#oh last weekend I went to some antique stores

[continuousmeowing]

I should start posting about my love for medical history & science more…..

[artofjim]

5 Years of Drawing: Part 1

Originally posted on ko-fi.com/artofjim

July marks 5 years since I started learning art and drawing every day.  As they say, time flies when you're having fun, and time has really flown!   I want to use this blog post to reflect on some things I've learned, look at some old work and compare it to current, and emphasize my gratitude for all of the support I've received in the last half decade.  This is a long one so I'm breaking it into 3, but it should give you a ton of insight into my journey as an artist that brought me here today, and hopefully help you carve out your own path!

Before July of 2018, I would occasionally get it in my head that I wanted to draw.  This would be prompted by seeing some cool art online, or needing a way to pass the time on trips.  I'd spend money on new sketchbooks and tools, and doodle for a weekend in them.  That would be that, and my sketchbooks would sit until the next time I felt like drawing again, which was no more than a few times a year.  I had a little natural talent at copying proportion and detail, but there was no methodology to my picturemaking and I relied heavily on replicating others' art.  Because of the inconsistent schedule and lack of interest in learning,  I usually say I started drawing after all of that.  Here's some sketches from before 2018.

This is a direct rip of Nate Van Dyke, with a couple additions of my own. 2014?  I learned about ink and decided that was the only medium I wanted to work in.

Around the same time. Every artist has been here at some point, I think. I found some photo portraits of homeless people on pinterest probably and took it upon myself to draw them. Lots to unpack there but we should move on (please we must move on oh God). Again, I wasn't trying to learn, I was just copying photos and other art with no rhyme or reason to it, and very rarely.  I just loved that kick when people would look at it and say it was good.

2018

In 2018 I was working in Tacoma and there was a great little book store called Culpepper's across the street.  Jerry Culpepper had ran that store for decades, and had no great love for comics.  As a result, anytime he got graphic novels in, he'd hide them in an unorganized shelf and price them way, way down.  This was also true of artbooks, but I wasn't interested in those (yet). Jerry and I had an amicable relationship, with him busting my chops about the coffee shop I worked at being too expensive, and myself ironically bringing him free drip on my breaks.  I remember him going into great detail explaining how "Black Panther was absolute shit! Waste of my time seeing that film!"  I probably went in there once a week and dug around, spending tip money on anything that looked interesting while Jerry peered down at the titles with a furrowed brow.  My love for comics started at this time, and some of the first graphic novels I bought were from Jerry Culpepper. The League of Extraordinary Gentleman and A Small Killing, both written by Alan Moore, and drawn by Kevin O'Neill and Oscar Zarate, respectively (a great place to start, if you ask me!).

Still have them!  Jerry always priced books with pencil on the first page.  He'd usually charge me at least 30% less than this, and shave off sales-tax if  I paid cash.

I bought so many comics and bothered Jerry so often that he started giving me stuff for free (again, he had no interest for comics and was intent on filling his store with civil war history and first edition antiques). I'd pay $20 and walk out of there with an armful of graphic novels, video game concept art, Japanese editions of collected Ukiyo-E plates, published artist sketchbooks, and all sorts of odd things I wouldn't normally look for. That's the beauty of local used book stores, you cannot predict what's waiting in there for you.   Those early Culpepper finds were, and still are, very influential to me. I dig through my bookshelf for them regularly.  I think it's very important for creatives to have a personal, physical collection of things that inspire and interest them, because they will bury into your style way more than temporary online influences.

"Culpepper Books: here you'll find a man struggling to get the hell home with as much money and few books as possible before he retires" -Jerry, during his last week of business when I asked him for a caption

In late-2019, Jerry Culpepper got an offer to end his lease early from a big developer and decided to retire right as the pandemic started to hit, which was definitely the right decision for him.  While writing this, I searched his name to see if I could find his online collection, and learned that he passed away in 2022 at the age of 70.  Here is his obituary if you'd like to learn more about my old friend at the bookstore who impacted my life more than I could have realized at the time. https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/tribnet/name/gerald-culpepper-obituary?id=32332566

My last purchase from Jerry

Now that I was reading comics a lot, I became hip to Jim Lee, comic art superstar of the early 90s known for his work on X-Men, Punisher: War Journal, and countless other titles soon after.  Jim Lee streams on Twitch, and one day in July I popped in to watch purely out of curiosity and ended up following along with his live tutorial drawing Wolverine. There's a recording of this tutorial here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wxoH_eZgrw I had never had drawing explained to me in the analogous way that Jim Lee did.  Much of the concepts he was demonstrating are very fundamental no-brainers to me nowadays, but back then, despite drawing off and on my whole life, I had never been exposed to them.  I specifically remember him relating the teeth to a can of soup, and the triceps muscles to parallel canoes.  This was mind blowing to me, and sparked an obsession that is still roaring to this day. Here's my results from drawing along with Jim Lee that day.

A little heavyhanded on the spot blacks there, Jimbo...

Even though the idea of using simple forms like soup cans and canoes had been demonstrated so brilliantly by Jim Lee, I immediately went back to my old ways of rote copying.  Only now, I was doing it for a few hours a day.  I also started streaming art on Twitch during this time, and I'm amazed anyone watched because I was completely directionless.I was reading a lot of Frank Miller and the interest in ink was renewed, and I would just copy things straight out of comics, line-by-line.  I didn't have the tools or direction to study in a more meaningful way, so I just copied and copied and copied, with no real improvement besides hand-eye coordination, and my ability to copy from image to paper.Jim Lee had also mentioned Bridgman, and I found a copy of his big book at Culpepper's and copied a few pages (poorly) before giving up. 

Notes?? Why would I write down anything from the book?  This is drawing!!  Sarcasm aside, this was the extent of it.  Whatever concepts I pulled from it, I didn't cement with mileage so it was all for not.  Granted, Bridgman is not beginner friendly at all.

I also took part in Inktober for the first time in 2018, and actually attempted concept creation.  I knew I was bad at drawing heads, so I decided I would twist every prompt into a helmet of some kind.  Strange method.  You can view the completed pieces here, if you really want to: https://www.instagram.com/p/BokqcKngdlz/

2019

In 2019, I began to become invested in history, and really enjoyed drawing historical garb.  Japan especially grabbed my interest, and I bought tons of books about it from Jerry.  I'm surprised I didn't try to copy more Japanese  art, especially Hokusai's ink sketches.  I was filling sketchbooks regularly by now, still just copying for the most part, and getting a little better at it!  When I look back at those sketchbooks now, there's a  common "Jim" thread present even if I wasn't being very original.  I want to point out that I don't think there's anything wrong with copying references, ever, but especially as a beginner artist.  The way I was doing it, though, was from a limited perspective: drawing straight to final linework and not considering anything but the 2-d image.  I wish I had pursued fundamentals more, and varied my tools, but I just didn't have exposure to those things.  I was still wielding a brush pen like a club on every drawing, and using expensive markers that bled through the page.

I learned about Karl Kopinski, and some of the other star artists from Super Ani, and didn't know about all of the mileage and proper practice between where I was and where they were, so I tried to just do what they were doing. Of course, KK appealed to my interest in historical costume, and I copied a bunch of his drawings in my sketchbooks. I also dug into Sergio Toppi, attracted to his painterly hatching and masterful ink compositions, and learned about Moebius. I picked up a Final Fantasy 1-7 artbook for $10 (thanks Jerry) with tons of drawings by Yoshitaka Amano in it, and tried to match his watercolors with my bleeding Copic markers. Because there was no method to my drawings beyond copying mark-by-mark, there was an element of luck involved that decided the success of each drawing. The artmaking journey, then, was just chasing that next lucky winner drawing, which is not sustainable long term! Sure, I might get lucky more often as I copied more accurately, but I wouldn't know why, and I had no lens to understand what made an image work.

Toppi copy

One of the lucky drawings

Kopinski copy

Amano copies.  Notice the difference in quality between the Toppi samurai above and these; this is the element of luck I'm referring to.  There was no repeatable process, just diving into the final lines and gambling on it.

Beyond that, I wanted to create, not replicate.  I would watch Karl Kopinski, Kim Jung Gi, and Peter Han create worlds on the spot, with no reference, and have no idea how to accomplish that.  I figured it was my poor visualization ability holding me back.  All I thought mattered was drawing a lot, and drawing a variety of things.  I would stream on Twitch and take requests to draw anything anyone wanted for ten minutes.  I drew 20 different outfits from the Camp-themed Met Gala.  I drew video game characters, Power Rangers, cartoons, and Kermit the Frog smoking a blunt.  Occasionally, I'd try to draw people and places from life. 

My first ever POV sketch

I knew that clothing was something academics studied,  so I "studied" some drapery as well! All that meant for me was copying, line by line, a few reference photos.  I downloaded Autodesk Sketchbook, a free drawing program, and tried my hand at digital art.   If I wasn't just attempting photocopying, I did try my hand at some imaginative work, with a degree of realistic rendering. Here's those paintings, just so we can compare to my current paintings later.

I would paint over Bill Sienkewicz sketches, this is one of those

This funny little fellow is a Japanese God, Fukurokuju. The drapery is looking especially mushy.

In mid-2019, I decided I would challenge myself to making a comic for Inktober.  I was very naive, but still took a lot of time planning for it before October started.  I scripted out the pages, did some character "designs," and even  worked on turnarounds.  My thought was that if I took the time to figure out what a character would look like from any angle, I could just use that as reference when I needed it.  This is true, and how animators do it,  but I created this sheet by smashing together references and finding an image for every expression and angle I could need.  I also sculpted the main character's head so I could use it as reference.  I had not rediscovered the power of "form" yet, despite Jim Lee's great tutorial that started all of this, and the literal sculpted 3d form sitting on my desk.

Here's a few pages of my Inktober comic, Dog Days.  I made it 13 pages in and burned out super hard, since I was working full-time still and spending at least 8 hours a day on the pages.  The cyst on my wrist got massive and I was not sleeping at all.  I took a break for a few days to go on a trip and just never came back to it.  Surprisingly, I haven't ever experienced a burnout since then.

If you're interested in checking out the other 11 pages, they're available to Ko-Fi Members for $4.50/month, along with my other comics.

For my first comic, I am extremely proud of that work.  There's a sort of energy that is now inhibited by experience and judgment.  I was fearless and committed to every page, because I had no idea how long it would take me or what challenges I might face.  I  don't think I will or should ever finish it, because I cannot replicate that vibe.

I returned to drawing a few weeks after the burnout and dove back into Japanese historical drawings, becoming obsessed with the photos of Felice Beato, who brought photography to Japan right as it modernized.  Some coworkers of mine were my first ever commissioners, asking for some work relevant to what I was already studying.  The first was a family portrait taken in the early 1900s.  The second was a 6 panel piece on the history of Taiko drumming.  I think they spent more on the frame then what I charged them for the piece, which is hilarious to me now.   I also experimented with some blacklight ink and collage, which was a nice change from all the inking I did in October. 

I did these on expensive Awagami rice paper with ultra-archival Noodler's fountain pen ink.  I was fooling myself into thinking that expensive materials were necessary for any sort of "professional" work, and that they would elevate it.  In the end, it just made the process nerve-wracking and left no margin for error.

I will continue with years 2020 and 2021 in my next post to keep this one from getting any longer!  Follow my Ko-Fi to get  notified via email when that comes out, or tune into my social media: https://linktr.ee/artofjim

If you'd like to support my art career and get some goodies in return, become a Ko-Fi Member in exchange for art in the mail every 6 months, monthly giveaways, access to my comics, discounts in my shop, and more.  Starts at $4.50/month, goes up for better rewards. https://ko-fi.com/artofjim/tiers  Thank you to all of my members, past and current, for enabling me to pursue my greatest interest in life more comfortably. 

[hopeamarsu]

Close Shave #1 - Frankie Morales

Frankie Morales x reader 

Word count: just shy of 2k

Warnings: Straight razor shaving. I guess it could technically be counted as knifeplay, so just to be on the safe side I’ve marked it down. Some James Bond quotes are lifted from the movie Skyfall.

And yes, there’ll be another piece with Clyde later on. Because these two men have my heart and I will not be able to choose. Lol.

Ever since your visit to the antique store with Frankie on a sunny Sunday afternoon, you hadn’t been able to get the set out of your mind. First off, the wood case was beautifully crafted; despite the time passed it still looked shiny and all the metal parts worked well, despite aging and darkening. It had called you from the corner, sung like the sweetest canary, and you had been unable to resist. You marveled the feel of the smooth wood as your hand caressed the corners, admiring the craftsmanship. 

Once you had opened the case, you had been sold. The beautiful straight razor with gold and copper caps, the fluffy brush with a casing for cream, the leather strop and paste box all looked pristine. Well, the strop had obviously been used before, but it still looked in wonderful condition. You could still smell a hint of the musky beard oil that was once kept in its own place within the box, the woodsy and earthy tones hitting your nostrils as you peered in for a closer look.

It had only been the steep price that had made you leave the shaving kit there. But you still had thought about it until long after dinner and as you got ready for bed that you knew you had to get something like that for Frankie. 

After some intense browsing and comparing later, you had finally placed an order for a straight razor kit, some additional oils and moisturizers and they had arrived neatly packaged this afternoon. You had taken the day off work in order to prepare. Preparing meant countless Youtube videos on the subject, practicing the use of the straight razor on air and on balloons you had slabbed some shaving cream on. 

You had also transformed your master bathroom into an oasis, with dimmed lights and one of the dining chairs sitting in the middle of it all. There were lit candles, sheets and towels in the dryer to keep them warm and a small pillow sacrificed for the occasion was sitting beside the sink, ready for use. 

You had a selection of bottles next to the pillow; a small moisturizer, a bottle of beard oil that carried a sandalwood, vanilla and bergamot scent (something you thought he would appreciate) and a little bowl with shaving cream already ready. The piece de la resistance had a prized place on a small side table you’d dragged into the bathroom.

Now you just needed the man of the hour, one Francisco Morales.

You knew he had no flights today so he should be home shortly. Maybe you’d roped Will and Benny into making sure there wouldn’t be any Friday happy hour gatherings but you would never tell. And neither would they if they wanted you to cook for them the next time boys night was at your house. 

Right on cue, you heard the truck pull up and you took the moment to gather one of the sheets and two towels from the dryer, while you waited for him to enter. 

“Hermosa? You home?”

“I’m in the bathroom, babe! Would you come and help me for a moment?”

Was it sneaky to lure him in under false pretenses? Maybe, but getting him in here would be a challenge otherwise. And you didn’t want him wandering around the house and picking up on the missing items. 

Two loud thumps followed your question and you knew Frankie’s boots were off and socketed feet carried him towards your bedroom. Some shuffling around the bed and a question rang out.

“What’s this, hermosa?”

“Please put them on and come in. I have a surprise for you. Oh! And leave the cap behind too, thank you.”  You had laid out a pair of sweatpants and his softest possible T-shirt on the bed, wanting to extend the comfort as far as you could. You pressed play on your phone and smooth classical music began to play from the bluetooth speakers. It was set on top of the toilet, far away from any water sprays. 

You heard him shuffle in the bedroom, no doubt obeying your wishes and you started to swirl the shaving cream in the bowl with the brush, making it as fluffy and airy as you could. 

The door to the bathroom opened and you were greeted by your boyfriend in his grey sweatpants, his white t-shirt and dark curls framing his face. The hair was mussed up, no doubt because of his tendency to keep the hat on at all times and this must’ve been his attempt at ridding himself of hat hair. He looked adorable as the curls hung around his forehead and over his ears all messy. His dark brown eyes were open and curious as they took in the scene and you smoothed down your own t-shirt anxiously.

“Sweetheart… What is all this?” He whispered, the awe clear in his voice. 

“Come, sit down,” You took his hand, placing the bowl back on the counter as you pulled him closer. A small kiss was placed on him by your lips and you pushed him gently towards the chair. As he sat down, you placed the small pillow under his neck, urging him to relax into it. The pillow would certainly help his position in the long run. 

“Remember that antique store a couple of weeks back?” You spoke as you draped the sheet on top of his chest once he was settled. With Frankie’s affirmative hum, you opened the tap and let water run, trying to find the perfect temperature. 

“I didn’t tell you this at the time, but there was this gorgeous antique shaving kit in the back, strops and brushes and all in tip top shape. It got me thinking that I wanted to do a little something to pamper you and I bought a modern-slash-antique-looking set. I want to give you a shave.”

As you spoke, you lathered your hands under the water, ridding them of their coldness before wetting two small makeup towels to run across his face. The surprised gasp that left his lips betrayed he hadn’t been expecting that. 

You got into the rhythm of things, wetting his face with long strokes, allowing the warm towels to soothe his skin and soften it. Frankie’s eyes fell closed as the up and down strokes lulled him. After that, you squirted some cleanser into your hands, rubbing them together.

“I’m going to clean your face real quick, before we get into the shaving part. Do you want me to leave something or would you prefer clean-shaven?” You murmured, keeping your tone low to make sure he wasn't disturbed. 

“Whatever you like hermosa,” came his reply, a sleepy mumble that made you smile. Frankie worked so hard sometimes, taking care of his baby girl on the weekend she was with you, you and your relationship, his sobriety and the copters back in the hangar. 

After Colombia, he and the Miller brothers had joined forces, opening up a business together. They combined self-defence classes and survival training and business was good. Once Frankie had gotten his licence back, they often took their students training in the mountains, testing the limits and allowing for them to train first-aid skills on the wilderness too. 

It was honest and hard work. You knew how much all of them loved it and they were hopeful that Santi would join them as well once he was able, bringing the boys together once more. But the physical aspect of the job, including the maintenance of the planes, did take a lot out of your man, so to offer him this after a long week felt really good. And judging by his blissed-out state in the chair as you swept the lather into his skin and beard, he was enjoying it too. 

Round and round the brush went, all along his jaw and cheeks. You made sure he was well covered in the cream before you stepped back a little, taking the small steel knife into your hand. 

“Cut-throat razor. How very traditional.” 

The quote slipped your mouth quietly as you admired the blade in your hand. Frankie’s eyebrow lifted but a hand on his shoulder eased it down again. Taking a deep breath, you let the blade touch his skin and waited for a beat. When there was no resistance on his part, apart from his hand finding its way to your hip as a grounding place, you let it slide across the lathered skin and stopped about an inch from his jawline. After all, there was something in a man with facial hair, especially if that man was Frankie.   

“Sometimes the old ways are the best,” You couldn’t help yourself, letting the next line fall down as the blade lifted from his skin. The motions repeated themselves, both of you getting lost in the moment. The music faded in the background, Ludovico Einaudi’s calming notes becoming only a memory as you watched the blade move and turn the cream around, revealing smooth skin beneath. Each motion was followed by a swipe on the towel to make sure the blade didn’t dull in the middle of the session. It felt almost like a dance, your breaths the only sound left.

You moved, he stayed still. He moved, you stayed still. Back and forth, like the steps of a complicated dance. 

You didn’t know how long it took, shaving his face, but when there was only the small part left in the middle of his throat, you felt him gulp. 

“Keep still,” You admonished him slightly, tipping his face backwards, his skull digging a little deeper into the pillow that separated it from the cold marble of the sink. “This is the tricky part.” The final swipe was almost tantalizingly slow as you dragged it upwards to meet his chin. The trust he placed in you that moment made you feel powerful. It felt like something settled upon both of you as you lifted the blade from his skin for the last time.  

“Now that’s better,” You breathed out, as you watched him tip his head forward and open his eyes. The dark pools drilled into yours, the arousal and relaxation dancing a tango within, battling for dominance. How you wanted to keep watching it, enjoy how the candlelight reflected from the dark orbs but there were still steps to take before you could. You held his gaze for a moment, before lifting a towel from the counter to wipe off any excess cream left behind. 

“Did you…”

“Shh, I’m not done with you yet, mi amor.” Your eyes crinkled at the corners as you smiled softly to him. Frankie nodded, the movement barely there but still visible. He relaxed back, allowing you to rub some oil into his beard and some moisturizer into his skin. Frankie’s eyes slipped close once more and you took the moment to really admire him and the neatly trimmed beard in full. 

“All done,” A whisper in the air as you trailed his regal nose with your fingertip. His eyes remained closed but his hands grabbed your waist to tuck you into his lap. Slowly, the eyelids opened and lashes fluttered as Frankie peered into your eyes. The relaxation had won out, but there was still a small fire simmering behind that. 

“Did you quote James Bond to me?” He muttered, letting his left hand trail up your spine. 

“You know how I like that scene.” You shrugged. 

“Mhmm… Will you allow me to recreate some other scenes from those movies?” There was a playful edge to his voice as Frankie’s hand rested on the back of your neck. You leaned closer, breaths mingling, as you let a sliver of air between your lips. 

“Go right ahead, mister.” 

Tagging @clydesducktape​ @wayward-rose​ @themuseic​ @miraclesabound​ @clydesfavoritegirl​ @a-true-janian-reply​  @10blurredsmoke10​  @caillea​ @mind-p0llution​ ​

[another-fanfic-haven]

That's a STUPID idea, but-- (part 2)

(a/n: reader uses they/them but appears more masculine in the biker suit)

(words: 619)

The road was quite empty at this time, people are at work or chilling in their homes. Even the parking lots look abandoned, too. You parked the bike at one spot closest to the sidewalk and marched to the craft store in search of the body paints and maybe a brush.

- Shit. I can't find it anywhere... - you mumbled inspecting the massive shelves from the distance.

- May I help you? - you heard the bubbly female voice. You turned around swiftly. Oh, it was just an assistant. - Do you provide body paints? I need it for a project-- - you bit your tongue in the last second. You were this close to saying her way too much. - Let me check in the system. - she answered brushing her chin, then left somewhere. You waited in the same spot examining the items. Some premium quality water paints, oil-based, chalk... You picked up one A4 sketchbook and riffled through the blank pages. Maybe you'll get yourself one. It's been years since you created something. Maybe it's time to start over? - Good news, mister! - you heard the same voice again. - We have a few in stock here. Do you wish to order more and collect it later here? - No, should be fine.

The assistant bowed and disappeared behind the shelves again. There was no time to sit here and look at each and every item.

You left the shop with 4 big pots of colorful paints, two of somewhat fleshy tone, greeny-blue and black, two paintbrushes, and one sketchbook for you.

Huh, isn't that car identical to the one you raced before? Quite suspicious, but-- maybe it's your eyes playing tricks on you in this sun.

- I'm back! - you announced walking in. Your nose met with a lovely smell of fried potatoes and-- a cucumber salad. Seems like Tabi really picked up on that cooking. You just took off your helmet and followed the smell, or more accurately, the smell carried you to the kitchen. - Hi there. - he said mixing the potatoes in the pan. - Man, you makin' me hungry again! - you laughed and peeped into the stove or tried your best because Tabi kept blocking the view with his body.

- Come onnn! Man! Lemme see whatcha doin! - you climbed on your toes and leaning on him. - Your attempt is futile - he smirked lifting an elbow, which effectively blocked you again. You finally gave up and stormed out of Tabi's workspace. You dropped on the couch like a mad child that was forbidden from getting a lollipop. Soon after you felt a warm plate on your legs. The smell of those fried potatoes - priceless. And the taste was even finer.

- So, I got you these paints. - you threw them all out of your bag on the couch between you. - Should be enough to cover at least your arms and neck. And the skull. - If you say so. - he shrugged and lounged on that sofa. - Oh and- wait here. - you got up and literally run into your bedroom. You went back with something hanged on your arm. - Try it. - you showed him your dad's antique, leather Arizona jacket with massive "43" on the back. - Should be the perfect size for you. - You helped your friend put that on, fixing the collar. It's slightly too wide for Tabi but overall fits perfectly. - Damn. This thing is heavy. - he shook his shoulders. - It was my dad's choice for strolling around on a bike. Figured out you might need it this weekend.

[tiramisiyu]

【未定事件簿】 Tears of Themis: Main Story 6-26 Translation

Translation Masterlist | Video

Chapter 6 – Tiger’s Accomplice Ghost (Parts 1, 2): 6-1 / 6-3 / 6-5 / 6-7 / 6-9 / 6-11 / 6-13 / 6-15 ♦️ ♦️  6-16 / 6-18 / 6-20 / 6-22 / 6-24 / 6-26 / 6-27 / 6-28 / 6-29

Information on the Chapter title (helpful to know): Wikipedia | My notes

--

Abandoned Archive Library

Just when I wanted to get in touch with Zuo Ran about going to the archive library to investigate, Zuo Ran called me with perfect timing.

He had also been pondering the whole time about the location of the target, and with unplanned similarity, we thought about this archive library.

Zuo Ran: The people monitoring Fu Qiao tonight lost him. On his side of things, Leader Yan is dispatching people on search.

Zuo Ran: Leader Yan has also already dispatched people to rush towards the few suspicious art galleries nearby, and they’ll be investigating at the same time as us.

MC: If we can find Chen Hanzhang’s secret location one step ahead, then this case can be solved earlier.

Zuo Ran: Coming to a pitch-black place like this in the middle of the night – are you scared?

MC: Lawyer Zuo, you’ve forgotten – I’m not scared of ghosts to begin with.

At our law firm’s last team building exercise, Zuo Ran and I went to a haunted house together.

