas’ table on page six. And Nicky would be a good candidate, too — this is the (or at least a) payoff for Nicky Is Smart. Panel three is small and all utility, showing Batman’s change back to Bruce Wayne as we transition up from the cave to Wayne manner, a panel made necessary by the fact that we haven’t yet established that location in this issue. We’re left with a nice big final panel, rosy and nostalgic in direct contrast to the green of the batcave. Bruce looks from left to right at the portrait of his parents, mirroring the portrait in Zarelli’s study, cementing the emotional connection he feels to a man who is in all other regards his enemy. You could read the fact that Bruce’s sitting as an additional corollary to the wheelchair-bound Zarelli, but I think it’s just that a seated position works best for the horizontal composition of the panel. Strong ending for a very strong issue.

LETTERS PAGE

Nothing insightful to offer here, it’s just that I’ve always thought this next issue cover was rad. I probably have that one too, somewhere.

(The missing cover, by Bob Smith and Terry Beatty, is awesome.)

[aethelar]

Picture this, folks. New York. January. Cold like a loveless marriage, the sort that turns around and shivs you just for something to do. Snow gone brown and mushy. Grey sky, and the clouds look like tobacco smoke against it. Probably taste like it too, and piss out bourbon when they rain - the city’s got that kind of feel to it. And me, traipsing through the alley like a damn schmuck on a case that’s locked up tighter than a whorehouse to beggar. I’ve been on this thing for thirty six hours and it’s gone straight to hell with a manic grin and a trail of bodies to mark the way.

Am I being screwed over? Like a choir boy on an altar, but a case is a case. You don’t hire a guy like me if you’ve got an easy one and this is so far from an easy one I may as well get a new passport and emigrate. I’ve had two guys try to drop me and I’m getting fucking sick of being shot at, and the church that was supposed to be my next lead is a pile of smoking rubble with a corpse or two thrown in as a fun freebie to brighten my day. Nothing cheers you up like learning that your kidnapping case went murderous on you. Better than Christmas come eleven months early and leaving a pipe bomb in your stocking, and Santa being a dick who drank the last of the booze and stuck an IOU note to the empty flask.

How did I get myself here? Well. It started with this dame. Scamander, that was the name, friend of Queenie’s sister, something like that - Queenie comes over to my desk all smiles like she couldn’t stick a stiletto through your heart and twist it. Says she has a case for me, says I’ll like this one. Says I should open the window and let some sunlight in the room before I choke on the gloom, but all that would do is swap the smoke from inside for the smog from outside and it’s high quality smoke in my office. I ain’t trading that for the cheap shit they breathe in the street.

“Don’t be shy honey,” she says to the dame. “Graves don’t bite. He talks big, but he’s a real softy on the inside.”

You’re a star, Queenie. A real diamond in the shitpile of life. God only knows why I keep you around.

She ushers the dame in, and I prepare myself for the usual schtick. Been doing this job for long enough now that I know the trope: red dress, killer heels, flashier jewels than a doll their age could afford but the kind of makeup that says exactly where they got the money from. Drop a bit of leg on the desk, bat their eyes and take the sort of drag on their cigarette that a guy would usually pay to see, dump a case on me that no sane detective would ever take.

Joke’s on them; they can lean forwards all they want, but this detective is as bent as politician’s morals. Nice assets darling, but they do exactly squat for me. I take the cases. I solve the cases, because that’s what I do. And then I charge them through the fucking nose for the privilege and drop their pretty jewels off at the pawn shop on my way home. It pays the bills.

So I’m sat there, bracing myself for more of the same, and Queenie steps back as the dame comes through.

I swear my heart took one look and decided to do the fucking charleston against my ribs. One of the routines which is all kicks and flailing like an epileptic flamingo and some idiot shredding a ukulele in the background.

“Take a seat, sweetie,” Queenie says, and I can see on her face that she knows exactly what her new case is doing to me. If I wasn’t so close to cardiac arrest I’d say something about that, but I focus on remembering to breathe instead. “You want anything? Coffee, tea, can I get you a slice of something nice?”

“Whiskey,” I croak out, and Queenie ignores me.