Hearing me say this, Zuo Ran relaxed and smiled, obviously also remembering the experience in the haunted house.

Zuo Ran: In a moment, follow me closely and walk behind me. You must be careful of what’s under your feet in particular.

MC: I understand.

I took flashlights out of my bag and handed one to Zuo Ran.

MC: I’ve brought two flashlights, so we can each have one. Let’s head out.

Zuo Ran led me to the abandoned archive library’s front courtyard. Here, the ground was piled thickly with fallen leaves, as well as all sorts of decorative garbage that nearby residents had tossed here.

I basically understood why the police ruled out this place after a simple search… Looking at the shattered glass windows on the outside and the useless door, this place really did not seem like a place to store important products.

--

Inside the Archive Library

The lighting in the archive library was better than we’d imagined. Light from the streets shone in from the street-facing windows, so we didn’t really need to turn on the flashlights.

MC: The first and second floors are completely deserted – they’re empty with only some abandoned furniture left.

Zuo Ran: The conditions on the third floor might not be that similar.

MC: Eh?

Following the stairs, I looked towards the third floor. At the same time, Zuo Ran turned on the flashlight and shone it towards the third-floor staircase opening.

There was an electronic password door that had been opened.

MC: This archive building was built at the beginning of last century, and it belonged to a private collector.

MC: Though the first and second floors are abandoned, it’s evident that the remaining furniture is in last century’s style.

MC: This electronic door is clearly a product of recent years.

Zuo Ran: It indicates that this place has been changed by someone.

Zuo Ran: Most of the old buildings of the north district are private properties, and some of the property owners are even foreigners, so the houses have sat idle for many years with no one to manage them.

Zuo Ran: In the past few years, cases about the occupation of old buildings by lawbreakers have also appeared. This may also be the case here.

MC: No wonder the police didn’t notice any suspicious locations from checking through the properties under Chen Hanzhang’s name.

MC: If she occupied an old building in the north district that seems like it has no inhabitants, the police wouldn’t be able to find it at all.

Zuo Ran: Let’s go up and look – careful on the stairs.

--

Zuo Ran walked in front of me with the flashlight on. We arrived at the stairway opening and carefully looked over that electronic password lock.

Zuo Ran: It doesn’t look like it was opened by force. The password lock is still operating like normal.

MC: Is there someone in the building right now? It doesn’t seem like it…

From a bird’s-eye view, this three-level building was in an “H” shape, and each level had four large rooms. If we used the staircase’s location as the centre, the locations of the four large rooms were northeast, northwest, southwest, and southeast.

Zuo Ran and I had looked in every corner of the first and second floors just now, and we didn’t notice a single person. The entire building was also completely quiet – you could even hear the sound of a pin drop. We didn’t hear movement sounds of anyone else.

Zuo Ran: The third-floor design isn’t the same as on lower floors.

Zuo Ran’s flashlight swept over the floor.

Zuo Ran: It seems like the floorboards here were given specific soundproofing treatment. The audiovisuals room at my house also has a similar setup.

MC: Which also means that, as we can’t hear sounds of movement upstairs, this door might have been ignored by someone who came before…

MC: Another possibility is that the visitor is still here and hasn’t left.

When I thought about this, I couldn’t help tensing up my back.

Zuo Ran: Don’t be afraid. I’m right beside you.

My slightly cold fingers suddenly fell in the middle of warmth – it was Zuo Ran, holding my hand.

MC: Lawyer Zuo…

Zuo Ran: Hold onto my hand… th-this way, it’ll be a little safer.

MC: Mhmm…

Like this, as I shone my flashlight, Zuo Ran led me onwards as I walked side-by-side with him…

The moonlight tonight shone brightly, passing through the window and spilling over Zuo Ran’s body, outlining his straight and handsome profile.

I originally thought that people like Zuo Ran would probably look cold with moonlight on them. But I never would’ve thought… that there would actually be a sliver of a different kind of warmth.

I had never looked at him from this angle, under moonlight like this. Inexplicably, at this moment, I wanted to keep looking at him like this…

Zuo Ran: Why have you been looking at me the whole time? Is there something on my face?

MC: There isn’t…

MC: It might be because it’s too quiet that I haven’t quite adapted…

Zuo Ran: Then talk a bit, although you must be somewhat quiet.

>Select: Face

Zuo Ran: If there’s time, would you like to go to the haunted house again?

MC: With you, Lawyer Zuo?

Zuo Ran: Of course.

MC: Sure then. I heard that the themed amusement park’s haunted house has changed to a new story recently, so it’s perfect timing for us to try it out.

Zuo Ran: Then let’s wait for the weekend.

 >Select: Neck

MC: Aside from cufflinks, tie clips and collar pins, it seems like I rarely see Lawyer Zuo wear jewelry.

Zuo Ran: Watches also count as jewelry, right?

MC: Oh right, they also count.

Zuo Ran: If I attend certain special occasions, I will dress up, and I’ll occasionally accessorize with jewelry.

MC: Could you give an example?

Zuo Ran: I participated in a costume party in university, and I wore earrings for it.

Zuo Ran: Mm… it felt a little uncomfortable, and I couldn’t really adapt to it.

 >Select: Hair

MC: Under the moonlight… it looks like your hair has been layered over with silver light.

Zuo Ran: Do you mean… a hair full for frost?

MC: …

Zuo Ran: Frost with moonlight is imagery that often appears in literature and movies.

Zuo Ran: What often follows this is a beautiful woman who hopes for return.

MC: Waiting? If it is a happy ending, it will be worth it no matter how long she waits.

Zuo Ran: We don’t know how many people can return before the moonlight runs out – only the moon rocks with longing, lighting the forests by the river…*

Zuo Ran: If it were me, I would not make the person waiting for me wait too long.

Zuo Ran: I would rather be the person waiting.

  TL Note: Please see the full translation of the poem that Zuo Ran recited a line from here! The translation I used also comes from this site.

 >Select: Ellipses

MC: Lawyer Zuo, it seems like there’s a room in front of us.

A door appeared in front of us.

Based on its position, this was the room in the northwest direction.

>Open door

Artwork Display Room

MC: Seems like this place… is a place for the collection of antiques and artwork.

Zuo Ran: This password lock is not turned on. Looks like this room was originally in use, but it was later abandoned.

MC: Lawyer Zuo, look at that crystal bust. Does it look like… Chen Hanzhang?

Most of these things in this room were placed in complete disorder. The hung pictures on the wall were crooked, and there were also piles of artwork and porcelain pieces on the ground.

Only this half-bodied crystal bust was placed safely in the display case.

Zuo Ran: It’s very much alike. You could say that it’s a perfect imitation.

MC: This expression really is… a perfect replication of Chen Hanzhang’s classic smile.

Proud, confident, and it even hid a bit of fierceness.

MC: Was this thing given to Chen Hanzhang?

Zuo Ran: It’s not very common to see half-bodied busts like this used as gifts.

Zuo Ran: Perhaps it has a special commemorative meaning.

When we turned the bust upside down, we saw two rows of words on the bottom.

Zuo Ran: “From the beginning to the end, regardless of how you change, you are still you…”

MC: On the bottom-right angle, are those numbers?

MC: It looks like someone deliberately ground it off.

On the bottom-right corner, there probably had been a long line of numbers originally, but aside from the first digit “1” and the last digit “4”, there was no way to identify the rest.

I touched the base of the bust, and felt that the side of the base had an uneven area.

MC: Rose?

I found that place and noticed that a four-petaled flower had been carved there, with the single English word “Rose” on the side.

MC: The rose has four petals?

Zuo Ran: Perhaps… this does not point to a rose in the general meaning.

MC: …

>Select: Hanging drawings

I shone my flashlight at the hanging drawings on the wall. I could only see that it was an oil painting, and I couldn’t distinguish who the creator was.

Zuo Ran: These drawings may have been purchased by Gu Wei.

MC: How did you know?

Zuo Ran: Look here. There is a row of little words on the bottom-right corner.

I sidled over and carefully looked them over, and only then did I see what the little words that Zuo Ran was talking about were.

MC: “Gu Wei, year of 2010 at Qinlun Auction House…”

MC: Lawyer Zuo, your eyesight is way too good – you were even able to see this with a glance.

Zuo Ran: I typically drink liver-cleansing, eye-clearing tea. Perhaps it was fruitful.

 >Select: Piles on the ground

MC: These drawings and porcelain works have been piled here like garbage. The porcelain’s all broken.

Zuo Ran: Regardless of who their past owner was, it’s obvious their new owner was not interested in them, even feeling disgust.

MC: There’s even a fairly sharp hammer left here. Looks like it was used when smashing the porcelain.

Zuo Ran: Careful, don’t get cut by the porcelain shards.

 >Select: Bust

MC: (If it were a present, who could it be that sent it to Chen Hanzhang? Gu Wei…?)

MC: (What exactly was the relationship between them like…?)

 >Select: Ellipses

Zuo Ran: We probably have found the right place – otherwise, why would this place have Chen Hanzhang’s bust.

MC: …

[Got Crystal Bust!]

MC: There aren’t any things like blackmail crime evidence or illegal drugs in this room. Let’s go somewhere else and see.

--

…

We continued to search on this floor.

>Select: Suit

MC: Will it be hard for you to walk around, wearing your suit here, Lawyer Zuo?

Zuo Ran: After returning home, I didn’t have time to change clothes before I came out again.

Zuo Ran: But it’s alright. If it hinders my movement later, I can take off the suit.

 >Select: Face

Zuo Ran: After getting off work and returning home earlier, did you already wash up?

MC: How did you know?

Zuo Ran: Hmm… the scent on your body should be that of shower gel.

MC: Mhmm, I can relax from taking a hot shower.

Zuo Ran: Working as my partner, you might often encounter these kinds of sudden situations, which will upset your original lifestyle.

Zuo Ran: Same for joining NXX.

MC: But it’ll also bring me different life experiences – I like that a lot.

Zuo Ran: Mhmm, I also like it a lot.

 >Select: Eyes

MC: Lawyer Zuo, you read so many books, yet you actually don’t wear glasses.

Zuo Ran: My mother works so much that she doesn’t have time for anything, yet she is able to make time to concern herself with my health, especially my eyesight.

MC: Eh?

Zuo Ran: My mother said, with an ice-cold personality like mine, there definitely wouldn’t be any girls who like me in the future.

Zuo Ran: If I also wear glasses and end up looking like an old fogey, it’ll be even more so…

MC: I didn’t think that Professor An was such a humorous person. Though she cared about the students in my impression of her, she always looked very serious.

Zuo Ran: My mother was actually joking around. It’s just that the time she spends interacting with me is little, and she doesn’t know how to express her concern.

 >Select: Ellipses

MC: (I’m walking through a building like this in the middle of the night, yet I actually don’t feel scared.)

A door appeared in front of us.

Based on its position, this was the room in the southwest direction.

>Open door

Drug Storage Room

This room also had not been locked, but on the door, the electronic lock’s indicator light was lit up, indicating that this place was not abandoned.

When we pushed open the door and entered, a familiar scent assaulted our senses.

MC: They’re the drugs!

Zuo Ran immediately took out his phone to take photos and sent the photo and archive library location to Yan Wei.

Zuo Ran: Be a little careful. We should do our utmost to not bump or break anything in here.

MC: Understood!

Just like if when people find a large stash of cash in a money-related case, where to avoid suspicion, every single person on the scene will avoid the stolen cash until the police arrive.

MC: Though the area here isn’t small, it seems like it hasn’t been filled with drugs.

>Select: Further cabinet

Zuo Ran: This row of drug cabinets has things on them. The scent seems to be coming from this direction.

MC: There are no marks on the drugs – it seems like we have no way to identify that they’re Chen Hanzhang’s.

Zuo Ran: Look at the logo on this shelf – it’s Wiley Financial’s.

MC: Now we’ve caught both the person and the goods!

 >Select: Nearer cabinet

MC: Looks like this row of drug cabinets is empty.

Zuo Ran: If this room was filled with drugs, then this would be a large case that would shock the entire nation.

Zuo Ran: Although, to be able to make so much storage space specifically for the drugs, Chen Hanzhang’s ambition is not small.

 >Select: Panel

MC: This is the control panel to control the room’s internal temperature, moisture, as well as oxygen levels.

MC: I originally thought that Chen Hanzhang was using the equipment that the archive room originally had. I didn’t think she’d install a completely new one.

Zuo Ran: This equipment has requirements for ventilation and humidity piping.

Zuo Ran: Aside from new houses, if old buildings want to install them, they must have reserved space to begin with.

Zuo Ran: It’s within reason for Chen Hanzhang to choose an abandoned archive library for modifications.

 >Select: Ellipses

Zuo Ran: Don’t go in yet. Wait until Leader Yan comes.

MC: Okay.

--

…

We continued to search on this floor.

>Select: Face

MC: Lawyer Zuo, are you a little too tired and slightly overheated recently? I see that your lips are peeling.

Zuo Ran: I…

Zuo Ran: That might be, I drink less water when going out on work.

MC: Tomorrow at work, I’ll buy you a lip balm from the downstairs convenience store. I know a really good brand.

Zuo Ran: Okay, thank you.

 >Select: Sleeve

MC: Aside from shooting and swimming, do you like other sports, Lawyer Zuo?

MC: I remember that during university, to stay fit and look good, lots of guys would learn things like mixed martial arts.

Zuo Ran: I’m not skilled at sports like these. Aside from shooting and swimming…

Zuo Ran: Does bridge count? An exercise of mental strength.

MC: Lawyer Zuo, you know how to play bridge?

Zuo Ran: When relaxing, I sometimes go to bridge clubs to play.

Zuo Ran: Playing cards actually comes second – what’s important is chatting with friends and relaxing.

MC: If there’s a chance, could you teach me? I’ve heard that bridge is very interesting.

Zuo Ran: Sure.

 >Select: Ellipses

MC: (I never would’ve thought that Lawyer Zuo knows how to play bridge.)

A door appeared in front of us.

Based on its position, this was the room in the southeast direction.

>Open door

 Special File Room

The door to the room was opened, but the door’s password lock was still working, and the electricity normal.

MC: Look, what’s that?

Facing the door was an indomitable-looking, transparent… closet?

I didn’t know how to describe this thing. It looked a little like a water tank or standing closet used by magicians to perform escape magic.

The closet had an electronic lock on it and was currently in locked state. The dashboard on the side displayed the oxygen levels in the closet.

The entire closet was partitioned into two parts, both different from each other. Both sides had a lever, and I didn’t know what they were used for.

MC: Lawyer Zuo, can you tell what this thing is used for?

Zuo Ran: I can’t imagine it.

Zuo Ran: Although there might be what we’re looking for in the file cabinets on these two sides.

>Select: Cabinets

Zuo Ran: Li Gang, 2 million, redeemed…

Zuo Ran: Xue Fan, 4.7 million, redeemed…

Zuo Ran: What’s placed here should be the case files of the “redeemed” people Qing Zhian talked about.

MC: There are only paper document records – there isn’t any other evidence… looks like the so-called blackmail leverage really was destroyed.

Zuo Ran: Whether it’s Gu Wei or Chen Hanzhang, once they’ve set up the rules, they must comply with them.

Zuo Ran: Otherwise, the Tiger’s Accomplice Ghosts might as well surrender to the police and go to jail, and the methods that they use to control the Ghosts would become invalid.

 >Select: Cabinets (2)

MC: Cheng Kaiyuan, August 20th, 2017, died from car crash…

I flipped through the materials on the second file cabinet. Here, all the records were of those who had already died.

Zuo Ran: There are only paper document records – looks like the related person’s physical evidence has already been destroyed.

Zuo Ran: For those who have passed, keeping their blackmail leverage is useless.

Dong—

Suddenly, a muffled sound came from outside.

MC: Someone’s there?

I lowered my voice.

Zuo Ran: Don’t panic.

We silently waited for a moment. No other sound came again.

MC: Maybe the wind knocked something over?

Zuo Ran: Act carefully, don’t lower your guard.

 >Select: Glass closet

MC: (What is this closet used for?)

MC: (From a safety perspective, I shouldn’t touch it.)

 >Select: Ellipses

Zuo Ran: Fu Qiao’s crime evidence is not here, and neither is Qing Zhian’s.

MC: Let’s keep searching.

--

…

We continued to search on this floor.

>Select: Tie

MC: Lawyer Zuo, when did you learn to tie your tie?

Zuo Ran: Why did you want to ask this? I remember it was… when I was in middle school.

MC: This early?

Zuo Ran: Mhmm, I participated in a school event, and it just so happened that the attire was dress shirt and tie.

MC: I noticed that I can tie a tie for myself, but when I tie it for others, I always get it wrong.

MC: When swapping directions, it seems like everything is different.

Zuo Ran: Perhaps you will get used to it after finding more chances to practice.

 >Select: Face

MC: Actually, Lawyer Zuo, when you smile, you really look especially handsome.

Zuo Ran: …

MC: If you typically smiled more, the colleagues at the law firm probably won’t fear you that much.

Zuo Ran: That’s also true.

 >Select: Ellipses

MC: In front, over there – that should be another room, right?

A door appeared in front of us.

Based on its position, this was the room in the northeast direction.

>Open door

MC: This door is closed – we need the password to open it.

Zuo Ran: Password… how many digits?

I looked at the password lock’s digit prompts.

MC: 1, 2, 3… it requires 12 digits. This design at the end… it feels like I’ve seen it somewhere.

Zuo Ran: It’s the four-petaled flower design on that crystal bust.

MC: Could the riddle’s answer be on the bust?

MC: Could the text on the bust be the riddle? Are the ground-off numbers the password?

Zuo Ran: It’s very possible.

MC: If it’s guessing riddles…

>Take a picture and send it to Xia Yan >Ask Zuo Ran

MC: Xia Yan is the most skilled when it comes to solving riddles. Let’s go to that display room and take a picture of the bust to send to Xia Yan.

Zuo Ran: No need – this riddle is very easy to solve.

 >Take a picture and send it to Xia Yan >Ask Zuo Ran

MC: Lawyer Zuo, do you have any ideas?

Zuo Ran: This riddle isn’t hard. I’ve already got the answer.

Zuo Ran: The answer to the riddle should be 1634 8208 9474. It just so happens to be the same as with the ground-off numbers – the first digit is 1 and the last digit is 4.

MC: Lawyer Zuo, how did you figure it out this quickly?

Zuo Ran: Have you heard of the four-leaf rose number?

Zuo Ran: It refers to a four-digit number. The sum of each digit to the fourth exponent equals the number itself.

Zuo Ran: There are three numbers like this. Individually, they are 1634, 8208 and 9474.

MC: So the four petals and Rose on the bust were hinting at the four-leaf rose numbers?

Zuo Ran: Not only that, but that poem-like text also meant this, and it also hinted at the order of the numbers.

Zuo Ran: “Regardless of how you change, you are still you” refers to exponents.

Zuo Ran: “From the beginning to the end” indicates that the order goes from small to large.

MC: Lawyer Zuo, you really are too amazing. Are you really a law student? Your science grades must also have been great.

Zuo Ran: They’re just things that I got interested in and read about for middle school math. Typically, I’m not able to use them, and they’re not worth bringing up.

Zuo Ran: I’ll input the password. You stand behind me, a little far away.

I knew that Zuo Ran was afraid that the password lock had other safety mechanisms…

I heeded his arrangement and stood behind him, although it was not too far – it was a distance where I could reinforce him at any time.

Beep beep beep—

Right after Zuo Ran pressed the confirmation button, a quiet sound came from the door lock.

Zuo Ran: It’s open.

We pushed open the door and looked in. This was a file room again.

[dickspeightjrs]

Dean still thanked Bobby every day for giving him a job at his store. Bobby would only respond with ‘shut up and stop thanking me ya idjit!’

But still, Dean was grateful. With Sam in his first year of college (Stanford Smart-Ass), even with a hefty scholarship, affording to live is still a bitch – especially in one of the most expensive states in the country.

So, on top of his job during the week as a TA at the local university, Dean picks up a couple shifts over the weekend at his Uncle Bobby’s vintage antique store.

Now, while Dean was extremely grateful, the gratefulness didn’t stop the fact that the job was boring as hell.

If you asked Dean, half the stuff in the store looked like it should be donated to Goodwill not be in a vintage store on sale for hundreds of dollars.

(It’s not that Dean didn’t understand the appeal of vintage items. He could appreciate a vintage beauty. His car was a prime example of that. However, despite what the price tags may say, none of this junk held a candle to his beautiful 67 Chevy Impala.)

The place was hardly heaving, even on weekends. And when customers did come in each interaction went one of two ways:

People brought in their old junk in an attempt to pass it off as some rare artefact. Trying to convince those people that what they thought was a valuable medal, passed down through generations may as well have come out of a Happy Meal was not Dean’s favourite way to spend his Saturday.

The second, and perhaps the worst, type of customer would be the rich, entitled people who come into the shop wanting to expand their collection of antiques (which Dean knew without having to visit their homes that they only purchase to show off their wealth and don’t particularly care where they come from). They could be buying a Victorian butt plug to display on their mantelpiece but wouldn’t care as long as it’s as old and expensive as possible.

Dean had a customer just last week who took hours trying to haggle on the price of an antique brooch, despite clearly being about to afford it at full price. If Dean didn’t need the job to support Sam he would have told the woman exactly what he thought of her. (Even Bobby had rules when it came to professionalism). Regardless, she was a total –

“I need a ring!”

Dean was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of a man entering the store looking pretty flustered – emphasis on the pretty.

The man made quick strides of the distance between the door and the counter where Dean was still stood – transfixed by the frankly beautiful man coming towards him.

The man stopped and let out a deep and calming sigh.

“I need a ring.” He repeated more smoothly.

Regardless of how he feels about the customers, no one could say Dean wasn’t awesome at his job. So he put on his best customer service smile, tried to ignore the things this man was making his body feel and silently thanked Bobby once again for this.

“Of course, Sir. Was there anything in particular you had in mind?”

The man frowned.

“Please. There’s no need to call me ‘Sir’. Just call me Castiel.”

Castiel. Angelic

Go figure.

“Okay, Castiel. Are you looking for any kind of ring in particular?”

As he spoke, Dean started to move towards the key box that held the key to unlock the glass cabinet, which housed all of their rings.

“Your most expensive if possible, please.”

Dean stopped in his tracks and looked momentarily at Castiel with wide eyes.

Not only is this dude hot as fuck, he’s rich as fuck too?

Dean was used to asshole rich people throwing their money around but even they had a limit. Coming in and asking for the most expensive ring before even seeing it? Dean didn’t care how gorgeous this guy was, or how blue his eyes were, or how rough his voice sounded, or how sharp his jawbone looked, or –

Anyway! This dude was clearly a douchebag so Dean wasn’t interested.

He opened the glass case and lifted out the most expensive ring, placing it delicately on a black cloth for Castiel to look at.

Castiel picked it up between his finger and thumb – inspecting carefully.

He seemed so quiet and unassuming – nothing like the normal wealthy douchebags Dean encountered. Maybe he got him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

“Yes, I think she’ll like that one.”

Ah. So not a douchebag but definitely not single.

Dean sighed internally. That put an end to that before it even began.

Castiel dropped the ring back onto the surface and reached into his pocket for his wallet. Dean picked up the ring and carefully placed it inside the matching box. He was painfully aware that ring was worth more than he could earn in almost a year. Even if Castiel was single, Dean would never keep up with that amount of wealth.

He tried not to let the disappointment of Castiel’s impending engagement affect him – he was still just a stranger after all (a beautiful one at that his brain unhelpfully supplied). Dean plastered on his customer service smile.

“Would you like our complimentary cleaning cloth to help maintain its colour? We recommend cleaning it properly every week or so with this cloth as it is one of the older items in our collection.”

Castiel thought for barely a moment, “Sure.”

Gee, for a guy about to spend the rest of his life with the love of his life, he sure seemed uninterested in a pretty essential part of the process. This was just getting more and more depressing – and confusing.

Dean rushed to finish the transaction so he could get back to the normal status quo of the regular two types of customers and not a third who comes barreling in and turns his system upside down.

He finished the payment – Castiel barely flinched when Dean told him the price – and packed the ring carefully with the cleaning cloth into a gift bag.

“Thank you and I hope you and your soon-to-be fiancée have a wonderful life together.”

It pained Dean to say as he looked into Castiel’s eyes. Bobby should give him a raise just for the smile he was fighting to keep on his face.

As if Dean couldn’t take anymore, Castiel tilted his head and squinted his eyes making himself look adorable as hell.

“I’m not getting engaged.”

What?!

“What?”

“I’m not getting engaged.”

“B-but you just bought a really fucking expensive engagement ring!”

The confused part of Dean’s brain was overpowering the other part screaming ‘He’s not getting engaged – he might be single!’

“It’s for my mother.”

“Okay dude, you’re gonna have to walk me through this one. I mean, I love my mom but who drops that much on a ring for their mom?”

“My mother loves material things and good reputations – perhaps more than her own children. She has been rather angry with me for a few days so in order to ‘get back in her good books’ I needed to get the most expensive and oldest piece of jewellery I could. I see her tonight, hence why I was so flustered when I came in.”

Dean chose to ignore how adorable Castiel looked doing air quotes – his bran was about to explode.

“Ouch. What did you do to make her angry enough to need something as pricey as this?” Dean indicated to the bag he realised he was still holding out.

“My brother accidentally told her I’m gay.”

At this point, the other side of Dean’s brain finally took over.

DUDE HE’S NOT GETTING ENGAGED. HE’S PROBABLY SINGLE. AND HE’S INTO DUDES! ASK! HIM! OUT!

After a few prolonged seconds of Dean having an internal breakdown, Castiel started to look uneasy. Dean immediately recognised that uneasiness and managed to spit out a sentence that actually made sense.

“She’s angry at you for being gay? Sounds like a complete bitch to me.”

Dean realised what he’d said and instantly went to take it back but was stopped by the smirk on Castiel’s face.

“Oh don’t worry. She is. But as I said, she puts good reputations before her children and that means she’s paying for my law school. Well, what she thinks is law school.” There was that smirk again. Dean might just die. “I’m actually getting a degree in Education and Psychology. But I’ve got a year left so I need her to keep paying for my tuition. The day I graduate is the day I walk away from that family for good.”

Castiel held his head a little higher at that and Dean couldn’t help but admire the guy. Sucking up to a homophobic mom while tricking her into paying for the degree he wants? Frickin’ badass!

“Dude, I don’t know you from Adam, but, going on that ring alone, are you sure you could give up all that money?”

Castiel shrugged. “I’ve never been interested in it. I suppose that made me a bit of a black sheep. Add in the fact I’m gay, it pushed my mother over the edge. Hence the much too expensive ring.”

Wow. Was this guy for real?

Dean stood up from where he’d been leaning on the counter, listening with rapt attention. He put his hands in his pockets, looked down at a scratch in the counter top and looked up again slowly meeting Castiel’s eyes.

“So you’re not getting engaged?”

“Nope. Far from it, in fact.”

“You’re giving up the family money to live your own independent life?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re definitely into guys?”

Castiel smirked. “Yes. Very much so.”

“So… would you wanna go out some time? I promise it’ll probably be the cheapest date you’ve ever been on – I’m not exactly loaded myself.”

Dean avoided Castiel’s gaze, picking at the scratch on the counter.

A finger came out and lifted his chin, forcing him to meet Castiel’s eyes again.

“That sounds perfect. I’d love to go out with you but I do have one condition.”

Dean’s heart soared. He was starting to wonder where this guy had been all his life.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me your name.”

Dean threw his head back as a sharp, loud laugh burst through him.

The one day he forgot to wear his name tag. (He could hear Bobby’s ‘idjit’ ringing in his head.)

“It’s Dean.”

“Okay Dean, I’ll be out of town for a few days – to deliver the ring and reassure my mother that my brother was wrong, that her law school son is just looking for the right woman to settle down with.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “But when I get back I’d love to get burgers and see a movie or something?”

Dean’s smile could outshine the sun.

“Sounds awesome.”

*   *   *

A year later, they were all gathered in Dean’s garden celebrating Castiel’s graduation.

Since they met, Dean’s family had slowly started becoming Castiel’s too.

Now, Castiel was free from his biological family and was surrounded by his found family.

Dean was telling his Aunt Ellen the story of how they’d met but Castiel had zoned it out, focused only on looking at the beautiful man he got to call his.

“What a bitch!”

Castiel was drawn back into the conversation by Dean’s ‘cousin’ Jo’s outburst. Ah. They’re up to that point in the story.

Everyone in the group was looking at Castiel with sympathy and anger in their eyes.

Castiel shrugged.

“It’s fine. I used the family credit card to pay for the ring anyway. Plus I left with the most priceless item in that store anyway.”

The small crowd aww’d as Dean rolled his eyes and pulled Castiel in for a kiss.

This was my first fic since 2016 so please forgive if it’s a bit naff! I’m still re-finding my feet. 

If you’d like to be tagged any of my future stuff just drop me a message and let me know. :) 

[matth1w]

I was wondering if you could please write a OneShot where reader is Lucifer Morningstar’s best friend and after Chloe discovered his devil face and ran away he goes to reader where she comfort him and he admits she is the devil’s true love? Thank you, I love you 💕

True Love

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

Summary: Chloe sees Lucifer’s true face, but doesn’t come back. Being his best friend, he calls you for help. As you comfort him, he realizes he wants more than just your friendship.

Warnings: None

Rating: All

Word Count: 2,289

Note: I was unsure if you wanted this to take place when Chloe saw his face then went to Europe for a month (end of s3/beginning of s4) or at the end of season 4, so I went with the earlier. Thanks for requesting, love! 💕

Bonus points to anyone who gets the reference at the end 👀

As you scrolled through a silly Buzzfeed quiz that promised to tell you what Disney princess you were, Lucifer’s face popped up on the screen. It was a silly photo he had taken after you showed him Zoolander. His blue steel look was iconic to say the least.

You shimmied up the couch and brought the phone to your ear.

“Hey, Luci”

His voice was quiet and broken when he finally spoke.

“She… Can I come over, please?”

Your heart hurt at the sound of your friend’s heartbreak.

“Of course.”

“Good,” he said with a dry chuckle, “Would be awkward if you would have said no seeing as I’m in your driveway.”

You laughed, even sad he still had his antics. “I’ll be right out.”

You didn’t need to hear him say it. You could guess.

She saw his face.

You’ll admit, it was somewhat shocking at first. If by at first, you mean for a brief moment. You had always thought of Lucifer as an angel. Not the Devil.  And seeing your friend’s face was no difference.

When you opened your front door you weren’t surprised to see Lucifer. Slouching like a sad puppy. However you were surprised to not see the Corvette.

He saw your eyes move to your strangely empty driveway and chuckled.

“I panicked.”

You looked back to him with a raised eyebrow.

“You… panicked?”

He smiled sheepishly.

“Yes, well, I was distraught as the Detective saw this” he motioned at his face.

“Well not this, but that,”

You nodded and he continued.

“Anyway, I panicked and wanted to see you so I…”

You gave him a look. Hoping he wasn’t going to say what you thought he was going to say.

“I… flew.”

You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Lucifer Morningstar…”

You sighed and opened your eyes again.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it if anyone saw you.”

You looked up at Luci and smiled.

“Promise not to tell Meni”

He chuckled at your ridiculous nickname for his brother and gave you a warm smile, that faded into a sad one. You grabbed his hand.

“C’mon lightbringer. I got some ice cream and a whole bunch of buzzfeed quizzes.”

You didn’t have to look back as you brought him inside to know he was playfully rolling his eyes and maybe even fake-gagging.

— — —

After an hour of ice cream and stupidly silly online quizzes as promised, you felt the need to go to the bathroom.

You stared at your reflection as you washed your hands, lost in thought, wondering if Chloe would come to terms with Lucifer being well, Lucifer.

You couldn’t explain why some deep part of you wanted her to leave and never come back. Shaking the thought from your head as you did the water from your hands, you cleared your throat, wiped your hands, and walked back out to your living room.

When you walked in, you saw Lucifer sitting on your couch, empty glass in hand.

He simply looked up at you as you walked in. But then he looked away, ashamed.

You walked over to him and knowing words weren’t what he needed, you grabbed the glass from his hand, set it on the table, sat yourself in his lap, and cradled him.

He simply breathed for a moment, sighing from the affection and kindness. And then, it began.

His body was wracked with sobs and he shook underneath you. You held him tight as he held you even tighter, never letting go, placing kisses on his head and rubbing soothing circles on his back.

When Lucifer finally spoke beneath you, it wasn’t what you expected.

“Why… why did my father curse me so? Why does he hate me? My own father?”

He pulled slightly away to look up at you, eyes brimmed red from tears. You looked down at him with pity and pain. It hurt seeing your friend so broken by this.

And hearing him speak the emotions he tried to always lock away or cover with humor… it broke your heart.

You wiped the tears from his cheeks and hair from his warm face, noticing how he leaned into your gentle touch. You then stared deeply into his eyes.

“You are more than your past, Luci. More than any mistakes that caused such hatred. You deserve all the love and kindness there is in the world.”

Your eyes filled with tears, such strong love and pain seeing your friend broken so deeply.

Lucifer smiled just a smidge at your words, then hugged into your chest again.

“Thank you”

Nothing more, nothing less was spoken that night.

Lucifer stayed tight in your embrace, and you never let go. His breathing steadied, first turning into shaky breaths, then deep ones, then finally, light ones, telling you that he had fallen asleep.

You laid back further, resting your head against the pillow. Luci didn’t stir and you closed your eyes for a moment, meaning to only blink but sleep filling your body. Placing one last kiss onto his forehead, you closed your eyes and let yourself rest underneath yourself friend.

— — —

When you awoke, the first thing you noticed was a slight chill. You swore Lucifer would’ve kept you warm.

Once you opened your eyes with a wide stretch, you realized he wasn’t keeping you warm. Because he wasn’t there.

You humphed, but then looked around. His phone was on the table so he must be still here.

Noise from the kitchen confirmed that. You smiled hearing Luci undoubtedly making breakfast. Was tradition after all. Whoever was the guest sleeping over had to make, pickup, or order breakfast.

You laid back down lazily and hummed happily. Despite the situation, it was nice to share a Saturday morning with Lucifer. It had been a while since your last sleepover.

You began drifting off to sleep again when a loud shout stopped that.

“Oh bollucks!”

You stopped yourself from groaning and simply got up to see what mess Lucifer had made this time.

When you walked into your kitchen, Lucifer spun around from his place at the counter, and gave you a big cheerful smile. You couldn’t help but smile back, partially because you were seeing the angel wearing a brightly colored apron.

“Good morning, my dear!” Luci said with a clasp of his hands. Leaning slightly to cover the mess that you were leaning to see.

You looked up at him with an inquisitive, but humored look and he sighed.

“Well, you see,” he began. “I was trying to make waffles and I highly overestimated how much batter that silly machine of yours could handle. So…”

He moved aside and showed you the batter oozing out of the sides of the waffle maker and onto your counter.

You looked at the mess, then back to him and just laughed.

“Oh Lu, I haven’t touched that thing in years. Waffle makers are notorious for making messes.”

You waved your hand and smiled as the waffle maker dinged, signifying its completion. You hugged Luci quickly then walked over to the counter. As you opened the overflowing machine, you saw a golden fluffy waffle (with extra uncooked edges) that smelled so heavenly (no pun intended) you hummed in approval.

Luci came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulders.

“I take that as a good sign?”

You laughed beneath him.

“Definitely.”

— — —

A week later Lucifer invited you over to celebrate. When you arrived with a bottle of champagne, you didn’t know what to expect. It certainly wasn’t his enthusiastic proclamation of

“I quit!”

You looked at him curiously, unsure if he was in one of his self-destructive-pretend-everything-is-fine moods.

“You… quit?”

He huffed and rolled his eyes,

“Yes, darling. You growing old and deaf on me? I quit!”

You just looked at him. Hoping he would continue.

“Detective Douche told me he and…” he paused, “the Detective had put in transfers for Fresno.”

Your eyebrows raised at that but he ignored you, opting instead to continue.

“And well seeing as my former partner had up and left, I thought I would do the same. So,” he extended his arms,

“I quit”

You nodded, taking a moment to ponder it. You then hung your head and laughed.

“Going to find a new job?”

He looked at you like you had grown a second head, “I think not. Though, is your employer hiring?”

You whole heartedly laughed at that, “No way, Luc. You cause enough ruckus every time you bring me lunch.”

He smirked at that, “touché”.

You raised up the bottle in your hand, and smiled up at your friend.

“Congrats, Luci. To unemployment!”

He huffed at your teasing smirk but laughed nonetheless. “Let’s open that up, shall we?”

— — —

During the next few months you had sleepovers, first filled with pizza and ice cream helping him get over what felt like a breakup. You’d both watch cheesy movies. A mix of comedies, dramas, and the classics you made Luci watch so he was ‘cultured’.

And you’d go out. Dancing and drinking at Lux that always led to crashing at his penthouse upstairs. Dragging him to other clubs to only have him protest at the notion until he realized it was your favorite 80’s themed club and was totally different to Lux. (You tried not to say anything when Lux started having decade theme nights once a month shortly after that).

You’d also go out to eat - fancy restaurants, casual restaurants, food trucks that you both gorged on, late night diners, even Taco Bell once or twice.

And you’d also just go out to places. Museums, book stores, antique places, anything and everything.

It became normal for you and Lucifer to spend nearly all weekend together and even some evenings during the week together. It wasn’t unusual to go to Lux with Lucifer or have movie nights but now you were doing mundane domestic things like going grocery shopping together, cleaning your house and his apartment, and even doing laundry together. Though that just consisted of Lucifer making cheeky comments about your under things.

But one day… things changed.

Lucifer had asked if he could come over which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was how nervous he seemed. Like he was hyper aware of everything he did but also lost in thought.

He had staring at your intertwined hands instead of the trashy tv you were mindlessly watching. Since he kept staring through two commercials straight, you decided to say something.

“You know, you can just let go,”

Lucifer jumped slightly at your voice, confirming your suspicions that was he deep in thought.

You squeezed his hand and shifted to face him, surprised to see his deep dark eyes staring back at you.

“You alright, Luc?”

Your eyebrows furrowed with concern as your searched your friend’s eyes.

He closed his for a moment and sighed.

“I’ve been thinking, darling,”

“Never a good sign,” you quipped back.

He smiled lightly at that then frowned slightly.

“I have thoroughly enjoyed our friendship and these past few months together. I don’t think I would have gotten through it quite so easily without you.”

You nodded but took your hand from his, nervous as to what you thought he was going to say next.

“But…?”, you said hesitantly.

He huffed and clasped his hands together, now alone from yours.

“But… I fear…”

You didn’t want to but your eyes started feeling prickly.

He paused and looked at you with pity,

“Oh, darling, there’s no need to cry.”

You nodded but his words did nothing but make you feel worse and cause the tears to fall.

“Darling,” he cooed as he pulled you into a hug.

“Dad, I’m so… ugh” he huffed, holding you close.

He pulled away quickly, “Y/N, look at me.”

You sniffled and brought your eyes to his but quickly looked away. He placed his hand on your cheek, wiping the tears, then lifted your head so you would again meet his eyes.

He was looking back at you with a mixture of emotions you couldn’t read.

“Our time together, well, it’s opened my eyes. I don’t think I’m happy just being your friend.”

He stopped talking and looked at you, searching for any reaction. You simply stared back, your brain unable to process for a moment.

You finally shook yourself out of it and smiled.

“Yeah?” You whispered, voice clearly displaying your hopefulness.

His eyes flickered down to your lips as he leaned in a touch.

“Yes”

You leaned in further but then pulled back and giggled. Lucifer looked somewhat surprised by you pulling away and confused at your giggling.

“What’s so funny, love?” Lucifer asked, genuinely confused.

You giggled again and pressed a finger into his shoulder, “You like me,”

Lucifer smiled at your sing song teasing tone and playfully rolled his eyes.

You continued with your teasing. Your smile bright and overjoyed.

“You want to hug me, you want to kiss me, you want -“

He laughed and grabbed your face once more and pulled you in for a kiss. Your lips melted together and you both couldn’t help the smiles that broke out.

You pulled away ever so slightly so your foreheads remained in contact and opened your eyes. You saw as Lucifer’s long eyelashes fluttered and his adoring eyes met yours.

You pecked his lips quickly again then jumped up, continuing your song and prancing around.

“You think I’m gorgeous…”

Lucifer stared at you and laughed at your silly antics. He had nothing to fear. Being in love with his best friend wouldn’t change a thing.

[skinks]

mr wentworth yes i help my son with his goofy voices yes i am a dilf tozier has the salt n pepper hair of god (oscar isaac) and the sexy librarian glasses to match

god I had never even considered that... the range of this...

Went starts going gray at 32 when Richie is 5 and it’s all the church women’s group can talk about... indirectly, of course. Oh, but he’s so young. Oh, he’ll be balding next. Oh I don’t know, doesn’t he look... distinguished? Mrs Nash from just down their street sees him doing rock-paper-scissors with his son Richard in the grocery store to determine whether or not Richard is allowed ice cream, and Dr Tozier is laughing because he’s winning, and he’s winning because Richard doesn’t know his father can see his little hidden hand reflected in the freezer cabinet, tucked behind his back. Richard’s laughing too, even though he’s losing, and bleats, “Again! Dad again,” eyes shining big as planets with coke-bottle rings.

“Don’t you know what best two out of three means? That was four draws ago.”

“No! No, I’ll win!” The boy shakes his head so hard his whole body rocks from side to side, then clings up at Dr Tozier’s middle with sticky hands. His very... trim middle. Helen’s own Rory, God love him, he enjoys a sudsy six-pack too much these days to keep a middle like that. “Two outta three! Three ice creams please Dad please please Dad please watch I can count to a hundred—”

“Well, we’re not playing hide-and-go-seek right now, Rich. And I beat you, didnt I?”

“Yeah!”

“Right. So why don’t you go get Dad six apples instead, alright? If you can do a hundred, six’ll be pie.” Dr Tozier claps his big hands gentle to the boy’s round cheeks, until they goldfish.

“Easy as,” they chant together. Helen props herself up with the handles of her own cart, the can of little hotdogs going slack in her hand.

“Six apples, then come right back. You got that, doc? You pick the color.”

Richard nods like he’s trying to detach his own head. Dr Tozier puts one hand just briefly on Richard’s dark mophead hair, like he’s giving the boy a blessing for his apple adventure. His hand is really quite broad, thinks Helen, popped out square at the thumb-joint. Matches that jawline of his, something whispers darkly in her stomach. Then the boy’s off, tearing down the aisle on a squeaking chariot of scuffed-gray sneakers and babbling what sounds like a Bugs Bunny impression, repeated on a loop. What’s up doc what’s up doc what’s up doc, fading around the corner to the fruit. Peculiar. Helen once saw the Tozier boy eat a worm at the park while pushing her youngest on the swings, after another solemn-eyed little boy with a faceful of freckles had carefully presented it to him in the sand box. Most peculiar.

Dr Tozier watches him go, then turns back to the freezer cabinet, and sticks two cartons of ice cream into his shopping cart—the very sugary kind. And the man is a dentist!

Helen puts her hand on her chest to calm the trilling schoolgirl rush of her heart, and then stops herself at the sight of her own wedding ring. Get a hold of yourself, Mrs Nash! For Pete’s sake! She trundles her cart over for some chit-chat. Afternoon, Doctor, she says, lovely weather. A perfect neighbourly opener. It is lovely; bright and warm and clear and golden, like honey outside. She’s quietly smug about her new blowout. Dr Tozier is wearing a crisp shirt with buttons like neat soldiers and short sleeves, exposing lean forearms. Yes, a lovely day. Helen swallows.

“Yes, good for the lawn,” replies Dr Tozier.

“We missed Margaret at book club this week,” Helen hedges.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Dr Tozier, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins are even more distracting without the facemask he’s usually wearing, when Helen drops in for her check-ups. He pushes his spectacles up the strong slope of his nose. They’re wiry like him, steely gray to match his eyes. “She meant for me to tell you, or Diana. Maggie’s been in Skowhegan for the week at her mother’s. My mother-in-law is a woman of... nervous disposition, shall we say. Maggie didn’t think she’d cope with two Tozier men at once, now that Richie’s started losing his teeth.”

“Ohhh,” Helen coos. That must explain the ice cream. She puts her hand near to Dr Tozier’s arm, then away, then near, then away again for good. A neighbourly distance. Margaret is a lovely, lucky woman, even if she does wear flared pants. Hippie to yuppie pipeline’s alive ‘n’ flowin’, Rory always grunts whenever the Toziers come up in conversation. Helen imagines a picket fence between their bodies, and calms. “My Wendy was the same, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes,” says Dr Tozier mildly. “You brought her in six times as I recall it, Mrs Nash.”

Mrs Nash. Honestly, like she’s his schoolteacher. It’s a little rude. Admittedly he does look quite, quite young with his faintly curling weekend-hair, if not for the new gray blazing a trail back from his temples like virgin snow. Helen is undeterred, even if something quivers inside at the thought of the word virgin in conversation with Dr Tozier. Music tinkles tinny through the ceiling speakers, and it puts Helen in mind of potted plants, or elevators. This is a lovely chat. “Well, you hate to see them suffer, don’t you? I’m sure Richard’s the same, lots of tears—”

“No, actually, Richie keeps on finding things to hit himself in the face with and knock out more teeth,” Dr Tozier interjects. He raises his eyebrows and speaks hushed, as if this is a secret for Helen’s ears alone. The thought makes her dizzy. “It’s my fault, I made the mistake of giving him a quarter for the first one. That’s why he’s not invited to Grandma’s. Lot of antiques.”

“Oh,” says Helen, taken aback. She has three girls; little boy behavior is as yet mystifying. “Well.”

“I’m joking, Helen,” Dr Tozier says cheerfully.

“Oh. I—I see. What a relief.”

He opens a freezer chest to examine a bag of frozen peas. “Maggie’s mom is deaf as white cat, she’d never notice.”

Helen tries to wipe her clammy hands on her dress without being obvious. Her face is hot, but she hopes her cardigan conceals the effect that the chill of the freezer aisle is having under her bra. She also hopes that it doesn’t.

He really does have such a slender, pleasant face, always with an air of casual, amused expectancy hanging around him. Haloing him, like that bright yellow light above the chair in his practice, blocked out when he leans over and slips his fingers inside. Helen supposes that’s what graduating medical school must do to a man, what marrying and fathering young and having one’s own practice by the end of such a turbulent decade as the nineteen-seventies must elicit. The ability to put people at ease, to—to say open wide and know the people of Derry trust him enough to comply. To open themselves. Helen’s breathing catches. Dr Tozier idly checks his sensible watch, still smiling the unhurried smile of a man who very rarely does his own grocery shopping anymore. Everyone knows you pick up the ice-cream last.

Helen gathers herself. This is the longest conversation she has entertained with Dr Tozier without children or the squeaking of latex gloves between them, and she’s gripped by the terribly silly need to be interesting. “Speaking of white cats, I couldn’t help noticing your hair, Wentworth—”

“DADDY!”

Dr Tozier blanches, whipping around to scan the end of the aisle. He is a long line of tense instinct tuned to thrum into action at one specific frequency, knuckles white on the cart handle. His cart bumps into Helen’s. It is thrilling.

“Fuck,” Dr Tozier mutters, and that’s thrilling too, he swore, oh, the boy’s probably fine Wentworth, don’t go, why don’t we just stay right here with the frozen goods and—

Then Richard comes barrelling back down the aisle like a colt on new legs covered in old Band-aids, with his arms full. The fluorescent strip-lights gleam white on Dr Tozier’s broad shoulders and he sags, like snow dropping from a branch, with relief.

“Hey, lunkhead,” he says, sounding shaky, but Richard is only five and would never know it. He’s babbling again. Seems to Helen like the boy’s as a hydrant overflowing on a hot day; entertaining and welcomed at first, until it becomes a nuisance when you begin to understand it won’t shut off, and have to call the firemen.

“Nyyeeeeeah,” Richard greets his father, tousled and bug-eyed with clear adoration, breathing hard from his Supermarket Sweep. Then he makes the carrot-noise. Looks like Bugs, Helen thinks of the boy’s new adult front teeth, the beaverish jut of them exacerbated by his missing canines on either side. Then she feels abruptly un-neighbourlike for being jealous of a child for his father’s attention, good grief.

Dr Tozier regards his son for a long moment. Then says, “What’s up, doc?” in a spot-on Mel Blanc whine. Richard giggles so hard his too-big glasses start slipping. “How many apples is that?”

“Gotta apples and I was gonna put ‘em in a bag but I forgot and Dad, Daddy look, s’a dinosaur on the box for my dinner when Mommy’s at Grandma’s—”

Dr Tozier sighs, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other over his clean-shaven mouth, watching Richard drop his armfuls everywhere, scattering the linoleum. He has two apples, four boxes of brightly colored cereal, a handful of pencils topped with cartoon-character erasers, and a kiwi fruit. For a moment, Helen sees the shining enamel of Dr Tozier’s everything-will-work-out-with-another-cup-of-coffee amusement slip, wear away to worry underneath.

“Rich,” he says, interrupting Richard’s blabbermouth, firm and patient. Helen’s thighs burn suddenly under her skirts at the tone of his voice, and she looks down, rearranging her own groceries. She should leave them to get on. She could offer to help. Margaret’s out of town, poor things, they probably haven’t eaten a cooked meal all week!

“Richie,” Dr Tozier says again. “Listen and pay attention when Mom or me ask you to do something, remember? How many apples did I ask you to get?”

Richard has to crane his neck to meet his father’s eyes. Dr Tozier is one of the tallest fathers in the Derry Elementary catchment zone, Helen has checked. “Six!”

“And how many’ve you got, Elmer Fudd?”

“Um.” Richard’s pale little face creases in thought, then brightens. When he speaks again his voice is strange, accented. “Twooo.”

“Some apple hunter you are, huh.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s fine.” Dr Tozier stoops to gather Richard’s detritus, and Helen knows she has something to contribute, watching the boy stick one of the pencils up his nose.

“You know, apples are very good for you,” she says. Richard turns to her, slack-jawed, as if seeing her for the first time. “You should listen to your Daddy, Richard, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Richard stares for another few seconds. Then he bites down on his boogery pencil so that it threads through the gaps in his teeth, and hollers, “MY FRIEND BILL SAID THAT’S A PILE OF BULLSHIT.”