“Oh,” the dame says, and fuck if his voice isn’t liquid honey and ice cream in summer. Fuck. “No, I’m good. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” He ducks his head and looks up through a curly ginger fringe. Pain starts shooting down my left arm as my heart gives out.

“Don’t be silly,” Queenie scolds. “I’ll get you a tea, you just wait right there.” 

He smiles, all bashful and shy, and I start praying because I’ve lived through a lot in the comedic shitshow that’s my life but this? This is what’s going to kill me.

“So Mr Scamander,” I say in a strangled attempt at a drawl. “I hear you have a case for me?”

He nods, quick and jittery like, and reaches into his pocket for a photo. When he unfolds it it shows some miserable fuck with a haircut not even a mother could love and I swear, this better not be his boyfriend. My life is trouble enough without the inevitable fallout when I steal the guy’s dame from under his nose. Because I will. I’ll feel bad about it, sure, but morals are a luxury I’m miles too broke to afford and opportunities like this don’t come often enough to pass them by.

“This is Credence. He’s my...” He pauses. It’s a long pause, one that drags on too long as he searches for the words, and I can tell you this because I wasn’t breathing during it and my chest was on fucking fire by the time he picked up again. “He’s family. And he’s missing, and I wanted - I was hoping - you think you can find him, Mr Graves?”

And see, you don’t come to a dive like this with a basic missing person’s case like that. My brain’s as pickled as my liver from all the spirits I’ve soaked it in, but I ain’t blind enough not to spot that there’s something more going on here. I shoulda chucked the dame out the window and told him to keep the change for trying to pull a fast one on me, or at the very least grilled him like a flambe steak until he spilled the beans.

He leans forward and bites his lip, big eyes all wide and bad news writ over him like a twenty foot billboard and fuck me sideways with a jazz band.

My will’s in my left shoe and Queenie, the traitor, is inheriting the business and every dime of the debt that comes with it. 

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Walk Me Home - Ch 4

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension. 

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 2702

Author’s Note: Mega thanks to @mskathywriteswords​ , @fangirlxwritesx67​, and @cracksinthewalls​ for editing, revision, flailing, and generally knocking sense into me when I’m being stubborn. You all made this story way better than it started it, and I love you. Thanks to everyone who read/reblogged/liked the first chapter. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I do. 

@thoughtslikeaminefield​ , I hope you still love this as much as the first time you read it. I know I do.

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. 

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 4

Kimber knows she’s staring, but she can’t stop herself. His fingers, rough and strong from years of the hardest work, brush circles over her wrists that send her pulse fluttering through her veins. So many emotions flicker behind his eyes, some of them mirroring her own, some of them alien and unreadable. So many years have passed, so much water under the bridge, as the saying goes. 

The thing is, he was completely right earlier. She could have called him, once she learned who he and his family were, once she found a way.

But he had left town with her phone number memorized. He was in a much more logical position to get in touch, and right away, at that. And he never did. She knows he had a good reason, a completely reasonable one that would make sense if she just asked him.

But she’s scared and drained and confused and more than a little ashamed, and she’s tired of making a fool of herself.

She drops her eyes before the tears fully form and murmurs a quiet thanks as she loosens her hands from his grip. Though walking away is not what she wants to do, she forces her legs straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a firm click. 

She’ll feel better after a hot shower. That’s all she needs, a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. They’ll figure this out tomorrow, and then Dean and his brother will ride off into the sunset, and everything will go back to normal. She’ll go back to her classes as usual, helping out the occasional hunter or scholar with some lore, and she’ll bury all these feelings behind her heart again, drown them so deep they’ll never dream of resurfacing.

At least, that’s the fairy tale she tells herself as the scalding stream washes the saltwater from her cheeks. 

She actually does feel moderately restored by the time she steps out of the bathroom. She feels a little ridiculous in Dean’s clothing. The sleeves of the t-shirt hang past her elbows, and the pants legs are rolled up several times to keep her from tripping. 

At least the waist has a drawstring, she thinks as she rounds the corner back into the room. She pulls the towel from her hair, shaking it out a little just as Dean looks up from his laptop at the small table. His mouth opens, eyes widening. She’s not sure because of the poor lighting of the room, but his face seems to color a little as his eyebrows lift.