“No shouting indoors, Rich,” says Dr Tozier, still gathering. Helen rocks a step backwards, clinging to her cart like a life-preserver.

“Bill and my’s friend Eddie eats a thousand apples and sees the doctor all the time though Dad, and Miss Spiegel said if we eat apples we don’t have to see the doctors but Eddie eats them and—Bill said—”

“Pile of bullshit, yeah, I liked it. Bill’s an eloquent guy,” says Dr Tozier. This is the second time Helen has ever heard him curse in as many minutes. It comes out easy and amused as everything else does in his pleasant tenor. His legs and his jaw are so lean and angular that Helen can see the suggestion, the shadow of the shape of his perfect, swearing teeth through his cheek as he grins helplessly at his son, the fruit of his loins and someone else’s loins who isn’t Helen, and all of a sudden she feels a slick pulse of wet heat, up between her thighs.

She squeaks. Flutters her hand to her face without knowing why, perhaps to catch the noise before Dr Tozier notices, just another quivering Derry leaf tossed along by his breezy manner. He looks up anyway, with a frown.

“Everything alright, Helen?”

“Just—fine, yes,” she manages. Dr Tozier is still down on one knee, kindly face level with her skirts. She can see right down under his starched collar from this angle, a slivering glimpse of smooth, dark hair. No undershirt. Helen has lain naked against Rory’s nakedness before without feeling this alive, in every part of her body. She feels like a heart, beating.

“Oh, hang on.” Dr Tozier says, eyes widening, and turns Richard by the shoulders to face her. One pencil for each nostril, now. “Apologize to Mrs Nash for cussing, Richie.”

“Sorry!” Richard shouts, sounding less like he’s apologizing and more like he’s just deemed Helen it during a game of tag.

Helen is still floating in a dazed state of mild panic. Like a prey-mouse, bewitched into slack compliance by her own body’s snaking desires. “That’s alright, dear.”

F-word, Dr Tozier had said. Maybe cussing could be quite neighbourly when applied in the right context, thinks Helen.

“You mentioned my hair, earlier,” says Dr Tozier, straightening back up with a knowing sort of arch to his eyebrow as he smiles genially at Helen. He tilts his head down at Richard. “There’s the reason. Every last one, sprinkled onto my head at the tender age of thirty-two by the great salt-and-pepper shaker of fatherhood. Especially this week, with Maggie on sabbatical. Had to bring you to work with me, didn’t I, buckaroo?”

Richard bites and swings and tugs on his father’s long arm, a tearaway kitten with a much obliging scratching post. Dr Tozier hardly seems to notice. “Yeah! Daddy’s got fishes at work!”

Dr Tozier grimaces slightly at Helen, but also as if he’s seeing right through her to some past unnamable horror. “I liked those fish. Calmed down the nervy patients.” He sighs again.

Helen wonders briefly whether or not the residents of Dr Tozier’s waiting-room fish tank suffered the same fate as that worm in the park, and decides she’d rather not know.

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” she says, gamely. She watches her hand reach towards Dr Tozier’s silver-black brindle, then snatches it back from his bland expression to brush the tips of her own feathered-out hair. “The gray, I mean.”

Dr Tozier blinks.

“It’s very—that is to say, you look, it makes you look, I mean, I think it’s—”

Dr Tozier’s left eyebrow joins his right, raised up high.

A tidy little jet of hysteria shoots up from Helen’s knotting stomach to spin like a top in her chest. She hears herself stutter out the word, “Dashing,” and immediately wishes to flee the store, leaving her cart abandoned like so much collateral damage.

But Dr Tozier only barks a laugh, a short, smooth hah like everything else he says. Entirely unperturbed. “Well, thank you.”

Too unperturbed. Helen is struck by a sudden bolt of terror, at the thought of the things Dr Tozier must surely hear every day, when people are lulled by the hypnotically intimate environment of a dentist’s chair and a touch of the laughing gas. Oh, this is terrible. Her face is on fire.

“But they—they make products for men now,” she says, and why, oh why can’t she stop talking? “Hair dyes, I mean, if it really does bother you? I’ve seen them in Keene’s.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Dr Tozier, looking down at Richard then with a soft edge, at his bouncing noise and scabbed knees and gently curling hair like a black spaniel’s. Like his father’s. “I find I’m rather grateful for it, truth be told.”

“Plus,” he continues, as if Helen wasn’t already melting harder than the Tozier’s ice-cream, as if Johnny Kitchener the shop-boy isn’t going to have to come along with a mop and bucket to clean up on aisle seven, “Maggie’d kill me if I got rid of it.”

Then Dr Tozier winks.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, Helen’s whole ribcage is so tight she can’t squeeze out a reply, because who could blame dear, pretty, annoyingly friendly, lucky, lucky, lucky Margaret for that when Dr Wentworth Tozier DMD is so—

So f—

So fffffff—

So fiddlesticksing handsome!

“Well, we’d best not keep you, Helen. This one is in dire need of a bath before his mother sees him, and hands me a divorce on the spot,” Dr Tozier says, when another few moments have passed and all Helen can do is try to desperately smooth the creases from her breathing. He’s humming mild interest at something Richard is saying, knelt back down to the linoleum to tie the boy’s loose-worm laces presumably before he gives himself any more skinned knees, and they’re leaving. Dr Tozier is leaving, and Helen hasn’t done anything but act like a ninny this entire time. She doesn’t want him to think her a ninny, a simpleton. She wants him to leave this bright, liminal church of bold colors and jazzy waiting-room music and return to his lemon-yellow two-storey house thinking my, what a lovely chat I had with Helen Nash.

She wants to linger, as he lingers. Like an amiable spirit hanging over the women’s group at church, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s eager notice. I bumped into Dr Tozier at Palmer’s on Saturday, she’ll say to the other jealous ladies, with triumph, and we had such a nice talk. He called me Helen.

“And when—when does Margaret get home?” she blurts. A very secret part of Helen wants Dr Tozier to leave this conversation with Helen and his wife both, entwined by association in his mind. She tries very hard not to think about the Toziers divorcing, because that is un-neighbourly, and feels least neighbourly of all when a dopey, dreamy look crosses Dr Tozier’s face like a brief sunbeam at her question.

“Ah. Tonight. Not too late, hopefully.” He jerks one of his knuckley thumbs at his shopping cart, licking the other to wipe something unidentifiable from Richard’s grubby face. “That’s why we’re here, stocking up for her miraculous return. Like a couple of noble emperor penguins in Antarctica, eh Rich?”

“Penguins like from Batman! Ka-pow.”

Helen takes a peek into their cart, curiosity getting the better of her now that permission is granted. Dr Tozier might not know it, but looking into another person’s cart is bad grocery etiquette, especially in a town like Derry, where gossip grows like a fungus in every sweaty and close little huddle of people. Not that Helen would know about that. Anyway, there isn’t much to gossip about besides the unfortunately liquefied ice-cream, the severe lack of crunchy vegetables characteristic of a young man in 1981 trying to provide for a tooth-shedding son, and—

A little cardboard box. Tossed unashamedly between the Wonderbread and a magazine about sports. Prophylactics. Rubbers.

36-pack. XL

Helen knows her jaw is hanging open and strains to close it, the back of her neck and her shoulders feeling hot and tight and shuddery. She kneads a fist into her skirts. Crosses her legs at the ankles as demurely as she knows how, because the very last thing she needs is for frank, sensible Dr Tozier to see right through her with that easy doctor-patient-confidentiality smile, and know she’s soaking through her underwear at the sight of his Saturday grocery run, and all it implies.

Dr Tozier is laughing, nudging Richard in the direction of the register, or perhaps the apples. “Ka-pow is right. I’ll make sure to use that on Mom, thanks. Say hello to Rory for us, Helen. Have a nice day,” he says from over his shoulder, startling her. Holds up one long hand in a wave with a grin, and is gone, shadowing the boy’s haphazard attempts to push the cart despite not being able to see where he’s going.

Helen stands amongst the humming freezers, trembling. “You too,” she rasps, but Dr Tozier has rounded the corner, and is evidently going to have a nice day and a much nicer night, regardless of whether Helen wishes it for him or not.

All the bright little branded characters are watching her from their shelves, a silent jury. Helen Nash opens a freezer cabinet with a weak arm, and stands there for a while, staring at a leg of ham and thinking cooling, neighbourly thoughts.

[nat-roman0ff]

all i want for christmas is us

all i want for christmas is us

an entry for @saintlymendes​ secret santa

for: nicole (@tell-me-when-ur-ready​)

-

words: 2,092 warnings: some swearing, angst, and cavity inducing fluff (it is christmas after all)

-

 Shawn looks down again at his phone, scrolling through the photos. Happy. Warm. Holiday season. Ice skating at his favorite park, kissing under the mistletoe, and posing in the matching pajamas his mum had bought for the entire family. A smile creeps up on his face and then disappears just when he starts to feel its warmth. 

 Last Christmas. 

 Last Christmas the photos were taken. Last Christmas they were happy. Last Christmas she had said yes to marrying him. 

 Now the photos just served as painful reminders of his current reality. Sitting alone in his half empty condo. He couldn’t bare to replace the things she took, just in case she decided to come back.

Odds and ends mostly; an end table she purchased at an antique store and lugged eight blocks back home on a hot August weekend, an ottoman where the two would sit on the floor across from each other and play cards all night over a bottle of her favorite red wine, an entirely empty wall that used to make up her vinyl collection. The half empty condo matched his half empty heart.

 Shawn locks and drops his phone to his chest with a thud, opting for the sting of its weight on his sternum over the stinging of his broken heartstrings. He still hadn’t cleaned up the red wine stain from the carpet when she spilled it last Christmas. Getting rid of that was the last bit of her still around and, well, he needed to still hold onto something. 

 Karen’s rung three times at this point. She knew it was going to be a hard day for him, insisted he spend the night Christmas Eve but Shawn declined and instead drank himself stupid until three in the morning and passed out on the living room floor next to her red wine stain.

 He thought about calling her, wishing her a Happy Christmas, or anything just to hear her voice. It hadn’t been a messy breakup, at least at first. She said it was too much too soon and the constant pressure from the outside world was starting to seep through their happy little bubble. 

 Time. It was always time that she needed. But after she returned the ring, the weeks faded into months and when he saw that first picture come up on his timeline he knew that their time had run out. 

 It was innocent enough; someone he knew through mutual friends but could never remember his name. Smiling, with her lips pressed against his cheek. 

 She was with someone else. 

 He blacked out that night, somewhere in the middle of a world tour in a foreign city and woke up the next morning by Brian dumping a glass of water on his head. He cried for a day and a half straight and then again when he had to tell his mum. 

 Time.

 Everyone said it was all he’d need to get over her; the love of his life. He’d known it from a very young age, before the fame, before they’d ever exchanged a wayward glance at each other. He knew she was going to be the one for him, for the rest of his life. 

 Until she wasn’t.

 Write about it. Was his first thought. Write until your fingers bleed and there’s nothing left in your head. Write out every memory, every feeling, every ounce of pain that courses through your God forsaken veins and then you’ll be rid of her. But Shawn couldn’t write. He couldn’t put down a single fucking word in the six months since she left. He just couldn’t describe it; there was no way to put into words how he was feeling, nothing that did it justice, nothing that captured the pathetic sadness that lingered in his bones about her.

 -

 It’s half past two when Karen finally got ahold of him. He’d lost track looking at photos, letting his memories replay on the walls of his condo over and over again. He watches the two of them dance in the kitchen at midnight and make love on the living room floor in the morning, wrapped up in each other’s arms. If he was miserable at home on Christmas, he was going to be even worse at his parent’s house. 

 Everything was the same as it was last year when Shawn finally walks through the front door of his parent’s home, right down to the smells. Except she’s not there. There’s a small box in the spot where the ring box sat last year on the tree and Shawn tries to blink away the onset of tears that threaten to come through. He wonders which cousin is getting engaged this year.

 Asshole stole my idea.

 “Everything alright, darling?” Karen asks in only that mum way. She knows it’s not. It hasn’t been for a while. 

 Shawn nods his head, “yeah, fine. Just...you know. I knew today would be hard.” 

 Karen smiles, “I know, honey. But they day’s not over yet,” she says with a wink.

 Something in Shawn’s heart flutters.

 “C’mon,” she starts, “let’s go open presents.” 

 -

 An hour and two bags full of wrapping paper later the Mendes’ family is nearly finished unwrapping gifts. Shawn’s eyes glance over to the box sitting snugly on the tree branch. No one has reached for it yet, and as things are winding down he can’t help but stare at it, wanting to know the contents. It’s slightly larger than a ring box, but not enough to put anything substantial in it. 

 “There’s one more for you,” Manny points to the tree. 

 Shawn looks at the box and back to his father and he nods. Standing, he goes to the tree and opens the box with shaky hands. There’s a folded up piece of paper inside and he immediately recognizes her handwriting and that stupid gold pen he always hated. It smeared the edges of her letters, he never thought it would end up being something he missed. Shawn can feel the heat of his family watching him as he reads;

 Shawn,

 It’s been too long since we last spoke and I suppose I owe you a lot. See, time is a funny thing. It feels the most fleeting when you have none of it left and the most crippling when you’re looking down the barrel of forever. I needed time on my own, I needed time with other people. I needed to know that what we had was what my forever was meant to look like and to do that I needed to find out a little more about myself. So, as it turns out I actually DO like cucumbers, riding motorcycles, and being alone. But I still hate tomatoes, unicorns (don’t ask) and being away from you. I’m sorry for the pain that I’ve caused you. I know there’s never going to be a way I can take that away or make it up to you, but I want you to know just how sorry I am.

 Meet me tonight at 6 where we had our first date (yes, the first-first one, not the second-first one, you’ll know what I’m talking about).

 Love, Nicole

 His ears are ringing when he looks up - eyes immediately checking the clock on the wall behind him: 5:55. 

 “Fuck - I gotta go!” 

 Shawn runs to grab his shoes and jacket. It’s faster if he runs, he thinks. It’s not far and his car is packed in with his relatives in the driveway and it would take ten minutes just for everyone to move out of the way. He sets off as the snow starts to pick up, slipping and sliding against the sidewalk pavement, breath coming out in foggy puffs. 

 He runs to the park by the high school. It’s not far, and he thinks he can make it in time. His cheeks are frozen, and snowflakes keep getting stuck in his lashes but Shawn just runs to her. When he rounds the corner to cross he sees her there, sitting on that same old dingy swing set that has somehow (despite looked rotted for at least the last twenty years) has never broken. She’s bundled up in her winter coat, looking down at her boots absentmindedly drawing pictures in the snow with the tip of her shoe. 

 The park had been their halfway point when they were kids; perfectly in the middle of each house when they didn’t want to worry about being around parents. It had been here that they had their first date in sixth grade; a picnic of PB&J’s that ended in an unforecasted rainstorm. She didn’t mind, and they splashed and danced in the puddles and went home a dirty sopping mess and he was sure that was the exact moment he fell in love with her. Even though he wasn’t sure what that meant yet. As all things do when you’re twelve, the relationship ended just as quick as it started and it wasn’t until six years later that things actually became serious.

 But that’s another story for another day.

 He’s not sure what to say when he approaches her. His chest is frozen from heaving in the frigid air and she just looks up from the swing and stares. He’s not sure it was possible for her to get more beautiful, but she somehow managed to. Her cheeks were pinked like his, her hair sprinkled with tiny snowflakes. 

 “I know how much we both love grand romantic gestures,” she laughs.

 Fuck, he never thought he’d hear that laugh again and it literally warms his chest to. 

 “Nicole I -” 

 “Shawn I’m sorry,” she starts, “I have no way to ever make up what I did to you. I just...I got really fucking scared. You’re the only person I’ve ever been with and that terrified me. I didn’t know what it was like to be young and single or do something by myself. So I had to be alone -” 

 “What about that guy? The one you posted a picture with?” Shawn says.

 Nicole slaps her forehead with her palm, “Shawn, Joe is my friend.” 

 He sucks in a breath of air, “oh.” 

 “There was never anyone else,” she pats the empty swing next to her, “there’s never going to be anyone else.”

 Shawn sits beside her, it feels good to be this close again; to see all the little things about her up close that made her, her. All the little things he failed to appreciate before she had gone. 

 “So what does this mean now?” He asks. 

 Nicole reaches for his frozen hand and holds it in her gloved one, “I hope it means you still have that ring -” 

 Before she can finish Shawn pulls the chain of her swing towards him to bring her closer, and kisses her. Her lips are cold and chapped but so are his and there’s a brilliant warmth of familiarity that his bones recognize and he melts into her, wrapping an arm around her middle and holding on like his life depends on it. 

 (It does)

 “So how did you even pull this off? Shawn asks when he pulls away. 

 Nicole smiles, “Karen helped me.” 

 He snorts, “I knew it.”

 The park is so silent Shawn swears he can hear the snowflakes hit the ground, trapped in their own personal snow globe. They sit quiet for a moment, and Shawn is still trying to process what just happened. He can feel her still lingering on his lips; the same sickly sweet lip gloss she always wore. 

 “Do you want to go home?” He asks, looking at her through snow flake lined lashes. 

 Nicole nods, “I’d really love that.” 

 Shawn threads his fingers through hers and they walk hand in hand back to the Mendes household. He feels the gold circular piece of metal against his chest. He’s worn it there for so long he’s forgotten he has it. 

 He stops them in the middle of the sidewalk and bends down onto one knee onto the snow, reaching under his shirt and jacket to snap the engagement ring off the chain he wore around his neck. 

 “Will you marry me...again?” 

 Nicole nods frantically, “yes! Now get up before your jeans get wet.”

 Shawn stands and pulls her into a kiss, threading his fingers through her hair until the both of them are out of breath. 

 “Hey Shawn,” she starts, lips still ghosting against his, “Merry Christmas.” 

 He smiles so hard it hurts his cheeks, “Merry Christmas, my love.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fully Completely 3

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), violence, mutual irritation, harassment

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

Series Synopsis: There’s a new face in Birch and he’s come to haunt your door.

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

Note: On to part three. Sorry for being a human disaster.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

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

Chapter 3: Or it will move right through me

💀💀💀

Jerome annoyed you as he picked through your tool box and clicked the ratchet noisily. He was excited but impatient and complained that you were taking so long. You told him if he wanted to pay out of pocket for labour, you could finish faster. 

You sat by his bike, parts strewn at your feet, and bent your head to look under the tank. You still had a lot to go and hadn’t yet added anymore of the gross chrome to the frame.

“Do you realise how filthy this is gonna get?” you huffed as you sat up and leaned your elbows on your legs, “not to mention how ridiculous it looks.”

“I like it. It’s just my style,” your brother grinned, “I don’t remember you spending this much time on Bucky’s ride and you and him--”

“He had me replace the tailpipe, you want nothing short of a rebuild,” you scoffed, “and you’re not the boss.”

“Don’t remind me,” he rolled his eyes, “guess it could be worse though. It could be Steve.”

“Thank god it’s not,” you chuckled, “I don’t know how many women had to toss beer in his face before he latched onto that mousy one at the bakery.”

“She’s nice,” Jerome shrugged, “far as I know. She doesn’t talk to anyone but Steve.”

“I wonder why,” you tisked, “he has insecurity written across his forehead.”

The tinny bell rang and the door whooshed open as the wind caught it. Jerome glanced over and dropped the ratchet noisily into the drawer of the tool box. You growled in warning as you spent much of your spare cash on those. He apologised quietly as he squared his shoulders at the man who appeared.

“Hey,” Bucky wiped the flakes from his hair and blew out a shiver.

“Bucky,” Jerome said rigidly.

The other man nodded and stepped further inside the garage. He shoved his hands in his pockets and paced aimlessly around the concrete floor. You watched him as you fiddled with the bolt in your hand.

“You wanna head down to the bar?” It wasn’t a question as Bucky came to face you, “I gotta talk to your sister.”

“Sure,” Jerome replied sharply, “you got it, boss.”

Bucky grumbled and waited for him to leave. He sniffed and kicked his toe into the floor.

“So… what’re you doing here? Been a while so must be urgent,” you sat up on the rolling stool and stretched your back.

“The whole town’s talking about it. You fighting him,” his brows drew together, “I told you I’d take care of him.”

“You didn’t,” you said evenly, “so I did.”

“I talked to him--”

“And said what?” you snorted.

“Look, you don’t understand. You said it yourself, you don’t care about my business. You don’t get what’s going on but what I need from him is bigger than your temper.”

“Excuse me? This is my fault? He broke into my shop, he followed me from that diner and he put his hands on me,” you stood and tossed the bolt away, “what do you want me to do, Buck?”

“First, I want you to remind yourself who I am. We’re not fucking anymore so that mouth isn’t as cute,” he warned, “and I want you to play nice.”

“All you have to do is keep him away from me. How hard is that for a man like you, huh? You’re the big dog.”

“Watch it,” he pointed at you, “I won’t tell you again.”

“He’s here to deal with you, not me,” you insisted, “he grabbed me, I defended myself, and I’ll do it again.”

“This isn’t grade school anymore, you can’t fight the boys,” he sighed.

“What are you saying?”

He was silent as his jaw ticked and his blue eyes strayed to the ceiling. You stepped closer and gripped your hips as you stared him down.

“There’s nothing else I can do for you. Nothing else I will do. He’s your problem.”

He met your glare and you scoffed in disgust, “you’re fucking serious? What do these idiots have on you?”

“It’s not what they have on me, it’s what I want from them. I’m planning for something bigger than Birch, that means there’s gonna be some sacrifices,” he shrugged.

“Sacrifices? Is that what you call it? Well, here’s one for you, the next time you get a little scuff on your tank or your headlight starts to flicker, you can head down to Carl’s,” you scowled.

“Don’t do this,” he gritted through his teeth.

“I can get business without you. I do better work than Carl, you know that. So go, I’ll deal with that asshole on my own, how I see fit.”

He inhaled and lifted his chin. He closed his eyes and thought. 

“Damn it,” he swore, “you can’t make anything fucking easy. What is it with you women and your god damn--” he lifted his hand and stopped himself, “you get in the way of my business, and you won’t be so worried about Loki.”

“Oh yeah? That’s what he said about you,” you mocked, “what’s with you men and your egos?”

His lip curled and he breathed through his teeth. His eyes lit up and he punched his palm as he turned away quickly.

“I hope he has his fun with you. Maybe he can fuck some sense into you,” Bucky growled, “God knows I tried.”

“You weren’t that good,” you snipped.

He kicked the shelf of wipers hung near the front of the shop and grunted. He stormed to the doorway and stopped to look back at you.

“You’ll be wishing it was me…” he hissed.

He waved you off and continued through the front door, slamming it behind him loudly. You stared at the scattered packages of wipers and bit down on your tongue. You wanted to run out and strangle that idiot but you knew how he could be. It was the reason you broke off your little fling; he was too much like you. Hard-headed and volatile.

💀

You weren’t going to change just because the town was overrun by asshole men. You were standing your ground and that meant you were going to finish your club sandwich and enjoy one lunch without interruption. 

The café was busier that day as the snowfall dwindled and the streets were mostly cleared as the plows made their regular rounds. You looked through the window as the school kids stopped by the bakery for hot drinks on their lunch and circled the rim of your mug with your fingertip. You sensed it was only the lull before the storm.

Further down you could see the corner of The Asp and heard a rumbling engine. Your shop remained empty except for Jerome’s bike. Since Bucky’s visit, you were too worked up to concentrate anyway. You wanted to take your wrench and knock every man in town in the head with it.

Nora brought your sandwich as Kimmie didn’t work on the weekends and your side of soup. You would eat both and leave satisfied. You wouldn’t let anyone ruin your day off. Well, not that you had very much to do aside from that.

You dipped your crusts in the tomato soup and stared at the seat across from you. Empty. Perfect.

You scooped the last of the bowl into your mouth and wiped your lips with the napkin. You stood and gulped up your coffee. You left money on the table and headed out. A peaceful, solitary lunch all to yourself.

You skipped the shop and continued down the street. You pushed into the hobby shop you rarely ventured into, more a bookshop if you were honest. You greeted the man at the counter with a smile. When you were a girl, you remembered he ordered you a special set of paints as the ones in his store were all dried up. Lu, you recalled his name.

You went to the shelves of models and looked over the new arrivals. You took the Smokey and the Bandit Trans Am off the shelf and smirked. Your father had one just like it when you were a kid. It wasn’t exactly new. You grabbed a bottle of black paint with it, always running low on the stuff, and headed for the counter.

Lu punched the buttons on his till and you heard a creak. Light footsteps emerged from the basement of used books as you opened your wallet.

“I didn’t take you as bookish,” Loki’s voice made you cringe.

You didn’t answer and counted out the bills for your purchase, “actually, you got any glue? I didn’t see any on the shelf.”

“Hmm, oh,” Lu turned and bent to reach into a box, “haven’t stocked up but these came in just before the storm.”

He added the orange and white tube to your bag and you added another bill. He counted out your change and handed it to you.

“Quite interesting what small towns can hide,” Loki didn’t wait to step up to counter and stood close, his sleeve against yours, “An antique edition of Whitman. One of the only Americans I read.”

You looked down at the worn tome, the edges fraying and the letters faded. It was marked up to a couple hundred. You could appreciate a love for reading but you weren’t entirely sure some old paper was worth all that.

“I’ll need the reading material as my visit has been prolonged,” he mused as you grabbed your bag and headed for the door, “my brother is due to return so I will stay in his place… get to know the town of Birch more intimately.”

You hid your disgust at his words and continued out the door. His exaggerated tones stuck in your head as you passed the window and absently swung your bag. You hated him. You really did. You should have bashed him over the head with that dumb book. 

You thought of that day in the snow and smiled. You knew that shame lingered in him. You would have no problem repeating that scene.

You came up to your shop and stopped short. The burly redhead who arrived with the pestilent man stood at your door, peering in through the window, angling his head as he tried to see around the blinds. You cleared your throat as you neared.

“Something I can help you with?” you asked dully.

“Oh, ah,” he turned and laughed at himself, “I thought… Loki, I thought he’d be here.”

“No. He wouldn’t be,” you said, “he’s down at the book shop.”

“Thanks. He apologise?” He prodded.

“You seem to know him well. You think he did?” you challenged.

“Ah, nah,” he smiled awkwardly, “s’pose he didn’t.”

“S’pose he didn’t,” you echoed, “it would be smart if you kept him away from here.”

“Yeah, uh, should do,” he sidled past you and you listened to his heavy boots clump along the beaten snow.

You took out your key and unlocked the door. You closed it quickly behind you, that man’s presence set you on edge. He hadn’t shown any of the venom of his associate but he was loyal to him. You double checked the locks on all the doors and made certain all windows were closed. 

You went up stairs into your apartment and stripped off your coat and boots. You sat at the small table where you ate those dinners you didn’t forget and unpacked your new model. You sorted the pieces and spread out the instructions. The image of the car on the box brought back nostalgic memories. You wouldn’t know all you did about bikes if it wasn’t for your dad. You missed him every day for the last… too many years.

You lost yourself in the tiny parts. You hunched over the table and carefully dabbed glue onto the plastic. Your eyes began to itch as the windows dimmed and you got up to turn on the lamp. You kept building well after dark and finally left the half-finished car on the table.

You stretched out your limbs as you stripped down to only your loose tee and yawned. You fell into bed and turned on the old tube television. You hit play on the VCR and the loud previews blared from the boxy speakers. You rolled yourself in your comforter and sat through the same movie trailers you’d watched a dozen times.

You were never a romantic but you the movie was another shadow of your childhood. Your grandma used to watch Kathleen Turner whenever you went to her place. She would serve you yogurt and berries and turn on the cheesy action flick and if you slept over, she would put in the sequel right after.

Your rituals kept you sane. You found it was easier to know what to expect and given your temper, it was better not to be surprised. You were always the trouble child and you regretted all those times your dad had to come talk to the principal or walk you home from school. You promised him you would be better.

Still you didn’t regret what you did. He always told you to stand up for yourself. Hell, he taught you how to throw a punch and all your best insults were inherited from him. You smiled as you thought of him and hugged your pillow as the intro played and the credits flicked up one name at a time.

You drifted off in the glow of the television and the sound effects sank into your dreams. You were still in Birch but thick vines had grown around all the buildings and billowing leaves shrouded the skies. The town had turned to jungle and you could hear the growls and grunts of beasts unseen.

You spun as a twig snapped and a snake uncoiled from a branch and fell into the brush at your feet. You stepped back and it slithered towards you. You stumbled and ran away as you could hear its skin smoothly glide through the grass at your feet. You tripped as its long body wrapped around your ankles and you crashed to the ground.

You struggled as the snake constricted your body and wound its neck around to face you. Its green eyes shone as its black scales gleamed. Its tongue flicked against your cheek and you felt its hot breath as it opened its mouth and revealed long, frightening fangs. You screamed as its bite loomed and you woke with a start.

The visions of the wild jungle faded but the heat did not. You blinked as an amber haze took over the room and you fought through your messy blankets and tumbled onto the floor. Your curtains were alight along with much of the wall. You bachelor was blazing with orange flames and you could barely see the door through the smoke.

You coughed and scrambled to your feet. Your eyes streamed and you blindly ran for the door and flew down the stairs. The shop was almost entirely engulfed as you reached the lower landing and you fumbled with the front door as flames licked closer and closer.

You burst out into the frozen night and your feet were numbed by the ice and snow. You retreated from the burning building, your life set aflame, and turned back as you reached the sidewalk. Sirens screamed and made you wince as you crossed your arms and chattered against the cold.

“Pity,” the slither made your skin crawl, “though I suppose it is a blessing you at least saved yourself.”

You glanced at Loki as your vision blurred with the tears of realisation. Everything you had was turning to ash before you. You blinked away the droplet and sneered at him. He smirked and you knew. He smirked and he knew. It wasn’t an accident.

[thevoidwriting]

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT. NOT THIS SHIT.

Warning peeps, somophilia, shadow dicking, poor reader is not ready, mild noncon with slight dubcon.

You look around the old antique store, you were on a road trip, noting special but you wanted to see something's before you finished college and got a full time job. You were also a collector of porcelain dolls, they always facinated you, the hollow life like eyes, the smooth skin or glass, the bouncing locks, how it went from delicate to rough fabric and lastly the clothes.

But not ordinary doll would do it this time you were looking for a boy to add and break up all the girls you had. The numbers if you remembered right was 15 girls to 1 boy, you had 6 boys so you need to get at least one more. As you browsed the shelves you weren't finding what you were looking for. As you go to leave you see behind the counter what you think is a unruly mop of short blond hair.

The girl at the counter was muttering under her breath at how he needed to get in the damned box, you ended up transfixed on it and walked right in to the glass display counter. "Ouch, my bad." You startled the poor girl who looked like she'd been crying. "Hey sorry I didn't see you there... H-how can I help you?" She asked having turned around. "Oh I just thought I saw a doll behind here I must be seeing things." You reply. Then a soft thud is heard as beautifully done male doll falls out of the box the girl was trying to close. "Is he for sale or personal?" You ask. "Not really I was going to trash him since no one can keep Chision for more than a few days." Was her hushed response. He was a blond doll, with green eyes, thin lips, a well sculpted nose, light in complexion like most of his kind, his clothes were a white button up shirt, blue coat and matching blue shorts with lace socks and black leather shoes. Very old by the looks of it. "Can I see it closer, also I don't live around here so he'd never darken your door step." I smile at that. I got a heh as she bent down to pick him up.

Once in hand I looked over his face better I saw cracking in the paint but it was odd they looked more like vains full of black blood than cracking but I could live with that seeing as everything else was pristine and well taken care of, maybe a previous owner painted him for Halloween. Could probably wash it off or lightly scrape it off with out damaging the paint underneath.

"How much for Chrision, he look fine other than the face being painted on." I said feeling excited like I usually do when I get a rare find. "Just take him I was going to trash him as I said previously. Makes no sense to charge for him." She shrugged. "Really are you sure?" I just double checking. "Yeah, he's been trouble since we got him in four years ago so getting rid of him would be for the best." And with that she got me out of the store, when I got in my car I noticed that he was now in a setting, he was just standing I brush it off as again a previous owner gave him joints so as not to freak out.

This weekend I'm staying at a friend's cabin located in the woods, it's cosy not to far from town but still isolated enough that's I'd feel safe to just chill in a towel on the couch. As I drove I felt eyes one me the whole time, when I stoped at the next red light I saw he had moved without making a sound and was looking right at me with vivid bright green eyes, if it weren't day light I would have said they were glowing but its just the sunlight catching the glass right? I brush it off and go as soon as the light turns green and make the last turn to get on the dirt road to the cutesy log cabin at the end of the road.

Aw the woods burred around me as I drove, pine, ceder and oak. Staples of my childhood, seeing the sprawling woods with an antique doll by her side but last time wasn't as creepy.

She'd have to check for a voice box as well so not to startle of it talked out of the blue, ya know cover your bases and what not. As she approached the small two bed, on bath cabin all she could think of is how many times she hitched a ride with he friend and stayed the weekend with said friends family, good times.

After pulling into the kinda made driveway, grabbing the doll which is now standing. "Mr Chision can you please stop doing that, I need to focus on getting all my supplies in the house sir." She didn't know who she was talking to but could have swore that it's eyes blinked as if to say 'I'm innocent' but again she could be wrong.

"Get it together girl." You spoke, you went to the door, unlocked it and set Chision on the table, once again he was in the sitting stance. But your paid no mind and got the supplies and food out of the car, got it out away for the most part and decided to take a nap on the couch.

As you were falling asleep you could swear you could feel something gripping your thighs to pull them apart to see up your skirt and something not quite there slithering up your shirts to play with your nipples but you ended up aroused but asleep much to your dismay.

A few hours pass and you wake to a sticky mess between your legs at your core, "I'm going to shower then.... Well it's dark out might make some food." So you shower than make a simple salad with pre grilled chicken. It's was ok but you were sleepy so you head to the master bedroom and get in the king sized bed, sinking in to the memory foam. "This has to be heaven." Is the last thing you say before knocking out, but as the night progressed you kept waking up to feel eyes on you which was strange but you went back to sleep, the second time it was the same feeling from before and once again you knocked out, third time you could see bright pupiless eyes glowing a unnatural yellow, then knocked back out you stayed asleep the whole time the shadow demon prepared you for its apendge.

This time you woke for you feeling filled and full in both holes but slightly hazy as you hear the rhythmic slapping of someone slipping on the d, thats not right but it hit like a ton of bricks your came all over the shadow creature, "good little owner, you make the cutest faces when I got certain spots, damn you feel so good, right and tight for me. I wish I could say the same for the others." You hear a growl next to your ears it sounded male and female at the same time. When finally got a little bit of strength you turn your head and see Chision the doll next to you.

"oh sweet owner you, that's my hiding place from the light." When it said that it thrustws just a bit deeper and harder making you groan out, "why?" You barely croaked out. "Why indeed, well I need to feed off of fear and lust so why not both at the same time." It suddenly came and that hazy fuzzy feeling came back ten fold making you cum again.

As the night progressed you got more and more filled til you looked like you going to pop and the thing broke you mind so you could be it food source and it's cute little cum dump the last thing you remember before waving sanity good bye was this, "so cute, my little owner thinks she can fight back let's see how much cum it takes before you break or be come my mindless little sex doll only good for me and my cum alone. You know no human can satisfy you now." With an evil cruel chuckle at the end, and break you they did. It only took 17 rounds of cum to do so, in the morning you could kinda feel it drip drip lazily out of you, buy that didn't matter cause you blacked out the windows so it could just shove it back in to you with either it's cock or shadowy not quite there fingers to plug you up nice and good or when you had to leave to get food a thick based dildo. Cause you were to bare it offspring.

That's your life now because you couldn't leave well enough alone you just had to pick up that stupid doll and take it on your trip with you. Now a once innocent toy has make you its perfect lil toy.

[mortuarybees]

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.

[waywardaardvark79]

Supernatural Rewrite: Season 1, Episode 6: Skin

Summary:  Y/N Singer joins Sam and Dean on the road. A rewrite starring you.

Pairing: eventual Dean X Reader, Sam X Reader (platonic)

Warnings: Language, show level violence

Word Count: 8,433

A/N: I’ll try to do at least once episode a week. No set schedule. Tags open. 

Dean looked at you through the rearview mirror. You were in the backseat, your head against the window, your eyes finally closed. Dean couldn't help the relief he felt to see you finally sleeping. He had noticed just how little you had been doing it. 

He would often wake up to find you still awake, and you always had an excuse for him when he asked you why you were still up. You would tell him that you just weren't tired, that you needed to finish what you were watching on television, or that you would come to bed as soon as you finished reading up on whatever case you were working. 

You usually never though, more often than not your side of the bed remained empty, and Dean couldn't help but worry. Sometimes he would wake up to see you just staring out the window, almost as if you were waiting for someone or something, and every time he tried to ask you about it you would brush it off and quickly change the subject. 

Dean sighed before looking over to Sam, "Hey, what do you think is going on with her?" Dean quietly asked, trying not to wake you. 

"Honestly, I don't know, Dean. She won't talk to me about it. I've tried to ask her, but she just changes the subject." Sam said. 

"She's been off since the last case, and she's not sleeping, at least not more than a couple hours." Dean said, Sam nodding his head. 

"Maybe it's nightmares. Maybe everything is just kind of catching up to her all at once." Sam said, the two of you still hadn't talked about what happened in that antique store. 

"I don't know, Sam. I mean, I've seen her fall asleep on the way back from a hunt with no problems. I don't think I've ever seen her wake up from a nightmare. Why would they start all of a sudden?" Dean asked. 

"I...I don't know." Sam said, thinking of his own nightmares. "Listen, I'm sure she'll be fine. She'll probably be back to her old self soon." Sam added. 

"Yeah, well, I hope so." Dean said, glancing over his shoulder at you. 

Dean pulled into the gas station not long after his conversation with Sam, trying his best not to wake you as he pulled up the to gas pump. He looked over at Sam who was in his own world, scrolling through his Palm Pilot. 

"Mmm...we here?" you sleepily asked from the backseat, Dean a little disappointed that he woke you up. 

"No, but I figure we'd hit Tucumcari by lunch, then head south, hit Bisbee by midnight." Dean said, you nodding your head, but Sam didn't reply. "Sam wears women's underwear." Dean added. 

You chuckled, "Leave your brother alone." you scolded. "He's obviously busy." 

"I've been listening, and Y/N's right. I'm just busy." Sam said, still scrolling through his Palm Pilot. 

"Busy doin' what?" Dean asked. 

"Reading e-mails." Sam replied, Dean getting out of the car to pump gas, you following after him to stretch your legs. 

"Why don't you just trash all of them. I mean, it's gotta be all spam." you said. 

"They're not spam." Sam said, still not looking up. 

"E-mails from who then?" Dean asked. 

"From my friends at Stanford." Sam said.

"Good for you, Sammy." you said, stretching your arms over your head. "I know me and this one aren't the best company all the time. I'm glad you have people to talk to." 

"You're kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies?" Dean asked Sam before turning to you. "I have no idea what you're talking about. We're awesome company." 

"Why not? I mean, why wouldn't I keep in contact with them?" Sam asked. 

"Well, what exactly do you tell 'em? You know, about where you've been, what you've been doin'?"  Dean asked. 

"Maybe they just talk about everyday normal shit." you said, smacking Dean on the arm, "Why do you have to be so nosey?" 

"I tell 'em I'm on a road trip with my big brother and best friend. I tell 'em I needed some time off after Jess." Sam said, before Dean could answer you. 

"Oh, so you lie to 'em." Dean said. 

"Dean." you breathed out, not ready to deal with another one of their arguments. 

"No. I just don't tell 'em...everything." Sam said. 

"Yeah, that's called lying. I mean, hey man, I get it, tellin' the truth is far worse." Dean said. 

"Hey, just wait a minute. I mean, I wouldn't consider that lying...technically you could call this a road trip." you said. 

"It's lying." Dean said, again. 

"So, what am I supposed to do...just cut everybody out of my life?" Sam asked, Dean shrugging his shoulders while you shook your head no. 

"Look, it sucks, but in a job like this, you can't get close to people, period." Dean said.

"That's not true. I mean, I have friends, and I'm damn good at this job." you said. 

Dean scoffed, "Who? Me and Sam?" he asked. 

"No, I have friends outside of the two of you." you said. 

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, "Sure you do." he said, sarcasm dripping from his words. 

"I do!" you shouted, your lack of sleep making you crankier than usual. 

"Whatever you say, Singer." Dean said. 

"Whatever you say, Singer." you mocked, swatting him. "I got friends, asshole. Jake is my friend." 

"Jake Bradley?" Dean asked. 

"Yeah." you said. 

"Yeah, Jake Bradley isn't your friend." Dean argued. 

"You know, just because you don't like him, doesn't mean he isn't my friend. I mean, the guy’s never even done anything to you, and you still hate him." you said. 

"You're kind of anti-social." Sam said. 

"Yeah, whatever." Dean said before turning to face you, "I have my reasons." he said, you rolling your eyes at him. 

"God." Sam said. 

"What?" you and Dean asked in unison. 

"In the e-mail from this girl, Rebecca Warren, one of those friends of mine." Sam said, Dean interrupting.

"Is she hot?" Dean asked, you slapping the back of his head. 

"You know what, Y/N? I'm getting real tired of you slappin' me." Dean said, rubbing the back of his head. 

"Well, if you didn't think with your dick all the time I wouldn't have to." you said. 

"Yeah, cause that's what I was doing when you smacked me earlier." Dean said. 

"No, that time you were just being an asshole. See, I do it then, too." you said. 

"Guys!" Sam yelled, both you and Dean looking at him, "I went to school with her, and her brother, Zack. She says Zack's been charged with murder. He's been arrested for killing his girlfriend. Rebecca says he didn't do it, but it sounds like the cops have a pretty good case." Sam said. 

"Dude, what kind of people are you hangin' out with?" Dean asked. 

"Fuck Sam, I've got to agree with him. I mean, I thought you guys might talk about books or some shit, not fuckin' murder." you said. 

"No guys, I know Zack. He's no killer." Sam said. 

"I don't know, Sam. It kind of sounds like he is." you said. 

Dean nodded his head, "Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he know you." Dean said. 

"They're in St. Louis. We're goin'." Sam said, Dean chuckling. 

"Sam, I really don't think this is our kind of thing. I mean, I don't think there is anything we can do to help this guy." you said. 

"Look, sorry about your buddy, okay? But Y/N is right, this does not sound like our kind of problem." Dean said. 

"It is our problem. They're my friends." Sam said, frustrated with you and his brother. 

"St. Louis is four hundred miles behind us, Sam." Dean said, him and Sam exchanging a look. 

"Get in the car, Dean." you said, Dean having already made up his mind to go anyway. 

The three of you were standing outside of Rebecca's house, Sam out front, you and Dean hanging back a little. 

"Oh my God, Sam!" Rebecca excitedly said when she opened the door. 

"Well, if it isn't little Becky." Sam said. 

You nudged Dean, getting his attention, "Little Becky?" you mouthed, Dean shrugging his shoulders, a smile on his face. 

"You know what you can do with that little Becky crap." Becky said before hugging him. 

"I got your e-mail." Sam said. 

"I didn't think that you would come here." Becky said before Dean stepped forward and extended his hand. 

"Dean. Older brother." he said, Becky shaking his hand. 

"Hi." she said. 

"Hi." Dean returned. 

Becky turned her attention to you, "Hi." she said. 

"Hi, I'm Y/N, a good friend of theirs." you said. 

"We're here to help. Whatever we can do." Sam said. 

"Come in." Becky said, the three of you walking in before Dean closed the door behind you. 

"Nice place." Dean said as he looked around. 

"It's my parents'. I was just crashing here for the long weekend when everything happened. I decided to take the semester off. I'm gonna stay until Zack's free." Becky said. 

"Where are your folks?" Sam asked. 

"They live in Paris for half the year, so they're on their way home now for the trial." Becky said, as the three of you followed her into the kitchen, "Do you guys want a beer or something?" she asked. 

"Sure." you said.

Dean smiled, "Hey-" he got out before Sam interrupted. 

"No, thanks. We're fine." Sam said. 

"Speak for yourself." you grumbled under your breath, Sam overhearing you and shooting you a look. 

"So, tell us what happened." Sam said, his attention back on Becky. 

"Well, um, Zack came home, and he found Emily tied to a chair. She was beaten up and bloody, and she wasn't breathing." Becky said, before she started to cry. "So, he called 911, and the police...they showed up and they arrested him. But, the thing is, the only way that Zack could've killed Emily is if he was in two places at the same time. The police...they have a video. It's from the security tape from across the street, and it shows Zack coming home at 10:30. Now, Emily was killed just after that, but I swear, he was here with me, having a few beers until at least after midnight." Becky explained. 

"You know, maybe we could see the crime scene, Zack's house." Sam said. 

"We could." Dean added. 

"Why? I mean, what could you do?" Becky asked. 

"Well, me, not much, but Y/N and Dean are cops." Sam said, you and Dean laughing. 

"Detectives, actually." Dean said. "We're partners." he added, gesturing between the two of you. 

"Really?" Becky asked, you and Dean nodding your head, "Where?" 

"Bisbee, Arizona, but we're off duty now." you said. 

"You guys, it's so nice to offer, but I just...I don't know." Becky said. 

"I know you don't know us." you said, motioning between you and Dean. "But, we're really good at our job, and I think we could help." you said, Sam smiling at you before turning to Becky. 

"Bec, look, I know Zack didn't do this. Now, we have to find a way to prove that he's innocent." Sam said. 

"Okay. I'm gonna go get the keys." Becky said before walking away. 

"Oh, yeah, man, you're a real straight shooter with your friends." Dean said. 

"Don't start, De. I think this is something." you said. 

"Look, Zack and Becky need our help." Sam said. 

"I just don't think this is our kind of problem." Dean said. 

"Two places at once? We've looked into less." Sam said. 

"He's right. I just have a feeling about this one. I'll get Dad to put someone else on the Bisbee thing." you said, Dean choosing not to reply. 

Dean parked the car outside of Zack's house and the four of you climbed out.

"You're sure this is okay?" Becky asked. 

"Yeah, we're officers of the law." Dean said before walking into the house. 

You, Sam, and Dean were looking around the house, the furniture and walls of the house were smeared with blood. Becky was waiting outside. 

"Bec, you wanna wait outside?" Sam asked, knowing that it would be hard for her to see. 

"No, I wanna help." she said, entering the house. 

"Can you tell us what the police said?" you asked. 

"Well, there's no sign of a break-in. They say that Emily let her attacker in. The lawyers, they're already talking about plea bargains." she said as she looked around the room. "Oh God..." 

"Look, Bec, if Zack didn't do this, it means someone else did. Any idea who?" Sam asked. 

"Um, there was something, about a week before somebody broke in here and stole some clothes, Zack's clothes. The police, they don't think it's anything. I mean, we're not that far from downtown. Sometimes people get robbed." Becky said. 

Sam walked over to you and Dean, the two of you busy watching the neighbor's dog bark aggressively.

"Easy, Cujo." you said, Rebecca walking up behind you. 

"You know, that used to be the sweetest dog." she said. 

You scoffed, "I can't say I believe that." you said. 

"What happened?" Dean asked. 

"He just changed." she said. 

"Do you remember when he changed?" Dean asked. 

"I guess around the time of the murder." Becky said, Dean looking at her before turning to you. 

"Yeah, I know." you simply said before the two of you walked away. 

Sam was in the hallway, looking at a framed picture of himself, Zack, and Becky. 

"So, the neighbor's dog went psycho right around the time Zack's girlfriend was killed." Dean said. 

"Animals can have a sharp sense of the paranormal." Sam said. 

"Yeah, maybe Fido saw somethin'." Dean said. 

"Oh, that dog definitely saw something." you said. 

"So, you think maybe this is our kind of problem?" Sam asked. 

"No, probably not, but we should look at the security tape. You know, just to make sure." Dean said. 

You sighed, "Why can't you just admit that you're wrong, and that this is definitely our kind of thing?" you asked. 

"And what makes you so sure?" Dean asked. 

You shrugged your shoulders, "Just a feeling, I guess." you said. 

Dean rolled his eyes, "You and your feelings." he said before Becky walked over, his attention on her now. "So, the tape. The security footage...you think maybe your lawyers could get their hands on it, cause we just don't have that kind of jurisdiction." Dean said. 

"I've already got it. I didn't wanna say something in front of cops." Becky said, you and Dean laughing. "I stole it off the lawyers desk. I just had to see it for myself." 

"All right." Dean said, all of you walking into the living room. 

"Here he comes." Becky said, the four of you watching the security footage. 

"22:04, that's just after ten. You said time of death was about 10:30." Dean said, noticing the time stamp on the tape. 

"Our lawyers hired some kind of video expert. He says the tape's authentic. It wasn't tampered with." Becky said, Sam noticing something on the tape. 

"Hey, Bec, can we take those beers now?" Sam asked, needing her to leave the room. 

"Oh, sure." she said, getting up to head to the kitchen. 

"Hey." Sam called out, catching her attention, "Maybe some sandwiches, too?" he asked. 

"What do you think this is, Hooters?" Becky asked before leaving the room. 

"I wish." Dean said. 

"Me too." you mumbled, Dean chuckling as he turned to face you. 

"Really, Singer?" he asked, an amused look on his face. 

"What? I like the fuckin' hot wings, and I'm starvin'." you replied, both you and Dean walking over to Sam. 

"What is it?" Dean asked. 

"Check this out." Sam said, rewinding the tape before replaying it, one of the frames showing Zack looking directly at the camera, his eyes silver. 

"Well, maybe it's just a camera flare." Dean said, still skeptical. 

"Come on, De. That's not like any camera flare I've ever seen." you said. 

"You know, a lot of cultures believe that a photograph can catch a glimpse of the soul." Sam said. 

"Right." Dean said to Sam. 

"Remember that dog that was freakin' out? Maybe he saw this thing. Maybe this is some kind of dark double of Zack's, something that looks like him." Sam said. 

"Like a Doppelganger." Dean said. 

"It’d sure explain how he was in two places at once. You ready to admit that this is our kind of thing?" you asked. 