She is suddenly, acutely aware that she did not put her bra back on when getting dressed in his white t-shirt that is probably not nearly as thin as it feels.

Dean clears his throat, turning back to his computer, swallowing whatever comments have entered his mind. Kimber can’t decide whether to laugh or blush even harder and settles for the third option of hanging her office clothes up so they can air out a little before tomorrow. 

With nothing else to do, she drops onto the edge of the bed gracelessly, feeling every minute of the last few weeks catching up with her. Uncertainty and fear claw at her, ripping away what little defenses she has left. The image of the mutilated doll flashes before her eyes, red paint splashed luridly on her favorite comforter. Her lungs clench, and she sags on the mattress. 

She presses her fingers hard against her face. Acid burns at the back of her throat, bitter and biting. Her fingernails are just beginning to dig into her scalp when she registers the click of the laptop closing. Half a moment passes, then the bed dips beside her. 

She doesn’t consciously decide to move; her body simply molds itself to his side as Dean slides his arm around her back. He turns into the embrace, his other arm gathering her tightly against him. His cheek comes to rest on top of her head. The silence between them is the comfort she needs, his warmth and solidity the anchor that keeps her from drifting too far into panic.

When he finally speaks, his words rumble through her nerves, settling heavy and soothing in her chest.

“We’re gonna get this son of a bitch, Kimber. I’m sorry they got into your house, but I’m glad I was with you. I…” She rises gently with his deep inhalation, pressed as she is against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

She hears what he isn’t saying, and her hands drop from her face, her arms slipping around his middle as her eyes close.

“Me, too, Dean.”

...

“That pumpkin pie was somethin’ else,” Dean murmured. His arms were folded behind his head as he stretched out on top of Kimber’s bedspread. He crossed his ankles, settling in like he belonged there. His thin t-shirt stretched across his wiry frame, jeans lying enticingly low on his hips, and she could just see a glimpse of pink toe through a hole in one of his socks.

A pleasant, off-balancing thrill skipped down Kimber’s spine, twirling through her stomach and making her head spin a little. Dean’s jacket was hung carefully on her desk chair, his boots lined up on the floor underneath, and his button-up overshirt folded neatly on the desk.

Her parents had gone to bed long ago, and she had snuck Dean in the back door. After their exhilarating but chilled stroll that afternoon, she’d decided against the treehouse. Dean had been amused but willing, although he’d had one stipulation that had nearly made her laugh aloud.

“We get caught and your folks kick me out, you’re bringing me your mom’s leftovers to school every day for breakfast. I’m not missin’ out on home cooking just because you can’t stand to be away from me.”

Now, seeing him so comfortable on her bed, like he just belonged...Kimber knew the smile on her face was on the goofier end of sappy, but she couldn’t help it. He was just so damned…

“Cute,” he said, smirking up at her. “I know what you’re thinking. And I’m not cute. I’m adorable.”

She sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Fine, you’re gorgeous, adorable, vital, the absolute most. Now close your eyes so I can change.” Smirk still firmly in place, Dean dutifully closed his eyes. She knew, despite the short time she’d known him, that she could trust Dean to keep his eyes shut.

She spent a few seconds regretting the lack of any silky, dramatic nightgowns or cute, sexy little matching pajama sets. Oh, well; couldn’t have everything. She stripped quickly, tossing her school clothes into the hamper and slipping on her “Aaahh!!! Real Monsters” t-shirt. Thick socks and plaid pajama pants completed her night ensemble. 

That she had just been naked (however unseen said nakedness had been) in front of Dean Winchester had not escaped her. She licked her lips, cheeks warm, and turned slowly back to the bed. He lay still, chest rising and falling steadily, and she marveled, not for the first time, that he was here, in her room. Just for her.

Her pulse jumped, her lungs tightened, and for just a second, Kimber panicked.

“You can, uh...you can open your eyes. I’m gonna go brush my teeth; I’ll be right back.”

She fled silently down the hallway, brushed her teeth in record time, and then stared in the mirror. Her hair was just her hair, nothing amazing or horrifying; no point trying to fix that before bed. Maybe…make-up?