"It might be." Dean said. 

The three of you had checked into a motel, both boys were fast asleep. You looked over at Dean as you carefully made your way out of bed, trying to be absolutely silent so you wouldn't wake him. 

You grabbed your boots from the end of the bed and tip toed towards the door with your boots in hand. You glanced back at  both boys before easing open the door and stepping outside, gently closing it behind you. 

You slipped on your boots and walked over to the Impala, climbing up on the hood and laying back against the windshield. You were looking up at the stars, lost in thought, when you felt someone lay down next to you. 

"You ever think about what it'd be like to go to space?" Sam asked. 

You chuckled, "Really, Sam? We haven't played that since we were kids." you said, not looking at him. 

"You gonna answer?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I still think about it sometimes." you said before looking over at him. "You still gonna go with me?" you teased. 

Sam laughed under his breath, "I can't let you run off to space on your own. Didn't we put that on our list?" he asked. 

"Yeah." you said. "I didn't think you would remember that." 

"Our list?" Sam asked. 

"Mmm hmm." you hummed. 

"Of course, I do. It was all the things we were gonna do together when we grew up." Sam said. 

You chuckled, "Space was such a realistic idea." you said. 

"You always were so obsessed with it." Sam said, looking over at you. "Why?" he asked. 

You shrugged, "I don't know." you said. 

"Yeah, you do. You told me once." Sam said. 

"Then, why'd you ask?" you asked. 

"Do you still feel that way?" Sam asked. 

"Sam, it was dumb fuckin' kid shit. It was just a stupid dream." you said. 

"Have you been having anymore?" Sam asked. 

You sat up so you didn't have to look at him, "Sam, it was a stupid dream and I believed it because I was a dumbass kid. I know my mom was Karen Singer, and not some strange lady from a different world. You don't have to worry, I'm not completely insane yet." you said. 

"You've been dreaming about something, and it can't be good or else you wouldn't be out here. You haven't been sleeping, and you always used to get really upset after that dream." Sam said. 

You looked over your shoulder at him, "No, Sam, I haven't been having a stupid dream from when we were kids." you said. 

"Then what is it?" Sam asked. 

You shook your head, "Just nightmares. They kind of come with the job." you lied. 

"Y/N." Sam said, knowing that you were lying. 

"What? It's nothing. It's not a big deal. Everyone has nightmares." you argued. 

"Y/N, you knew that I had dreams about Jess before it happened." Sam said. "How did you know that? Did you dream it?" 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam. I...it was just a lucky guess." you said. 

"No, no, no. None of that lucky guess stuff. How did you know?" Sam asked. 

"Sam." you breathed out. 

"How did you know, Y/N?" Sam asked, not backing down. 

"I saw it. Fuck. I saw it when I touched you back there in that store." you said. 

"What?" Sam asked, sitting up and putting his hand on your shoulder to make you face him. 

"When I touched you, back there in that store...I saw it." you said. 

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. 

"I mean, I put my fuckin' hand on you, and I was there. I was in your apartment, your bedroom. I saw you laying on the bed. I saw you wipe something from your face before you looked up at the ceiling and then...then I saw Jess. I...saw what happened to her, and then everything changed. I mean, I was still in your room, but I watched you sit up in bed, scared...and I saw Jess sleeping next to you. I was fuckin' there, Sam, and...and I don't know how in the fuck I was." you said. 

Sam was silent. He had no clue what to say to you. He was so busy trying to wrap his head around what you had just told him that he didn't even notice how much time had passed by without him saying anything. 

"You ever think that maybe I'm just some kind of fuckin' freak?" you asked, reverting back to the game you played as children. 

"If you're a freak then I am, too. I mean, I'm the one that's having dreams that come true." Sam said. 

"Well, aren't we a fuckin' pair?" you asked, patting his leg. "We always used to do everything together. Why not add fucked up dream/visions to the list?"

"Has it happened again? Is that why you aren't sleeping?" Sam asked. 

You shook your head, "No, well, not the touch thing, it's just nightmares now. Well, one nightmare." you said. 

"About what happened to Jess?" Sam asked, hoping that maybe you might have seen something that would answer his many questions. 

"No." you replied. 

"You know, you could tell me about it. It might help." Sam said. 

You chuckled, "You a therapist now?" you asked, before leaning back against the windshield. 

"I'll give you your first session free." Sam teased, laying down next to you. 

You took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, "It's always the same. I'm in some kind of woods or some shit. It's always so dark and there are trees everywhere, but no sounds. I can never hear any animals. I can only hear myself, the leaves crunching as I step on them, and my own breathing. I  always feel like something or someone is watching me, and I just run. I run as fast as I can until I can't go anymore, and then I start yelling at whatever or whoever to come out. I finally hear something. It's always a twig snapping and then Dean walks out. I'm so happy to see him because the entire time I'm running, finding you guys is all I can think about. I always run up to him and he yells at me to stop with his gun pointed at me. He always asks me why I did it, but I don't know what he's talking about. Then...then he says that part of him always knew, but he didn't want to believe that I could do something like that. I don't know what I did, Sam, but it must have been fuckin' horrible because he's looking at me like he hates me. Then, he says I should have done this a long time ago before shootin' me." you said. 

"Y/N, Dean would never hurt you." Sam said. 

"See, I used to think that, too, but what if I do something bad. What if it's something so bad that he doesn't have a choice?" you asked. 

"You need to get out of your head. It's just a dream, Y/N. I know Dean would never hurt you." Sam said. 

"Do you ever think he could hate me?" you asked. 

"Honestly, I don't. I mean, he could be mad, but I don't think he could ever hate you." Sam said. 

"Then why can't I shake this feeling that I'm going to do something that's unforgiveable? I...I can't explain it, but it's almost like I just know it's going to happen, and no matter what I do, I'm not going to be able to stop it." you said. 

"We'll stop it. Whatever it is. We won't let it happen." Sam said. 

You looked over at him, "Something tells me you won't be able to." you said. 

"Hey, I promise. I'm not going to let anything happen, and I know Dean won't either. You should tell him." Sam said. 

"Oh, yeah, I'll just be like hey Dean, I've been having these weird dreams where you kill me for something I've done, and, uh, I also have the shining." you sarcastically said. 

"The shining, huh?" Sam asked. 

"Well, I saw the past and I'm pretty sure I've been seeing the future, so yeah, the shining. One night you guys are gonna wake up and I'm gonna be all red rum in the corner." you joked. 

"Listen, I won't say anything if you don't want me to, but he's gonna know something is wrong. I mean, I think part of him already does. I know, he's worried, and I know he would only want to help." Sam said. 

"I'm not ready to say anything. I mean, I don't even know what it is. He already worries too much. There's no need to add my bullshit to it." you said. 

Sam nodded his head, "Well, then, I'll try to help you  figure it out. Everything is gonna be fine." Sam said. 

"I have a hard time believing that." you said. 

"Well, then, I'll just have to believe for the both of us." Sam said, sitting up. "Now, come on. You need to try and catch a few hours." he said, holding his hand out for you. 

Dean had been watching the door since Sam left. He was so tempted to follow him outside. He wanted to know what was going on with you . He needed to know that you were ok.

The door clicked open and Dean closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He listened as you and Sam walked in, and heard Sam get into bed. He kept waiting, hoping that you would climb in next to him. 

"Hey, Sam." he heard you whisper, pausing a moment, "Thanks." 

"Anytime." Sam said, and Dean couldn't help but feel a little jealous that you confided in Sam and not him. 

Dean felt the covers lift and the bed dip when you sat down. He kept still as you tried to get comfortable, only daring to open his eyes once you were still. 

Dean turned over to see your back to him, and he was still for a moment before throwing his arm over you, letting you know that he was there. You snuggled back into him, his hold on you tightening, his message coming across clear as day, even though neither or you said a word. 

You were half asleep in the backseat, jolting awake once you felt the car stop. You climbed out of the backseat, yawning as you followed Sam and Dean. 

"Alright, so what are we doin' here at 5:30 in the morning?" Dean asked. 

"I realized something. The video tape shows the killer goin' in, but not comin' out." Sam said. 

"So, he came out the backdoor?" Dean asked, leaning against the hood of the car. 

"Right. So, there should be a trail to follow." Sam said. 

"And you're thinking that the police never would have pursued it." you said. 

"Cause they think the killer never left, and they caught your friend Zack inside. I still don't know what we're doing here at 5:30 in the morning." Dean said. 

"Me either. I was finally sleeping." you almost whined, Dean passing you his cup of coffee. 

Sam had tuned the two of you out, as he looked around the outside of the building, noticing blood smeared on a nearby telephone pole. 

"Blood. Somebody came this way." Sam said. 

"Nothing like a little blood to start your day." you said, you and Dean following Sam. 

"Yeah, but the trail ends. I don't see anything over here." Dean said before an ambulance drove by, the three of you exchanging looks. 

The three of you were standing in the middle of a gathering crowd, watching as the police led a handcuffed man to a police car. 

"What happened?" Dean asked a woman standing nearby. 

"He tried to kill his wife. Tied her up and beat her." she said. 

"Really?" Sam asked. 

"I used to see him going to work in the morning. He'd wave, say hello. He seemed like such a nice guy." she said, as the man was taken away. 

You and Sam were looking for anything that could possibly be considered a trail. Sam looked inside the garbage cans next to the house, finding nothing, the two of you heading back to the front of the house to wait for Dean. 

"Hey." Dean said, both you and Sam turning around, "Remember when I said this wasn't our kind of problem?" Dean asked. 

"Yeah." Sam said. 

"Change your mind?" you asked. 

Dean nodded his head, "Definitely our kind of problem." he said. 

"What'd you find out?" Sam asked. 

"Well, I just talked to the patrolman who was first on scene, heard this guy, Alex's story. Apparently,  the dude was driving home from a business trip when his wife was attacked." Dean said. 

"He was two places at once." Sam said. 

"Just like Zack." you added. 

"Exactly. Then, he sees himself in the house, police think he's a nut job." Dean said. 

"Two dark doubles attacking loved ones in exactly the same way." Sam said. 

"Could be the same thing doin' it, too." Dean said. 

"Shapeshifter." you suggested, Dean shrugging his shoulders. 

"Something that can make itself look like anyone." Sam added. 

"Every culture in the world has  shapeshifter lore. You know, legends of creatures who can transform themselves into animals or other men." Dean said. 

"Right, skinwalkers, werewolves." Sam said. 

"We've got two attacks within blocks of each other. I'm guessin' we've got a shapeshifter prowlin' the neighborhood." Dean said. 

"I'd bet on that." you said. 

"Let me ask you guys this...in all the shapeshifter lore can any of them fly?" Sam asked. 

"Not that I know of." Dean said. 

"Yeah, I've never read anything like that." you said. 

"I picked up a trial here. Someone ran out the back of this building and headed off this way." Sam said. 

"Just like your friend's house." Dean said. 

"Yeah, and, just like at Zack's house, the trail suddenly ends. I mean, whatever it is just disappeared." Sam said. 

"Well, there's another way to go...down." Dean said, looking down at the manhole he was standing over. 

"Of fuckin' course." you grumbled. "Of course, that stupid asshole would just have to be in the sewer." 

"I bet this runs right by Zack's house, too. The shapeshifter could be using the sewer system to get around." Sam said once the three of you had climbed down into the sewer. 

"I think you're right. Look at this." Dean said, the three of you bending down to examine the pile of skin and blood. 

"What...and I can't stress this enough...the fuck?" you asked, looking down at the skin. 

"Is this from his victims?" Sam asked, as Dean took out his pocket knife before picking up a bit of the skin on the end of it. 

"God, that's just fuckin' gross. Put it down, De." you said, wrinkling your nose. 

"You know, I just had a sick thought. When the shapeshifter changes shape...maybe it sheds." Dean said. 

"Like a snake would shed it's skin." you said, "That is seriously so fucked up." 

"That is sick." Sam said, as Dean put the skin down.

The three of you were back at the car, and Dean opened the trunk to get the weapons you would need. 

"Well, one thing I learned from Dad, is that no matter what kind of shapeshifter it is, there's one sure way to kill it." Dean said, you nodding your head. 

"Silver bullet to the heart." Sam said. 

"That's right." Dean said before Sam's phone rang. 

"This is Sam." Sam said, you and Dean listening. "What are you talkin' about?" Sam asked. 

"This can't be good." you whispered. 

"Why would you do that?" Sam asked. 

"Yeah, definitely not good." you said. 

"Bec-" Sam tried to say before being cut off, pausing as he listened to the person on the other end, "We're tryin' to help." 

"Guess, we're busted." you said to Dean. 

"Bec, I'm sorry, but-" Sam tried to say before pausing, hanging up the phone a few seconds later. 

"Becky figure us out?" you asked, Sam nodding. 

"I hate to say it, but that's exactly what I'm talkin' about. You lie to your friends because if they knew the real you, they'd be freaked. It's just...It'd be easier if-" Dean said before Sam interrupted. 

"If I was like you." Sam said. 

"Hey, man, like it or not, we are not like other people, but I'll tell you one thing. This whole gig...it ain't without perks." Dean said, holding up a gun. 

"You're right about that. Now, let's go kill this fucker." you said, tucking your gun into the back of your jeans. 

The three of you were back in the sewer, "I think we're close to its lair." Dean said. 

"Why do you say that?" Sam asked. 

"Because there's another puke-inducing pile next to your face." Dean said, Sam turning to look at the pile of skin. 

"Oh, God!" Sam exclaimed, completely disgusted. 

"Looks like it's lived here for a while." Dean said, looking at a pile of clothes in the corner. 

"They're just so fuckin' gross. At least clean up your skin piles, asshole." you said. 

Dean chuckled, "Pretty sure they don't care about that." he said. 

"Well, they fuckin' should." you said. 

"Who knows how many murders he's gotten away with?" Sam asked turning to see the shapeshifter, still in the form of the man the police led from the building, standing behind you and Dean. "Guys!" Sam yelled, Dean turning and taking a hit from the shifter before falling into you, knocking you both to the ground. 

Sam fired off a couple shots as the shapeshifter ran away, but missed. He moved over to you and Dean. 

"You okay?" you asked Dean, placing your hand on his injured shoulder, Dean nodding his head. 

"Fuck, I hope I didn't hurt her. I'm just glad the son of a bitch got me instead." you heard Dean say, but he never opened his mouth. 

You jerked your hand away from him and stumbled back, completely freaked out, "Oh fuck...no....no....no." you breathed out. 

"Hey, Y/N, you okay?" Dean asked, as you looked down at your hand in shock. 

"Y/N." Sam said, grabbing your shoulder. 

"Don't touch me!" you yelled, jerking away from him, both Sam and Dean looking at you,  worried. 

"Just go. Go get it. I'll be right behind you." you said, needing a minute alone. 

"Let's get the son of a bitch." Dean said to Sam before the two of them took off after the shifter, Dean glancing back over his shoulder at you.

 You finally forced yourself to climb out of the sewer, and decided to make your way back to the car, figuring the boys would end up there eventually. 

You finally spotted them, both of them heading your way, Dean walking right by you like nothing happened. 

"You think he found another way underground?" Sam asked as you quickly walked over to him, "Hey, you okay?" he asked you. 

"No." you whispered, your focus on Dean. 

"Yeah, probably. You got the keys?" Dean asked. 

"Hey, didn't Dad once face a shapeshifter in San Antonio?" Sam asked. 

"Oh, that was Austin. It turned out not to be a shapeshifter. It was a thought form, a psychic projection, remember?" Dean said. 

"Oh, right. Here ya go." Sam said before tossing Dean the keys. 

"That's not Dean." you whispered. 

"I know." Sam said, easing you behind him. "Don't move!" Sam yelled, pointing his gun at Dean, "What have you done with him?" 

"Dude, chill. It's me, all right?" Dean said. 

"No, I don't think so. Where's my brother?" Sam asked. 

"You're about to shoot him. Sam, calm down. Tell him, Singer." Dean said. 

You pulled out your gun, "Where the fuck is Dean, asshole?" you asked. 

"Guys, it's me." Dean said. 

"You caught those keys with your left. Your shoulder was hurt." Sam said. 

"Yeah, it's better. What do you guys want me to do, cry?" Dean asked. 

"You're not Dean." you said. 

"Why don't one of you pull the trigger, then? Hm? Cause neither one of you are sure. Guys, you know me." Dean said, stepping towards you and Sam. 

"Don't." Sam said before Dean  hit him twice with a crowbar, Sam falling to the ground. 

You had a clear shot, but you hesitated a moment too long, even though you knew it wasn't Dean, and by then it was too late. 

You blinked open your eyes, noticing that you were in some dark, dingy room. Your neck and hands were bound to a wooden post, Sam was behind you. 

"Sam." you said, doing your best to rock your body to wake him up, stopping when the shifter walked in. 

"Where is he, asshole?" you asked, Sam finally coming to. 

The shapeshifter, who was still in the form of Dean, walked over to you and backhanded you, your face stinging when he made impact. 

You spit on him, "You're gonna have to do better than that." you said. 

"Where is he? Where's Dean?" Sam asked. 

"I wouldn't worry about him. You two need to worry about yourselves." the shifter said. 

"Where is he?" Sam asked, again. 

"You don't really wanna know." the shifter said, chuckling. "I swear, the more I learn about her and you, your family...I thought I came from a bad background." the shifter said. 

"You listen to me you disgusting fuck, if you so much as touched a hair on his head, I swear to God, you'll pay for it. When I'm finished with you, you'll be beggin' me to kill you." you seethed. 

The shifter chuckled, "I can see why he likes you so much. You follow him around like a lost puppy. You'd do anything for him. Loyalty like that is hard to find." the shifter said. 

"What do you mean, learn?" Sam asked, the shifter turning his attention back to Sam before grabbing his head and grimacing in pain. 

"He's sure got issues with you. You got to go to college. He had to stay home. I mean, I had to stay home, with Dad. You don't think I had dreams of my own? But Dad needed me. Where the hell were you?" the shifter asked before turning to you. "And you, boy, is he screwed up over you. I hate that I brought you into this, but I didn't want to be alone. I'm so scared that you're gonna get hurt and I would never forgive myself if something happened to you. See, but I don't guess you care too much about me because you would rather tell Sam your problems. I thought we were partners." the shifter said. 

"Fuck you." you spat out. 

"Where is my brother?" Sam asked, the shifter leaning in close to him. 

"I am you brother. See, deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends. I know you're gonna take her away from me. She was your friend first. You could have a life. Me? I know I'm a freak, and sooner or later, everybody's gonna leave me." the shifter said. 

"What are you talkin' about?" Sam asked. 

"You left. Hell, I did everything Dad asked me to, and he still ditched me, too. No explanation, nothin', just poof, left me with your sorry ass. Now, that you're back you're gonna take Y/N, too. I can already see it happening, but still, this life? It's not without it's perks." the shifter said, laughing. "I meet the nicest people. Like little Becky. You know Dean would bang her if he had the chance, anything to get that one not wanting him off his mind." he added, looking at you. "Let's see what happens." he said before throwing a sheet over you and Sam. 

"Damn it." Sam said, unable to get out of his ropes. "What about you? You close?" he asked. 

"Almost." you said, struggling. 

"That better be you guys, Y/N, Sam, and not that freak of nature." Dean said, Sam laughing. 

"Yeah, it's us." Sam said. 

"Dean, are you okay?" you asked. 

Dean managed to uncover himself from the sheet, "I'm fine, Sweetheart. Are you?" Dean asked. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." you said. 

"He went to Rebecca's lookin' like you." Sam said. 

"Well, he's not stupid. He picked the handsome one." Dean said, Sam giving him a confused look. 

"Now's not the time, De." you said, still trying to get free. 

The three of you were still trying to get out of your ropes. 

"Yeah, that's the thing. He didn't just look like you, he was you, or becoming you." Sam said, as Dean finally worked his way out of his ropes. 

"What do you mean?" Dean asked. 

"He knew things that only you would know, your thoughts, your memories. The things he said..." you trailed off. 

"It was like he was downloading it." Sam said. 

"You mean, like the Vulcan mind meld?" Dean asked. 

"Yeah, something like that. I mean, maybe that's why he doesn't just kill us." Sam said, as Dean walked over to the two of you. 

"Maybe he needs to keep us alive. Psychic connection." Dean said as he untied Sam's ropes. 

"Guys, we gotta haul ass. He's probably at Rebecca's already." you said, finally slipping free. "I got it." you said to Dean as you finished untying yourself, missing the hurt look on Dean's face. 

"Come on. We gotta find a phone. Call the police." Sam said, once the three of you were back on the street. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. You're gonna put an APB out on me." Dean said, Sam shrugging his shoulders. 

"Fuck, Sam." you said, even though you knew there wasn't much else you could do. 

"Sorry." Sam said. 

"This way." Dean said, the three of you running down the street. 

The three of you were standing in front of  a store window, watching a news report on the display televisions. 

"An anonymous tip led police to a home in the Central West End, where a S.W.A.T team discovered a local woman bound and gagged. Her attacker, a white female, approximately 20-25 years of age was discovered in her home," the report said, a sketch of you showing up on the screen. 

"Me?" you asked, shocked as you looked between Sam and Dean. "The thing changed into me. It was Dean when it left, and that's not even a good picture of me." you ranted, Sam looking around cautiously. 

"It's good enough." Sam said, pulling you along with him as he walked away. 

"Why the fuck did that thing shift into me? " you asked, Sam still dragging you. 

"Maybe it didn't like the way you talked to it, or thought that Becky would feel more comfortable letting you in inside her house to talk." Sam said. 

"What did you say to it?" Dean asked, catching up to you. 

"I told it that if it hurt you,  that by the time I was finished with it, it would be beggin' me to kill it." you said. 

"See, your mouth always gets you in trouble." Dean said. 

"You do the same damn thing." you argued. 

"Come on guys, the two of you can do this later. They said attempted murder. At least we know-" Sam said before you interrupted. 

"I didn't kill her." you said. 

"We'll check with Rebecca in the morning, see if she's all right." Sam said. 

"All right, but first I wanna find the asshole wearin' my fuckin' face and beat the shit out of it before I kill it." you said. 

"We have no weapons. No silver bullets." Sam said. 

"Sam, this fucker is walkin' around with my face. It's a little personal." you said. 

"I'd like to get my hands on the son of a bitch, too." Dean said. 

"Okay. Where do we look?" Sam asked. 

"We could start with the sewers." Dean said. 

"We have no weapons. It stole our guns, we need more." Sam said, pausing to think, "The car?" 

"I'm bettin' it drove over to Rebecca's." you said. 

"The news said she fled on foot. I bet it's still parked there." Sam said. 

"The thought of that thing drivin' my car." Dean said, upset. 

"All right, come on." Sam said. 

"It's killin' me." Dean said. 

"Let it go." Sam said. 

"Yeah, at least you aren't all over the news for attempted murder." you said. 

The three of you walked around the side of Rebecca's house to see the Impala still parked there. 

"Oh, there she is! Finally, something went right tonight." Dean said, so relieved. 

"Oh, fuck." you said, noticing the police car that pulled up next to Dean's car, another one parked a few yards away. 

"This way, this way." Dean said, taking your hand and pulling you towards a fence. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I got to get her out of here. Just stay calm, Dean, and get her somewhere safe." you heard him say, but again, his mouth wasn't moving. 

You jerked your hand form his, Sam speaking before Dean could say anything to you. 

"You guys go. I'll hold 'em off." Sam said. 

"No." you said. 

"Yeah, what are you talking about? They'll catch you." Dean said. 

"Look, they can't hold me. Just go, keep out of sight. Meet me at Rebecca's." Sam said, as you and Dean started to climb the fence. "Dean." Sam said, stopping him, "You guys stay out of the sewers. "Sam said, you and Dean not replying as you both hopped over the fence. "I mean it!" 

"Yeah, yeah." Dean said, before the two of you took off. 

You and Dean were standing by the car, Dean getting out weapons. 

"I'm sorry, Sam, but you know us...we just can' t wait." Dean said before closing the trunk. 

"He's gonna be so pissed." you said, taking a gun from him. 

"I'm pretty sure he expects us to do it." Dean said, shrugging his shoulders. 

"Probably." you replied, the two of you slipping into silence as you made your way to the sewer. 

"You ever gonna tell me what happened back there?" Dean asked, and you knew exactly what he was talking about. 

You jumped down off the ladder, your boots hitting the water with a splash, "I will, but now's not the time." you said. 

The two of you walked into a chamber filled with candles and chains, piles of skin and blood on the floor. Dean stopped when he heard a noise, you following after him, a large figure covered with a sheet catching your attention. 

"There." you said, nudging Dean. 

Dean removed the sheet, "Rebecca?" he asked, her hands and feet bound with rope. 

"What happened?" you asked as Dean untied her. 

"I was walking home, and everything just went white. Someone hit me over the head, and I wound up here just in time to see that thing turn into me. I don't know, how is that even possible?" she asked, crying. 

"Okay. Okay. It's okay. Come on. Can you walk?" Dean asked, Becky nodding her head. "Okay, we've gotta hurry. Sam went to see you." 

"What are you gonna do to me?" Sam asked, his hands and feet tied. 

"Oh, I'm not gonna do anything. Dean will, though." the shifter said. 