“Kimber. What the hell?” she muttered. “You’re not seducing him, just be cool. Jeez. You can’t wear make-up to bed.”

She splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing her skin dry with a hand towel more forcefully than necessary. She gave her reflection another once-over and took a deep breath.

“You’re his choice, too,” she reminded herself. “Just chill.”

She found him exactly as she’d left him, completely relaxed on the bed, eyes still closed. She thought for a moment that he might have fallen asleep. Kimber wasn’t sure if she felt more disappointment or relief.

“You left in a little bit of a hurry,” he murmured, eyes still closed, and she started. “Everything okay?” She almost put him off, could feel the brush-off on her lips, but his eyes slid open, pinning her on the spot. She got the eerie sense that he would know, that he already knew she was trying to put on a front, and she deflated a little.

“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted. The heat in her cheeks turned up a few degrees, spreading down her neck, and she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “I’ve never...snuck a guy to my room before. I just...this is mostly new to me, but with you, I want...I don’t know.”

Without a word, Dean slid from the bed and crossed the room, his mesmerizing eyes never leaving hers. He stopped a few feet away and waited, his arms open. With the bed suddenly out of the equation, Kimber felt a hidden knot of anxiety untie in her chest. 

She let out a breath and stepped into his embrace, her arms circling his waist in a way that felt easy and right. Dean’s lips pressed a warming kiss to the crown of her head. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered. “This is your room, your space, but even if it wasn’t-” He paused, leaning back and brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Kimber, look at me.”

She did, and his earnest expression left no room to doubt his next words. It barely left room for breathing.

“ ‘M not here to make you feel uncomfortable or scared. I’m here because you want me to be. The second that stops, the second I make you feel something you don’t want, that’s it. Period. Does that work for you?”

His eyes, so plaintive and weathered in that moment, cut right to her heart. Never in her life had Kimber felt so safe, so protected, and so very sad. She couldn’t think of any words that lived up to the magnitude of what Dean had just said, so she simply squeezed him tighter, pressing her face against the side of his neck. 

“Can you stay?” she asked. She knew he had obligations, probably needed to get back to his brother or at least check in with his dad. She felt terribly selfish in her warm, safe house with her parents right down the hall. Still, she asked. 

“Yeah, I can stay for a while.” His smile, soft and open, laid her doubts to rest. They settled onto the bed, fumbling a little awkwardly to find a position they both liked. There was some bumping, mumbled apologies, until they finally sorted out a comfortable twist of limbs that didn’t set her heart beating out of her ribs or threaten to cut off blood flow to anything important. 

She relaxed by increments, her cheek resting on his collarbone. He hugged her close with his left arm, his right hand combing slowly through her hair over and over. The silence settled around them like a second blanket, soothing and heavy.

“What do you want to do when you finish school, Kimber? College?”

“Probably,” she murmured. “I don’t know specifically, but I like research.”

He snorted, and she poked him in the side.

“Shut up, you jerk, I do. And I like sharing the information. I like helping people. I don’t really want to be a teacher, but maybe I can find something where I can do all of that.”

Dean resumed combing her hair, having paused when she poked him, and they settled a little more closely together.

“Dean?”

“Mmm?”

She blinked slowly, sleep pulling at her eyelids. Her thoughts spun out languidly, losing their urgency as his warmth seeped through the thin fabric of her pajamas. 

“How about you?”

His answer came quickly, rehearsed and without thought. “Join the family business. Dad’s been training me for years. Don’t have a lotta choice, but I know I’ll be good at it. Was raised for it.”

Her fingers crept up, her eyes staying closed for longer and longer periods between blinks. She slid her thumb over his chin, just brushing the line of his bottom lip before sliding slowly up his jaw. 

His words weren’t emotionless, but they were automatic. There was so much he never said, and she hated to push him, afraid he would just leave or shut down, but…

“But what do you want?” She persisted, drowsiness interfering with her usual restraint. “Who do you want to be?”

He was silent for so long, she nearly gave in to fatigue. She drifted on the edge of unconsciousness, fingers stroking through the silky strands of hair behind his ears. She felt his face turn, his lips press against her wrist.

“I want...this,” he said. Even half-asleep, she couldn’t mistake the raw longing behind his words. “I want...I want to work a boring, regular job and come home to someone who missed me all day as much as I missed her. I want my kids to cannonball into my legs so hard they knock me over. I want…”

His words choked off, and she stilled her fingers against his cheek, waiting for him to continue.

“I want a house. No...I...when I was little, Dad would come home, and he would just...sweep Mom up sometimes, swing her around, when they weren’t fighting. Even when they were, he’d do it sometimes anyway just to get her to laugh.”

She felt his face shift beneath her hand, but his smile didn’t feel quite right, and she moved closer. His arm tightened around her back, and he smoothed the palm of his free hand down to cup her jaw.

“I want a home. I want to be a dad, a husband. I want a family.”

She felt childish, shallow next to the depth of his simple declaration. Dean wanted what she had, what she took for granted every day of her life. This was the first time he’d spoken of his mother, and though curiosity burned hot inside her, she didn’t dare ask further questions, afraid she’d break the spell of the moment.

Dean’s voice dropped until she could feel it more than hear it, his lips pressing softly against her forehead.

“I want to come home and hold someone until I fall asleep every night. I want to wake up to her and know that my whole day, every day, is gonna be just that, all over again.”

She lifted her face to his then, and in the darkness of her bedroom she could only just make out the barest lines of his features. Their noses brushed, his hand gently pulling at the back of her head, and their lips met. His cheek was damp under her fingertips, and her heart clenched. 

She pulled his head down, brushing her lips over the tears trickling down his cheekbones more by feel than by sight. Both his arms came around her then, pulling her against his chest as he buried his face in his hair. They breathed together, memorizing each others’ scents, heartbeats, rhythms as the night crept by. 

The moment didn’t pass so much as gradually relax until Kimber felt him shift beneath her, smoothly sliding her off his chest and down to the pillows. He kissed her temple, and her face automatically turned to his, chasing his lips. She felt him chuckle against her mouth.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I gotta go. Need to check on Sammy, make sure he got dinner, did his homework, all that mess. I’ll see you tomorrow. Walk you to school?”

She nodded, humming her agreement even as she blindly reached for him. Something soft brushed against her fingers, and she automatically pulled it down, cuddling against the fabric. 

“Hold onto that for me. I’ll get it back from you sometime.” She felt a kiss press to her forehead, and then the click of her door closing. She breathed in, Dean’s scent surrounding her as she slipped under again, his button-up shirt pillowed under her cheek and tangled in her fingers. 

…

To Be Continued...

[teacher-lavin]

Bon Bon, Jan Savitt, and me*

Photo from Vol Vistu Gaily Star (1939). 

See author’s reading of story in audio file at bottom. Also, Recording of Bon Bon performing “The Masquerade is Over.”

I found an envelope on my desk full of letters that I must have written back in brighter times. This one was on top. 

Dear Bon Bon:

I hope that’s OK, --to call you “Bon Bon.” I met you in 1974, the year just before you passed. You had invited my dad to visit, and he brought me along. I was 19. All I knew was that you were the crooner whose silken voice fronted the Jan Savitt Orchestra in the 1930s when my dad was a trombone player with the band.

Big handshakes when we arrived. I think you had been ill, and you were staying in Philly with your sister or an aunt. Trying to seem grown, I said, “Bon Bon, it’s great to meet you.” But my dad cut me down, saying, “That's Mr. Tunnell, to you, boy. Who do you think you are?” So, I corrected myself, “Sorry, Mr. Tunnell.” And you smiled and said, “Don’t pay that old goat no mind.” And then you candidly asked my dad, “Jack, does he play?” And my dad said, “He’s terrible.”

The room had an audience of three or four of your cousins and a blind lady from the neighborhood. There was also a delicate young woman about my age, a niece. My dad was being very courteous and fun with everybody, except me, of course. He usually reserved his jovial laugh, and decorous, joking manner for people whom he wished to impress. I was easily embarrassed in those days, particularly in “company” with my father. The reason was that my dad’s way of dealing with me was to attack when he sensed my weakness. The worst was when we were with other people.