"They'll never catch him." Sam said. 

"Oh, doesn't matter. Murder in the first of his own brother? He'll be hunted the rest of his life, and so will she, his partner in crime." the shifter said. 

You and Dean burst through the door to see the shifter, who was now in the form of Dean, on top of Sam choking him. 

"Hey!" Dean yelled, getting the shifter's attention before firing two shots, hitting him in the heart. 

"Sam." you said, kneeling by his side. "You okay?" 

"Yeah." said Sam, just as Becky walked in. 

You and Dean were standing by the car, looking at a map while Sam talked to Becky. 

"Will you just tell me if you're okay?" Dean asked. 

You looked up at him, "That's the thing, De...I don't even know if I am." you said. 

"Just talk to me." he said. 

"I promise you, I will. Just let me do it in my own time, and listen to everything I have to say before you say anything." you said. 

"You're freakin' me out, Singer." Dean said. 

You raised your hand to touch his cheek, but quickly pulled it back, afraid of what would happen, "Just don't worry." you said, as Sam walked over to the car, giving you a we need to talk look. 

"So, what about your friend, Zack?" you asked, trying to distract them. 

"Cops are blaming these two psychos, Y/N Singer and Dean Winchester for Emily's murder. They found the murder weapon in ya'lls lair, Zack's clothes was stained with her blood. Now they're thinking that the surveillance tape was tampered with, and they're still searching for Y/N Singer. Becky says Zack will be released soon." Sam said. 

"A fugitive...won't Dad be proud." you said, getting into the car. 

The three of you were in the car, Dean behind the wheel, "Sorry, man." Dean said. "I really wish things could be different, you know? I wish you could just be...Joe College." Dean said to Sam. 

"No, that's okay. You know, the truth is, even at Stanford, deep down, I never really fit in." Sam said. 

"Well, that's cause you're a freak." Dean said. "Singer, too." 

"Yeah, thanks." Sam aid, you choosing not to speak, thinking to yourself if he only knew. 

"Well, I'm a freak, too. I'm right there with you guys, all the way." Dean said, smiling at you in the mirror. 

"You got that right, Winchester." you said, knowing that if you kept quiet he would know something was wrong. 

"You know, I gotta say...I'm sorry I'm gonna miss it." Dean said. 

"Miss what?" Sam asked. 

"How many chances am I gonna have to see my own funeral?" Dean asked, you chuckling in the backseat as the three of you headed to the next case. 

Tags: @miraclesoflove​ @22sarah08​ @deans-baby-momma​ @spnae​ @hawkeyetrained @karikatz12481 @spngirl05 @winchester-fantasies @freddiemermaytaydeac​ ​​​@scentedhoundshepherdmoney 

[justformyself2]

Notting Hill.

A/N: Wow, who also need a good story to be pumped for the apocalypse? raise your hand please!

Not really sure if you guys know about this story, but June 27,2020 is the date, look it up lol. You know what else we could be doing before going to hell once for all for lusting so much over John Krasinski? 

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BLACK LIVES MATTER NOW AND ALWAYS.

Well, now that i said what i said, let me finish by telling you, this is an important story for me. The past months have been extremely rough and i struggled like never before to fight for something i love to do not be consumed by dark thoughts, regardless of the past, i’m proud to be posting this right now, no matter how long it took for me and how minimal it may seem, goddamn i feel happy to create and write, and for you guys, in whatever you need to do, dream of doing, don’t let dark thoughts guide you into staying stuck, shine, do what you love, we all have the capacity.

This is my participation on my friend’s @lullabieswrappedinlies​​ rom-com writing challenge (go check her out, she is so damn creative and amazing)

This story is based on the movie Notting Hill and will be added on my masterlist. or tell me you want to be tagged if you want to keep up.

BEFORE YOU JUMP IN BE ADVISED

. Pairing: Reader x John Krasinski.

. It contains strong language.

. Click here for soundtrack of movie if you are in your feelings today

                                                   JOHN’S POV

“John, we will be ready in five.”

“Ok.”

I press the phone once again against my ear, listening to her heavy sigh. It is easy to mold her face into my brain with dexterity. The bushy eyebrows, casting a shadow under piercing blue eyes, seeking to grab my soul, she succeeding to combine it all with a condescending smile on her lips. Condescension which I have to kiss it off.

“Well, if you want to go, then go.”

Deep down, she was still trying, and I can’t take that for granted.

“I don’t want to go. I need to go, an enormous difference. It’s work.”

I aim to be the diplomatic debater, the mediator, and the opponent. She is better than me at being the third party, perfecting the act of passive-aggressiveness in chosen phrases, fuming through her nose on the other side of the line. An act I wish to interpret as a genuine breathed laugh with no second intentions; my five minutes seemed to multiply.

“Call you later?”

I say.

“Yes.”

She answers

“Love you.”

She hanged up.

                                                            --------

                                                      Y/N POV

“This book is so weird and sexist, holy shit.”

You put the phone down, and Nova throws another eighties romance book into the cardboard box with its copies.

“Language.” You sing at her in a scolding tone. 

“Sorry.” She sings back. “But you know I’m right. They are always pairing a young girl with some fifty years old, control freak who prey on them with their big, strong, tan hands.”

You giggle, and she looks satisfied.

Regardless of the narrative that anyone could quickly review, it was ‘in’ right now, as Agnes said, and what her bookclub wanted. “Un plaisir coupable.” she completed; the thin red lines that were her lips stretched in a laugh, causing her blue contacts to squint. 

Soon enough, the scavenging for the material began, and you found the yellow pages, delivered with weird smells, phone numbers, and addresses written on the inside of the covers, but still readable.

“They paid and are coming to pick them up tomorrow. It’s the only thing I care about right now. Also, don’t let her catch you saying that you hear me? I will help finish this then we can close before your mom shows up and kill me when she finds out you are here.”

You move from behind the counter, seeing the digital hour hit past ten pm on the laptop.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, she already knows.”

The unconcerned Nova grabs a box, and you grab another following her quick steps, twisting to the right almost at the end of the hall, entering a room that was once a decent private office before it became nonfunctional. 

The reserved bookshelf for Agnes club waited empty, a last-minute metal book rack next to the bay window. To create an illusion of a comfortable place for a book club, orange curvy chairs, which Alexis begged to be thrown out, along with the red Arabic carpet left behind with the chairs by the old owner. Every time you enter the space taking a deep, immediate, frustrated breath, Alexis wins a point.

You place the box down, looking at your niece.

“Kyle?”

You ask, and Nova hums softly, doing the stocking job.

 Kyle, more than a name it was first a banned topic usually discussed between a limited couple of sentences. His name was a warning, along with his unrequested presence at random, unannounced times. It became harder since Nova wasn’t at a manageable age anymore. It was tough at fifteen, and as the time passes by, sweetness gains the bitterness, and innocence, gone.

“Well, you know you will always have a second bed, Donkey misses you.”

You gain a laugh while she finishes her box.

“Oh God, can’t believe you still keep him there.”

You shrug impulsively, paying attention to your own hands, arranging the books and their horizontal titles on a pile.

“It was your favorite toy, why would I throw it away?”

“You know why.”

 A pause and a deep breath came from her, triggering the thought, long forgotten about, that people still expected you to be mourning over material remains.

“It’s okay to throw away with the rest of the others, it’s been a long time.”

Her auburn hair was now being tied in a bun. Your fifteen-year-old niece, holding a peaceful outside appearance, didn’t mind sounding more mature than you wanted to admit.

 “Good... then we can donate, not throw it away.”

“Even better.”

She agrees quickly, stomping on the empty cardboard box.

Nova turns out the lights as you awaited for her, leaning against the glass door on the entrance, blowing hot humid air into your cold fingers and watching over nothing other than a middle-aged man with a red beanie walking a Greyhound on the other side of the empty street. 

Notting Hill wasn’t known for its nightlife. It was almost a deserted city by eight and in the light of day, Portobelo Rode fruit market brings it to life. On weekdays, stalls and its hay baskets, packed with succulent fruits and greens, filled the streets along with shouted invites, half prices and sweet-soured smells invading each corner; on weekends the baskets shape-shifted to antiques of all kinds, genuine or handmaid, the crowd and the stalls multiplied in the small village. 

In-between buyers and sellers of what you could harvest or find in your gramma’s basement there was your store, a bookstore, one corner away from your home, squeezed in the middle of Linda’s cafe and a self-employed yoga instructor that recently rented Mr. Walsh’s house, a retired Navy who moved to Greenwich with his daughter-in-law three weeks ago; his red door house now held a big white plaque with ‘Sivananda Yoga’ written in cursive gold letters, phone number and social media included under the picture of a woman in the lotus posture.

“A yoga studio, nice!” Says Nova, coming closer to the four steps leading up to the red door.

You close the store and covers her shoulders with your arm when the icy wind started building up.

“We could try it someday, your mom-.”

“Hates trying new things.” She completed. “Don’t even bother.”

 “That is where you are the wrong baby. It may seem like this now, but I wish you could have seen your mom in her prior days. Wow... She was glorious.”

The feeling of wandering eyes aiming at your face became stronger as you carried her along the street under your embrace.

“Before my dad, I guess.”

A tiny part of your soul lighten up, recognizing itself in your niece’s words, but there was no place to fuel her fiery tone.                                                                                           

“To be honest, I don’t know, but people change Nova, everyone eventually, even the ones we thought we had figured out, including ourselves.”

“Whatever, I don’t want him back in the house again if she puts him back, I’m moving with you.”

The decisiveness in her voice sent bad vibrations along your back. 

Unusual memory mechanism. Alexis visited your mind, vivid as if you could see her across the street you were crossing, she waiting and shivering at your front door because you forgot the spare key in the store again. 

After the scolding she would show a rose-colored box from Fincher’s cafe under her arm, comporting the most amazing banoffee pie, your favorite pie from your favorite place. 

Fincher’s cafe, that was once located two blocks away from where you two lived was closed when the old owner went bankrupt and reopened in Queensway street, she would drive there every weekend to bring that rose-colored box under her arm and wait for you on the couch, once the spare key was in the fake birdhouse, with the TV turned on and the plates placed on the center table next to the wine.

“See, I don’t think that will happen.”

“How could you know? Didn’t you just said people change?”

“And love changes people, your mother has more for you than you could ever imagine and without measuring efforts. She wouldn’t make any decision that would hurt you, trust me.”

Nova quickly disengage from the conversation, staying on mute abruptly, leaving a temporary gap for thoughts of doubt to occupy. Your heart is worried, but a grown-up, worried heart shouldn’t be shown while trying to pass a sense of security. That included waiting for Nova to fall sleep before calling Alexis.

You climb the four steps and opens the blue door, face to face with smiling Rudolph from last Christmas, hanging by a thread along with Santa, waiting to be taken down as the feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“I ate at home so if you don’t mind I will go to bed now.”

Unreeling the red knitted scarf, the tenth big piece Alexis attempted to make at her knitting fase, Nova doesn’t look behind once. You watch her back as she went upstairs to the guest room, her special fort at five, and now her hideaway at fifteen, with fewer toys and Donkey, an old stuffed toy still sitting in the shelf waiting for no one in a room cleaned every week.

You dismiss the purple scarf from around your shoulders, the third big piece on your sister’s collection, not as good as the tenth, but it warmed you inside to observe her trying to hide a proud smile in seeing what she made wrapped around Nova and you.

A stupidly cold breeze hits the back of your neck before you turned around to close the door, the phone rings along with squealing tires of a black car on the other side of the street.

                                                           1

[the-regal-warrior]

Cadre Weaponry: Part Two

Alright, so here is part two, as promised! I want to thank all of you who liked, reblogged, and commented on part one - your feedback means so much to me!

Don’t mind the bit with all the references to Supernatural - it’s one of my favorite tv shows and it just sort of happened.

Summary: Welcome to Cadre Weaponry - the shop for all your weapons needs, both antique and modern! Join the boys of the Cadre as they become friends and tackle this thing we call life. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll even find love along the way. 

Warnings: Things are heating up a little bit in this update, so there’s still no actual smut. Also, there’s probably some language. If I’ve written it, you can always assume there’s going to be language.

.

FOUR YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND TWENTY-SEVEN DAYS AGO

Rowan was working the till when the beautiful woman with the golden hair came through the door. 

Fenrys and Vaughan were out on a pick-up - some rare swords from Gavin’s era had come up as part of an estate sale - and would probably be gone until the afternoon. Gavriel and Lorcan were back in their offices, and Connall wouldn’t be coming in until later. 

Unlike the customers who stumbled into the store not knowing what to expect, she seemed to know what she was looking for, despite the fact that Rowan had never seen her before. Content to let her browse on her own for a couple minutes, he went back to the order he’d just gotten, digging through their inventory to see if they even had what the customer was looking for. 

By the time he looked back up, the golden-haired woman was standing in front of the knives, studying them with an intense look on her face. Stepping out from behind the counter, Rowan watched as she picked one up and weighed it in her palm, her eyes narrowing as she tested the feeling of the knife in her hand.

As he walked up behind her, she shook her head slightly and set the knife back in its place, her gaze already moving over the others displayed on the shelf. 

“Is there something I can help you with today?” Rowan inquired, walking up to the shelf next to her.

“No, thank you,” she replied, turning her head to face him. Rowan was stunned by her eyes - turquoise with a ring of gold around the pupil. “I’m just looking for a new throwing knife and I’m trying to find one that’s weighted right.”

“A new throwing knife?” Rowan questioned, even though he’d learned long ago never to judge the people who came through the door - they were constantly surprising him. “Can I suggest this one here?”

Rowan handed her a smaller knife than the first one she’d picked up. “Uh, no offense,” she responded, “but this is smaller than my other knives. I was hoping for the same size.”

“Just try it and see what you think.”

She cut him a look, but she took the blade from his hand. Rowan watched as she held it in her palm, her eyes lighting up as it balanced perfectly. With surprising ease, she flipped the knife in the air, catching it without looking away from him. She grinned as her fingers wrapped around the handle. “Okay, you were right. This knife is perfect.”

“Well, I’ve been told I know a thing or two about weapons - it’s probably why they let me be a part-owner.” He smirked at her as he said it, watching as she rolled her eyes at him.

“Well then, owner, I appreciate the help. I’ll take this one.”

Taking the knife from her, Rowan began walking over to the till, stopping when he heard her gasp from behind him. When he turned around, he found she had her gaze fixed on the swords hanging on the back wall of the store.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” He murmured, awed by the captivated look on her face.

She just nodded, transfixed. “They’re exquisite replicas - I’ve never seen any this good. Whoever made them must be very talented.”

Rowan couldn’t help it. His jaw was somewhere on the floor - no one had ever been able to tell so quickly that they were replicas. “Replicas?” he questioned, confusion lacing his voice. “How did you possibly know they were replicas from all the way over here?”

Turning back to face him, she quirked one eyebrow as she said, “because I know who has the real ones.”

Rowan figured he should have guessed that someone with an interest in weapons would know who actually owned the three most famous swords in the country. “I see you’ve done your research.”

Her brow furrowed. “No, that’s not what I meant. Damaris belongs to my best friend, and my cousin owns the Sword of Orynth.”

“Dorian Havilliard is you best friend, and Aedion Ashryver is your cousin?” When she nodded in response, Rowan continued. “And what about the other one? How do you know its owner?”

“Oh, Goldryn?” She inclined her head in the direction of the sword. “Well, that was the one that I knew immediately was a replica. See, I knew it couldn’t be here because it’s hanging on my wall at home.” When Rowan’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead, she added, “my name is Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and Goldryn belongs to me.”

He just blinked at her for a moment, but quickly recovered himself. “Well, it’s an honor to meet you, Aelin. I’m Rowan Whitethorn.”

Aelin took the hand he offered her, smiling up at him as she shook his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you as well. You know, I’d be more than happy to bring Goldryn by for you to see, if you’d like.”

A grin lighting up his face, Rowan nodded at her as he set her knife on the counter. “That would be absolutely amazing.”

Chuckling at his enthusiasm, Aelin responded, “If you’ll be here tomorrow, I can bring it by then?”

Smiling, Rowan set about ringing up her purchase. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

FOUR YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND TWENTY-SIX DAYS AGO

The sound of someone knocking on his office door pulled Rowan away from the new designs he was drawing up for the website. “Gavriel, what’s up?”

“Hey, man,” Gavriel smiled, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “There’s a girl out here looking for you?”

“Tell her I’ll be right out,” Rowan replied, nodding in Gavriel’s direction. “And wipe that look off your face!”

Gavriel just chuckled as he walked out the door, causing Rowan to shake his head. Taking a few breaths to calm himself, he stood from his desk and made his way out into the store. 

Aelin, who’d been browsing their selection of short swords, looked up as he walked into the room, and the grin that lit up her face practically took his breath away. 

“Hey, Aelin,” Rowan called, walking across the store to meet her. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Anytime,” she replied, placing the sheathed sword she’d been carrying on the counter. “Well, there she is. Go ahead and take a look.”

Rowan wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword, his fingers slipping into the crevices that had formed over years of use. Resting his other hand on the sheath, he pulled the sword free, drawing in a breath as he beheld Goldryn for the first time. His eyes traced over the blade, taking in every detail of the sword, from the finely honed edge to the beautiful etchings on the pommel. 

“Aelin,” he breathed, “this sword… it’s absolutely beautiful.” He was absolutely awestruck by how beautiful it was, even after all these years. Clearly, Aelin, and those who’d had it before her, had taken very good care of it.

“I know, isn’t it?” Aelin’s fingers danced along the engraving on the hilt. “I’ve always loved this blade.”

“Thank you for bringing it in.”

“Yeah, anytime. I could probably bring Damaris and the Sword of Orynth, too. I’d just need to ask Aedion and Dorian.”

Rowan chuckled. “Name-dropping is like a normal thing for you, huh?”

She laughed in response, her grin making her eyes shine. “When you’ve lived my life, it’s kind of hard not to.”

Taking a deep breath, Rowan looked up from the sword he was still holding until he met her eyes. “Well, I’d really like to know more about that life. Would you like to get coffee sometime?”

Aelin blinked, clearly not expecting him to ask her out, but the smile that spread over her face when she recovered was so beautiful that Rowan didn’t care. “I’d love that.”

FOUR YEARS, NINE MONTHS, AND TWENTY-THREE DAYS AGO

Rowan stared at the beautiful woman across the table from him, watching as she laughed at something he’d said. He couldn’t believe Aelin had agreed to go out with him, couldn’t believe he’d been so lucky. 

They’d been in the coffee shop for almost an hour, and the conversation had never once halted. Things had never gotten awkward, there had been no moments when they hadn’t had anything to say. Aelin was clever and sarcastic, and charming as hell. She was sweet and adorable - and Rowan Whitethorn was absolutely smitten.

And this was just the first date.

There was one thing he’d wanted an answer to, so he brought it up as her laughter started to die away. “So, there’s something I’ve been dying to ask you about.”

Aelin turned her mesmerizing eyes back to his, the tears from her laughter still sparkling in her eyes. “Oh, yeah?” she smirked. “What’s that?”

He grinned. “So, throwing knives, huh?” When Aelin merely raised an eyebrow at him, he added, “how exactly does one get into that?”

“It’s my dad’s fault, actually,” she smiled, her whole face lighting up. “He was in the military for years, and he introduced me to weapons - firing a gun, shooting arrows, throwing knives. We used to go to the shooting range every weekend. I could hit the center of a target faster than any of the guys there before I could drive.”

Rowan chuckled at that. “Why do I suddenly have the image of you just completely showing up some guy who was hitting on you at the shooting range?”

“Because that happened like three weeks ago.”

Rowan tipped his head back and roared with laughter, the sound of Aelin’s chuckle mixing with his own in a beautiful harmony.

Taking a deep breath to calm her laughter, Aelin studied Rowan, a thoughtful expression on her face. “So, how exactly does one become an owner of a weapons store?”

Smirking at her use of his phrase, he swallowed the last of his coffee. “Well, I met the other guys - there’s six of us - in college. We were partners for a project in a business class, and this was the business we chose. None of us expected for it to become our future, but suddenly we were graduating and it was becoming a reality. And now here I am.”

“That’s actually really amazing.”

Rowan nodded at her words, suddenly noticing how empty the coffee shop was around them. “Hey, it looks like they’re getting ready to close up for the night.”

“So it does,” she agreed, looking around them. “How would you feel about heading to the bar across the street?”

“I feel like that’s a great idea.”

~*^*~

Rowan watched as Aelin tipped her head back, a shot of tequila sliding down her throat as easy as water. She slammed the shot glass down on the table, groaning as the alcohol burned - she had no chaser in sight. He grinned before taking his own shot, the whiskey hitting as the glass hit the table. 

They’d been at the bar for a couple hours, and Rowan was incredibly glad she’d thought of keeping their date going by moving across the street, because the longer he spent with her, the more convinced he was that this girl was the right one for him. 

As the night wore on, they’d slowly shifted closer to one another, and the little flutter he got in his stomach whenever her shoulder brushed against his just solidified that belief. 

Tilting his head down to look into her eyes, he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as she grinned at him. 

“Ro,” she whispered, leaning in so he could hear her, “I’ll be right back - ladies’ room.” Aelin hopped off her chair and made for the back of the bar, her hips swinging with every step she took. 

The sultry grin she shot at him over her shoulder made him chuckle, even as she winked and turned away again. 

Rowan had just hailed the bartender for another round when he felt fingers trailing over his shoulders and the back of the neck. Expecting Aelin, though surprised she was back so quickly, he turned, a witty retort dying on his lips as he realized who he was staring at. 

Remelle.

He’d had a brief fling with her about a year back, but he’d ended it when he realized that they really had nothing in common. Remelle had never liked that he ended things, claiming that he’d never really given them a chance. So, whenever she ran into him, it was the same. She flirted, tried to win him back over and find her way back into his bed. 

“Rowan, baby,” she cooed, her fingers sliding into his hair. “How’ve you been?”

Twisting his head to pull away from her fingers, he levelled a hard stare at her. “Remelle. I’m fine, thanks.” 

“That’s good, baby. That’s really good.” She wrapped her hand around his arm, her fingers digging into his bicep. “I’ve missed you, Rowan.”

Shifting away from her, Rowan did what he could to pull his arm away from her, but she just dug her fingers in harder, her other hand fisting into the bottom of his shirt. 

“Baby, what’s wrong? Don’t you miss what we had?”

He’d had about as much of her simpering as he could take, and he was opening his mouth to tell her so when another hand slipped around his neck, the fingers ghosting over the small hairs at the back of his neck as it did.

“Sorry love, there was a line for the ladies’ room.” It was Aelin, come to rescue him. Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his temple before turning to face Remelle. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Remelle - Rowan and I go way back. Who the hell are you?”

Aelin widened her eyes at her words, a look of feigned surprise spreading over her face. “Oh, I don’t believe he’s ever mentioned you. And as for who I am -,” she paused there to pull herself into Rowan’s lap, his arm falling naturally around her hips as she wrapped hers around him, “I’m Rowan’s girlfriend.”

Remelle gasped and stumbled away like someone had shocked her. “His girlfriend!”

“Yes, his girlfriend. And I really don’t think he appreciates the way you keep touching him without his permission.” Aelin smirked as Remelle spluttered in rage. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re on a date.”

Not giving Remelle time to reply, she just turned to Rowan and pressed her lips to his. He gasped into her mouth, and Aelin took the opportunity to deepen the kiss as Remelle huffed and stormed away.

Rowan felt himself come alive as Aelin moved her lips against his, her fingers twisting into his hair. He could have kept kissing her all night - he could already feel himself getting lost in it - but Aelin pulled away when she was sure Remelle was gone.

“Sorry about that,” she muttered as she jumped off his lap. “You just looked very uncomfortable and it was the easiest way to save you.”

“No, don’t apologize. Remelle’s an ex - if we can even call her that - who doesn’t know when to give up.” Rowan took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Besides, if that’s how you’re going to rescue me, you won’t hear me complaining.”

Aelin smiled at him, leaning in until her forehead knocked against his. “I guess I’ll have to rescue you again sometime then, since you liked it so much.”

“Actually, I have a better idea.” Pulling back enough to look into her eyes, Rowan took her hand in his. “If you would do me the honor of being my girlfriend, you wouldn’t need an excuse to do that.” He felt his smile turn sheepish, his nerves showing as he waited for her answer.

Aelin’s smile was brighter than the sun as she leaned in to kiss him once, twice, three times. “I would like that very much, my love.”

His own smile matching hers, Rowan just grabbed her by the hips and pulled her back into his lap, kissing her until he thought his lungs would give out.

FOUR YEARS, SIX MONTHS, AND NINETEEN DAYS AGO

Vaughan popped his head out of his office when the bell hanging over the door rang through the shop, alerting him to someone walking in. When he walked out to the front, he couldn’t help the nearly silent groan in the back of his throat as he took in the girl standing there.

From the dark hair piled on top of her head, to the oversized black shirt that practically hid the tiny shorts she was wearing, to the bright pink high top Chucks on her feet, she didn’t exactly look like their typical customers. 

“Hi,” he called, walking further into the room. “Is there something I can do for you?”

She glanced over at him, her black eyes meeting his and allowing him to see that they were actually flecked with gold. “Yeah, I ordered a gun and I’m here to pick it up.”