So then, my father dressed me down again with a rebuke, “Kid, when are you gonna get a lip?” Shaking his head, he lamented loudly that I never practiced. But, Bon Bon, you put your arm around me, and whispered in a tone that  the whole room could hear, “Young fella, your old man ain’t never gonna change. He’s just wound up too tight. I would love to hear you playing or even leading a band somewhere, someday. I know you will.” You were speaking like you could look into my future. Then, you quipped, “You gotta have a sweet-lookin’ trumpet or a trombone, right?” I nodded. That was a lie. And you included my dad in the musing, “Jack, we gonna buy this kid a valve-trombone like that silver-plated horn we bought for you. Remember that, Jack? I told Mr. Savitt to get that one for you! You always made it sing.”

Bob Bon! The airy way you intoned your words was a melody. Your speaking voice rose and fell like a brass choir. Your phrasing, your pauses weren’t just talk, your way of speaking was like Coltrane and Miles trading licks at a jam session.  While speaking, you walked me across the room and introduced me to your niece, and she greeted me with this kind, innocent, bashful, welcoming single syllable and  accompanying gesture, “Hi.” She raised her hand faintly and tapped the air twice delicately. I melted. You prompted me, 

“Well, is it trombone or trumpet? I know Tommy Dorsey here would never let you play the sax." My dad rebutted, “Don’t mix me up with that scoundrel, Dorsey!” For my part, I was way off key at this point and, trying to sound mature and to join in the banter, I overstated my cause, “I play both! I play trombone and trumpet. Man, I’m bad.”

You saved me, halting and gazing at my old man, warning him, “Look out, Jack. He’s coming’ for you.” My dad just shook his head.

We were in the nice room at the front of your folks’ house where visitors came. When my mom and dad had been together, we had had a room like that. Drinks appeared. There was a lot of laughing. Once I started to feel the beer, I was OK. That’s how I met you. You were more than generous. You were a magnanimous presence. Well, the story continues. My dad and I left your family high and late that pallid summer afternoon. It was the seventies in Philly. The car radio played Temple University’s Jazz Station low, and against a background of static another friend of my dad, Hank Mobley, was wafting a Brazilian-styled Bossa melody from the car’s speakers. We were somewhere in Southwest Philadelphia. As we drove away, we were euphoric on so many memories you and my father shared. Skying on that feeling of friendship, --free associating like a long piano solo. We were inebriated by the luxury of having been together partying with good people. For the moment, I was drunk. And so I felt almost safe. Dad was telling me stories about you guys. I  knew that you were the star of Philly’s  Jan Savitt Orchestra. As my father wheeled his rusting Cadillac homeward, he told me that you were Catholic and that, while playing a gig in Pittsburgh where the band had to stay in a hotel, he met you early one Sunday morning walking to mass at a nearby Catholic church. He reminisced over the steering wheel, “It was a big band. Fifty people or more on the road.  But that singled Bon Bon and me out. We were the only two practicing Catholics. After that, we prayed together when the band was on the road on weekends.” It wasn’t just the whiskey talking, it was affection. From my dad, that was different. His voice went falsetto high and even broke a couple of times. He said you had “credibility” with Jan Savitt and that the bandleader followed your advice about musical arrangements, style and orchestra personnel. After you and my dad had gone to church  together, you must have commended his trombone playing to Savitt. So, the conductor began calling him up during performances from the back of the bandstand to the mike. Once up front, my dad said that he would crochet vamps and runs on the trombone behind “Bon Bon’s magical manner of lyricizing.” His horn had to echo your singing. The trombone had to blend, dipping in and out of your trademark sound. My dad concluded, “That was a great opportunity. Bon Bon opened the door for me.”

So, after leaving hotels in Reading and Scranton, Pennsylvania and Atlantic City and Cape May, New Jersey to seek out Sunday morning masses, doors started opening for my dad. I guess no matter how much hell you guys were raising through Saturday nights, you both went regularly together to communion the next morning. You had a bond. I learned that you knew lots of people in Pittsburgh, too. Through you, my dad met Art Blakey, Sonny Stitt and Ahmad Jamal all playing in the Hill District. “Bon Bon brought me to the party,” my dad remembered.

That suave evening on the way home, I also learned that Jan Savitt was real committed to launching an integrated orchestra back in the 1930s. As if teaching, my dad historicized, “Savitt was Jewish and he had seen too much hate. He wanted music to be a language that everybody could hear and speak and understand.” I was young, but I got that.

My dad remembered that, in some bands, white players were paid higher, belonged to separate musicians’ unions than black players and, “There were places we played where we had to enter through separate doors because the owners were racist idiots. It was humiliating to everybody. You see. You’ve got a friend who is including you in his life. You’ve got a friend who’s sharing his family and  connections with you. You’ve got a friend who is taking care of you. Then, you see him being excluded from the money and the respect he deserves, and there’s nothing you can do about it.  His family and friends always made space for me, --always were good to others. I was never cut out. No matter how hard he worked, Bon Bon was exploited, disrespected and insulted. He always showed courage. He always showed humanity.”  

The way home, punctuated by neighborhoods and stop lights and crosstown expressways, went quiet. Finally, my dad asked me, “So, what do you think?” Feeling unprepared, I said, “I don’t know,” Then, he reprimanded, “Well you’d better figure it the hell out, kid. You’d better figure things out or you’re going be stuck out in the cold.” 

We were back to being bitter. My dad by invective. Me by clenched silences. The stress of being with my dad made me sweat so much that I felt feverish. The hot summer evening suddenly seemed cold. So much had happened, I couldn’t make sense of  the currents sweeping through my shaking body. I got out of the car finally and my dad didn’t say “Bye,” he just said, “Figure it out!” That was over half-a-century ago, but since that time whenever I wanted to cheer my father up, I would mention your name. Especially at the end of his fight with cancer. As he’d lay listless in the aftermath of treatments, all I had to do was mention you if I wanted to see him pause and smile. Bon Bon! However briefly,  you brought me and my dad together. You made us whole. Yes. Your voice called friends and families and lovers to life’s weird party. Then, you sang, and those people felt the love. Audiences that came to hear you saw Black people and Jewish people and Irish Catholics and Protestants and Muslims all performing together back in the 1930s. You were a healer.

My dad was cruel, and I’ve had to deal with that. But he did love you. And the best gift he gave to me was the way he adored jazz musicians for their talents and their friendship.

He told me, “You can learn to love Jazz. It’s African music. It’s beautiful. Jazz is like being part of a big family. Ella and Dizzy and the Duke and the Count. They’re all connected. But you can never know what Black people in this country experience. You can never know the bigotry they have to face. You can’t know that from the inside.”

I got that as a kid. The only time I had ever seen the old man cry was near dinnertime on the day in July 1971 when Louis Armstrong died. I was just home from my job at a shoe factory in Norristown and was nursing a beer on my dad’s couch when the evening news suddenly reported that the Great Satchmo had passed. His face went wet with tears. “That man never played a bad note,” was all he could say, over and over, like a mantra.

Bon Bon! What I learned was that music --even the crooked notes like what I played on my student model trumpet at weddings and dances and other weekend gigs-- still had power over people.

So, no matter how angry I felt about my dad’s abuses to my mom or his bitter way with me, I have to thank you for caring. Even for that skinny, frightened teenager I was. You made me want to play bell tones and to share my sound. I wanted to soar on that silver valve-trombone that you and Jan Savitt bought for my dad.  That was a goal, right?  Well, even though my learning curve has been a spiritual mudslide, I feel your charm in moments of reverie like today writing this letter. I listen to you croon “The Masquerade is Over,” and I hear your voice honor love. I learned that, --at least. No matter whatever else has happened.

When the weather breaks, I’m going to be tracking down where you’re buried. I’m quite sure that must be somewhere in Pennsylvania. My dad once said that he would have loved to visit with a wreath from the two of us, --to remember you. I just want you to know all these years later that your voice is still heard, Mr. Tunnell.          

With Affection,

Johnny

* All of the persons named in this story are completely fabricated and fictitious and bear no connection to actual persons living or deceased, --except for Jan Savitt, George “Bon Bon” Tunnell, Ella Fitgerald, Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Stan Getz, Ahmad Jamal, Art Blakey, Miles Davis and John Coltrane.