Vaughan grinned, walking over to the shelf behind the till where they kept all their orders. “That’s definitely something I can help with. What’s the name?”

“It’s Sorrel. Sorrel Ferrum.” She leaned her arms on the counter, watching as Vaughan turned to find her order.

“Here it is,” he muttered, pulling a box off the shelf. He read over the papers attached it to make sure all of her background checks were in order before turning back to face her. “A Colt, huh? Are you sure your last name isn’t Winchester, and you placed an emergency order so you could hunt demons tonight?”

Sorrel laughed at that, a piece of hair falling from her messy bun as she threw her head back. “You caught me,” she got out between her giggles. “And here I was hoping you would just buy the story I was about to feed you.”

“Oh, and what was that?”

“That I collect old guns because my mom was one of the best sharpshooters the military had ever seen and I’ve always been intrigued by them.”

Vaughan chuckled, nodding once as he took in her story. “It’s a nice cover, but it’s weak. Next time, try this one: you saw me through the window and you wanted to impress me, so you ordered something you knew would do the trick.”

“Ah, is that what you think is better?” Sorrel arched a brow at him, a smirk growing on her face. “I hate to burst your bubble, but there’s one flaw with that story.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

Her smirk grew wider, as she answered. “I wouldn’t have the first clue how to impress you - I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Vaughan Osten,” he replied, picking up the slip with her order. “Shall I ring you up?”

“Funny, I don’t recall asking for your name.” She winked, a small giggle falling from her lips. “And sure, go for it.”

Vaughan chuckled as he started punching numbers into the till, Sorrel watching him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Is this cash or card?”

“Card,” she replied, sliding it across the counter to him, slate gray nails clicking against the card as he picked it up.

“Okay, just sign here and the Colt is yours - but only if you promise to take out a demon or two.”

She just shook her head as she signed the receipt, her lips pulling up at the corners. Sliding the paper back across the glass, she grabbed her box off the counter and made for the door, calling “I make no guarantees, but I’ll do my best” over her shoulder. “Thank you!”

He watched as she walked through the parking lot and climbed into a giant black Expedition. Vaughan couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him - the car was somehow entirely her. Shaking his head, he looked down to put her receipt away when he caught sight of something written beneath her signature.

It was a phone number.

Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he entered the number and typed up a quick message before hitting send. Hey, I think you dropped your number before you left the store. - Vaughan.

It was only a few seconds later when his phone buzzed with a response. At least I know it’s in good hands. Maybe you can return it to me over drinks sometime?”

Vaughan grinned to himself as he answered. You’ve got yourself a date.

FOUR YEARS, FIVE MONTHS, AND TWENTY-NINE DAYS AGO

The feeling of Sorrel’s back pressed against his chest was better than Vaughan had ever imagined it. When they’d gotten to the bar, she’d ordered each of them two shots, and as soon as they’d taken both of them, she was pulling him out on the floor. 

Her hips moved against his in rhythm with the pounding bass of the house music, Vaughan’s hands squeezing her hips. One of her hands was resting on his, their fingers intertwined, and the other had wrapped around his neck, pulling his head down to her neck.

Vaughan pressed his lips to her skin, her head falling back to his shoulder as his breath skittered across her skin. Arching her back, she pressed her ass harder against his crotch, and he moaned as he kissed his way up to her jaw. 

Sliding his lips even further back, he pulled her earlobe between his teeth, biting down on it gently before soothing the small hurt with his tongue. Sorrel moaned in response to his actions, and Vaughan pulled her body flush against his. 

Moving his hips quicker against hers, he was just getting ready to spin her around to face him when someone cleared her throat next to him. 

Sorrel pulled away from him just far enough that he could turn to see who was trying to get his attention, and Vaughan felt the blood rushing to his face as he saw who it was.

Anya - a girl he’d hooked up with several times over the last year. Vaughan was known for being a bit of a player, and clearly that was coming back to haunt him tonight.

“Vaughan,” she murmured, leaning in closer so he could hear her, “it’s been a while.”

“Anya, hey,” he muttered, not liking the way Sorrel was slowly pulling away from him. 

“We could fix that later, if you wanted.” Anya reached out to run her fingers across his jaw, and Vaughan jerked his head out of her reach. Her hand fell awkwardly to her side, and she gave him a confused look.

“Sorry, but I’m actually here with someone.” He pulled Sorrel back against him, listening as Anya huffed a breath before turning away, clearly irritated with the way he brushed her off. 

“Who was that?” Sorrel questioned, her fingers carding through his hair.

“Just someone I used to know.”

She raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, but just pressed her body back against his as her hips started to sway to the music again.

They stayed like that for a while, their hips moving together as the music played. At some point, Vaughan shifted his leg between hers, and their dancing morphed into something a little less polite, Sorrel practically grinding her center against his leg. 

Vaughan’s jeans had become uncomfortably tight by the time he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Think we should get out of here?”

Sorrel just nodded, too breathless and keyed up to respond, so Vaughan wrapped his hand around her shoulders to guide her through the throng of dancing people.

~*^*~

They were barely through Vaughan’s door before Sorrel had his shirt over his head, her fingers scratching over his back. 

He returned the favor, unzipping her dress and watching it pool around her feet. As soon as it hit the floor, she was kicking it out of the way as Vaughan lifted her into his arms, his hands gripping her ass as he carried her into his room. 

He tossed Sorrel on the bed, his laughter joining with hers as he climbed on top of her. “You’re sure about this?”

Reaching down and popping the button on his jeans, she leaned up to press her lips to his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. Vaughan couldn’t help the moan that escaped his throat when her fingers wrapped around his cock. 

“Yes,” she whispered against his lips, her fingers slowly working him as he kicked his pants off. “I’m absolutely sure about this.”

Vaughan just grinned and pressed his lips to hers again, his hands skimming the outside of her breasts as he moved to undo the clasp on her bra. 

FOUR YEARS, ONE MONTH, AND TWENTY-FIVE DAYS AGO

Fenrys looked up from the display of spears he was restocking as the bell above the door jingled and footsteps sounded across the shop. Standing up, he was confronted with the sight of a blonde woman in a pair of shorts-overalls and black Nikes. 

At the sound of him walking up behind her, she turned, and he was taken aback by her eyes - they were a deep piercing black with little gold flecks in them. “Is there anything I can help you find?”

“Hi,” she started, gesturing to the wall of swords behind her. “I’m looking for an Ironteeth sword - one of Blackbeak make, in particular.”

“Well, all of our Ironteeth blades are going to be over here,” he said, gesturing to the cluster of swords off to her left. “But as for them being of Blackbeak make, that’s nearly impossible to tell.”

“For you, maybe. But I’ll be fine.” She inclined her head at him once before turning to the swords he’d indicated. 

Fenrys just blinked at her. “Oh you will?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I will.” Her tone was biting, and her eyes flashed in warning. “I happen to be an expert of sorts, if you will.”

“Well, so am I, so how could you possibly know the difference when I don’t, and none of the other owners do, either?”

“Because I’ve seen Wind Cleaver with my own eyes. I’ve literally held it in my hands.”

Wind Cleaver. The most well-known and renowned Blackbeak blade ever forged. That this woman had actually touched it - Fenrys couldn’t help himself as his jaw dropped open. “How did you manage that?”

“I happen to be quite close with its owner.” When Fenrys only continued to give her a questioning look, she added, “my name is Asterin Blackbeak.”

“So that means…”

“Yes, that means Manon Blackbeak is my cousin.”

Fenrys swallowed, his face heating up as he felt his expression turn a bit sheepish. “And it would explain why you know so much about Ironteeth blades.”

Asterin smirked, one eyebrow perfectly arched as she studied him. “Yeah, it would.”

“You’ll have to forgive me - it’s been my experience that people who come in here claiming to know more about weapons than all of the owners are usually talking out of their asses.”

Asterin laughed at that, her expression lightening. “It’s alright, I know I can be a bit arrogant. And I know it’s incredibly difficult to tell the three makes apart.”

Fenrys nodded at her, his eyes widening with realization. “But you know how?”

She nodded, lips quirking to one side as she realized what he was about to ask. 

“Do you think you could teach me?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

~*^*~

Fenrys was completely enraptured with Asterin. She’d spent the better part of an hour teaching him not only how to distinguish the slight differences of the blades, but the history of all three Ironteeth bladesmiths: the Blackbeaks, the Bluebloods, and the Yellowlegs. As it was a part of her family heritage, she knew more than any of the other weapons experts he’d ever talked to. 

Finally having found a Blackbeak sword that suited her needs, she’d handed it to Fenrys and asked him to check it out for her. 

Fenrys did so happily, and he had just handed the wrapped blade over to her when he said, “Thank you again, for everything. I was wondering if maybe you’d let me take you for drinks some time, as a way of showing my thanks?”

Asterin winked at him, already reaching for the notepad on the counter next to the register. “You know, if you wanted a date, all you had to do was ask.”

Fenrys chuckled at that, though his breathing turned shallow as she met his gaze. “Well, in case, would you like to go on a date with me?”

“That’s more like it,” she laughed, scribbling her phone number on the paper. “Text me and we’ll figure out a date?”

“You can count on it, pretty girl.”

Asterin blushed at that, and Fenrys couldn’t help the flush of pride in his chest as he realized she liked the nickname. Grinning at him, she grabbed her sword and headed for the door, making the “call me” motion with her hand as she walked outside. 

Fenrys winked at her and grabbed the piece of paper with her number on it, already looking forward to their date.

.

Tags: @highqueenofelfhame @city-of-fae @musicmaam @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty @tacmc @tangledraysofsunshine @lordof-bloodshed @how-to-be-a-bad-ass-be-me @nalgenewhore @bookrebelwordwarrior @sleeping-and-books @froggy-waddles @mis-lil-red @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars

As always, if you would like to be added to my tag list, please let me know - oh, and let me know if you want to be added to my permanent tags or just my tags for this fic!

Thank you all so much for reading - part three comes out tomorrow night!

[bandzrus]

French Toast (Part 1)

The Dirt! Nikki Sixx x Reader

Masterlist

SUMMARY // requested by @brooklyn-antiques – “I’ve been super into the idea of either Nikki or Tommy getting with a girl who is their complete opposite, and never in a million years could anyone see them together, their development with each other and the shock of the people around them because what?? These two people together make no sense!! Idk I’m a huge fan of unexpected pairings”

NOTE // this is my first request I hope I did okay.

WORDS // 3379

TAGLIST //  @brooklyn-antiques @shamelessobsessions @mainly-me @broken-pieces

***

              You had always been the oddball of your friend group. Raised in a very conservative neighbourhood in LA, your family was the textbook definition of perfect.  Your mother was a stay-at-home mom, your dad worked in an office, you were a straight-A student in university, and your younger brother was the quarterback of his high school football team.  Your friends on the other hand were heavily involved in the music scene and spent all their free time prowling record stores and the Sunset Strip.  While they dressed in leather, wore stripper heels, heavy makeup, and teased their hair, you were the total opposite.  It wasn’t that you had anything against how your friends looked or the stuff they were into, it just wasn’t your scene.  Or so you thought up until the night you met Nikki Sixx.

              It had been a surprisingly cold night in LA and your parents were out of town for the weekend visiting your grandparents in Oregon.  Knowing you had nothing better to do, your friends convinced you to come with them to a Motley Crue show at The Rainbow, and you reluctantly agreed.  Foolishly leaving your jacket at home thinking the weather was better than it was, it started out as a miserable night.  In your favourite little yellow dress, you were freezing and stuck out like a sore thumb. Rubbing your arms and shivering, you and your two friends waited in line outside.

              “This is gonna be freaking awesome!” one of your friends, Donna, said gleefully, bouncing up and down in excitement and to keep warm.

              “I heard during their last show one of them punched a guy and knocked his teeth out!” your other friend Marion remarked as if it was the coolest thing in the world.

              “They sound like real stand-up guys,” you muttered, shuffling your feet and avoiding the awkward stares of everyone around you.  The line was moving, but not fast enough.  Looking up at the night sky, it looked very likely that it was going to rain.  You really should have brought a jacket, but instead you were stuck huddling close to your friends with only your purse as comfort.

              “Trust me, Y/N, you have no idea what you’ve been missing,” promised Donna, patting you on the back right before the three of you got to the door. Flashing the bouncer your IDs, the three of you entered The Rainbow.

              It was much warmer inside, though you were sure it was because of the mass amount of people radiating body heat, not the actual heating system.  You were thankful anyway, even though it wreaked of BO and booze.  Grabbing your hand, Marion started leading you through the crowd towards the bar.

              “Can I get a beer please?” she asked, batting long eyelashes at the bartender. Donna flanked you on your other side, leaning her back against the counter and ordered the same.

              “Marion, if you see the singer let me know,” she said.

              “You want his autograph or something?” you asked, tapping your finger anxiously on the counter.  

              “Oh I want more than an autograph,” Donna winked.  She and Marion just laughed as the bartender handed them both their drinks.  Pushing into the crowd, your friends dragged you by the hand until you were much closer to the stage.  It took a lot of wiggling, some use of elbows, and a lot of sorry’s and excuse me’s, but you made it.  The lights on stage were dim at the moment, but drums and mic stands were set up. You’d never really been to a concert before, especially not one like this.  There was a big hairy guy standing next to you and behind you were a bunch of ditsy bleach-blondes jostling to be at the front.  Spotting the anxious look on your face, Marion leaned over to you.

              “Don’t worry Y/N, just stick with us and you’ll be fine.”

              “It’s gonna be a night you’ll never forget,” promised Donna, squeezing your hand reassuringly.  You didn’t know then how right she was.  Just as the pack of blondes elbowed their way in beside you, the shadowy forms of four people could be seen on stage right before the lights came on.

              “ALRIGHT!  WE ARE MOTLEY CRUE!”

              The crowd erupted and you almost threw your hands over your ears it was so loud. The blond on stage who had announced the band was obviously the singer and the one Donna had been talking about earlier.  He was definitely Donna’s type; she was all over cute rock star blonds. You were about to say something to your friend about it when the band started playing.

              “Don't you know, know, know

              It's a violation

              I still hear you saying

              Such a perfect, perfect night

              No, no, no fight all temptation

              Well, in a black-hearted alley fight

              I'm screaming

              Take me to the heights tonight

              Take me to the top

              Take me to the top!”

              Everyone in the whole club was screaming ‘take me to the top’ and by the second verse you almost were too.  There was something about the band that just made you want to chant right along with them.  People had their fists in the air, girls were swooning, and you were coming to the realization that perhaps you had been missing out.  The energy wasn’t like anything you’d ever experienced before.  You had just started shouting along with the band and the crowd when you felt something tug on your shoulder.  As you turned around to see what it was, you felt the weight of your purse leave your shoulder and the shape of a greasy haired dude disappear behind the big hairy guy.

              “Hey, give that back!” you cried, voice almost completely unheard over the music and the crowd.  Pushing past the big hairy guy you attempted to chase after the thief, but your path was blocked and he had disappeared from your sight.

              “That guy just stole my purse!” you tried, hoping someone would hear you and help.  You turned back to your friends, about to ask for help when suddenly there was a shout from on stage and the bass cut out.

              “Hey asshole!”

              The guy who stole your purse froze as the bass player pointed at him. Tossing his bass off his shoulder, he jumped into the crowd after the guy.  The room erupted into even more chaos as people moved out of his way. Black hair flying, he threw a punch at the thief that clocking him right in the ear and knocked him to the ground. Grabbing the thief by the hair, the bass player hit him again, this time full in the face.  There was a crack sound as you heard the thief’s nose break and blood started to pour from it.  Then security arrived and yanked the raven-haired bassist off him, still kicking and holding your purse.  One of the other security guys grabbed the thief by his collar and you watched as he was thrown out holding his nose.

              “Don’t fucking come back!” the bass player shouted as the guy left, brushing the security guard off.  Then his eyes landed on you.  Your two friends had come up behind you during the brawl and gave you a little push forward.  The band had stopped playing and the room had gone quiet.  

              “Oh my god are you hurt?” you asked, spotting the blood on his hand.

              “Nah,” he said, wiping it on his torn up shirt.  

              “I can’t believe you did that.”

              The bassist just chuckled and scratched his nose with his thumb.

              “You look a little lost, I figured you could use some help,” he shrugged. You made to take your purse from him, but he lifted it over your head.  

              “Hey!” you pouted.  If you were about to have your purse stolen a second time this was going to be an awful night.  Your parents would kill you if you lost your ID and your credit card.

              “I’ll give this back if you promise to have a drink with me after the show,” he smirked, looking down at you.

              “I don’t drink.”

              “Pffft what?”

              “You heard me,” you huffed, trying to snatch your purse from him again to no avail.  

              “Fine, then what about dinner?”

              “Dinner?” you squeaked.  You could overhear a bunch of the ditsy blondes from before making rude comments. “Fine.”

              Smiling, the bass player gave you back your purse.

              “It’s a date,” he said with a wink before clambering back onstage.  Picking up his base and patting his mates on the shoulder, they resumed the show.  You were quickly pulled back into the crowd by your two friends.

              “Holy shit, Y/N do you know what just happened?!” Marion screamed, shaking you by the shoulders and grinning ear to ear.

              “I almost had my purse stolen – twice!” you snapped, hugging the bag in question tight to your chest.

              “Nikki fucking Sixx just asked you on a date!”

              “Do you know how many girls in here will probably try to kill you during the next hour?”

              “I’d rather not think about that,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder to find the pack of blondes shooting daggers at you and muttering.  You almost finished your sentence by saying you didn’t really want to go anyway, but stopped yourself because it wasn’t true. At the very least you owed Nikki a shot because he had gotten your purse back, but another little part of you was excited.  You’d been on a few dates before with guys in high school and one or two from college, but all with stand-up guys from sports teams or future lawyers and nothing ever stuck. Nikki was completely different and you were intrigued.  You’d never understood your friends’ fascination with the music scene until about fifteen minutes ago and you now you wanted more.

              “You’re telling us everything after!” Donna insisted, grabbing your arm and bringing you back between her and Marion.  Holding your purse tightly you rejoined the crowd in cheering for Motley Crue.

                Their set went for a bit over an hour, and you spent the whole time staring at Nikki.  The more you watched him the more you started to realize your friends weren’t as crazy as you’d thought for liking all these guys.  He was pretty cute, you had to admit.  So, so, so not your type, and so not a person you ever thought you’d bring home to your parents, but you couldn’t help but love the way he moved on stage and the way he was so wrapped up in the music.  You could tell he really cared about it and what they were doing.

              When the show came to an end, you watched carefully which direction they went offstage.  As the crowd slowly trickled back out into the street or swarmed the bar for one last drink, you waited with your friends until there was a clear shot to the backstage area.  There were a bunch of other girls already there leaning against the wall in the hallway waiting for the band too.  If they weren’t giving you dirty looks, they were raising their eyebrows at you.  You felt like a sheep surrounded by a pack of wolves.  That was until you spotted Nikki coming out of one of the dressing rooms.  Thankfully he spotted you too and motioned for the security guard to let you through.  Turning back to your friends to give them a nervous smile, you ducked under the security guard’s arm to meet Nikki.

              “Kinda surprised you didn’t just leave,” he remarked as the two of you made for the back door of The Rainbow.  “You don’t look like the type of girl who hangs out around here.”

              “I thought about it,” you confessed, looking down at your feet.

              “What changed your mind?”

              “I figured I owed you one for getting my purse back.”

              “I still can’t believe you don’t drink,” he muttered, shooting you a smile.

              “My friends do it’s just… not for me.  Sorry to disappoint you.  Like you said, I’m not the type of girl who hangs out around here.”

              “That just makes you more interesting.”

              Holding open the door for you, it was then that you realized it had started to rain.  

              “Crap,” you muttered, slinging your purse over your shoulder and rubbing your arms.

              “The restaurant’s not far,” Nikki promised.  Nodding, the two of you dashed across the street and around the corner to a Denny’s.  Dripping rainwater on the doormat, you looked up at Nikki.  His makeup was heavily smudged and the rain had deflated his hair a bit, but he still looked good.  A waitress offered you both menus and you slid onto a booth by the window. You kept glancing at him over your menu as you pretended to read.  This was by far the craziest thing you’d ever done and you were unbelievably glad your parents were gone for the weekend so you wouldn’t have to explain why you were out so late with no jacket.

              “You’re staring at me – I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” the bass player chuckled, putting his menu down.

              “S-sorry,” you stammered.  “This is just… the most insane night of my life.”

              “You need to get out more.”

              “You’re probably right,” you admitted, smiling at him.  “What are you getting?”

              “Jack n’ coke, probably a burger.”

              “I was thinking waffles.”

              “So you’re a waffles over pancakes girl.”

              “Yeah,” you giggled.  “I guess so. They’re both alright though.  What about you?”

              “French toast actually.”

              “They have that,” you said, pointing to it on the menu.

              “Maybe I’ll get that instead.”

              “I liked the show.”

              “I was afraid to ask you about that,” confessed Nikki, watching as the waitress came over to your table.

              “What can I get for the two of you?” she asked, ready to scribble down your order on her notepad.  You let Nikki go first.

              “Can I get a Jack n’ coke and the French toast?”

              “Sure, hun.  And what about the young lady?”

              “Just the waffles please,” you answered, folding your menu up and handing it to her.  Nikki did the same and then she left.  You actually were pretty hungry, so you were glad your evening plans had changed.

              “You guys really look like you love being up there,” you told him, resting an elbow on the table and finally letting go of your purse.

              “Yeah,” Nikki said.  “It’s the best goddamn feeling in the whole world.  Seeing all the people who are there just for you, and hearing them sing our lyrics back to us, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool.”

              “I can imagine,” you smiled.

              “What kind of shit do you do?”

              “I’m going to university right now, but still living at home,” you frowned.

              “You’re just the walking definition of a goody-two-shoes.”

              “And you’re the walking definition of a dysfunctional rock star,” you shot back.  “Jumping offstage, punching a guy in the face, and ordering booze from a Denny’s.”

              There was a pause and then both of you burst out laughing.

              “I can’t believe we’re going on a date,” Nikki chuckled.  “You don’t seem to like me very much, maybe I should just get you a cab and you can go home and never think about me again.”

              “You know what’s funny?” you said.  “I do actually like you.”

              “Really?  You’re not just saying that to let me off easy?”

              “No, you’re actually pretty interesting.  Most of the guys I’ve been out with are football players or soon-to-be-lawyers.”

              “Is your neighbour Mr. Rogers?”

              “No, I’m serious!  This is… actually kinda fun,” you admitted, smiling at Nikki.  He gave you a grin right back, drumming his fingers on the table top.

              “You are so not my type,” he said.

              “You’re not mine either.”

              “Don’t we make a pair.”

              “Oh we definitely do,” you chuckled as the waitress came back with your meals.  

              “French toast for the gentleman, and waffles for the young lady,” she announced, sliding the plates onto the table before handing Nikki his Jack n’ coke.

              “Thank you Dorris,” grinned Nikki, taking the Jack bottle and tipping it’s entire contents down his throat in one go.  You just shook your head.  Dorris rolled her eyes and left the two of you alone again.  

              “A real tough guy I see,” you chided.

              “I prefer bad-ass.”

              “You would.”

              Digging into your meals, you were surprised just how hungry you were.  Nikki was hungry too because both of you barely spoke a word to each other as you shoveled breakfast food into your mouths. Wiping your mouth delicately with a napkin, you finally leaned back in the booth again and sighed.  Nikki polished off his coke and did the same.  

              “That was really good,” you said.  “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.”

              “Glad I went with the French toast over the burger.”

              “That good, huh?  I should get you to try my mom’s recipe, it’s to die for.”

              “Only on our first date and we’re already talking about meeting parents, wow. I didn’t realize you were that serious,” joked Nikki, stacking your plates one on top of the other.

              “I didn’t mean it like that!”

              “Then what, you’re going to bring it to me at my house?”

              “I-“

              “I’m just kidding.”

              “My parents would probably kill me and then you if I ever brought you over,” you confessed, running a hand through your damp hair.

              “You could always bring the French toast to one of our gigs,” suggested the bass player.  “We’re at the Troubador in a couple of days, you should come.”

              “I don’t know…”

              “You’ll come to one, but not another?”

              “My friends dragged me to this one.”

              “Come to our show on Monday, I promise it’ll be fun.”

              You mulled the idea over in your head.  Your parents would be back by Monday, but you figured you could always brush off your late night with a lie about helping someone study.  Your friends were probably going on Monday to Motley Crue’s show anyway, so you could get a ride from them again.  

              “Okay fine, I’ll come,” you agreed.

              “It’s a date then,” grinned Nikki, holding out his hand to shake on it. You took his calloused hand in yours and made the deal.  Dorris the waitress came back to your table just as you started rummaging through your purse for change.  

              “I’ll take these,” she said, loading the dishes into her arms.  “And I’ll be back with the bill in just a second.”

              Nikki’s hand stopped your rummaging.

              “I’ve got this one,” he said, unfolding a couple bills and leaving them on the table.  “This should cover it.  Keep the change.”

              The waitress thanked him, and the two of you made towards the door.

              “Thanks for paying for me, you didn’t have to,” you said, turning to look up at Nikki.

              “A guy’s supposed to pay for his girl.”

              “I’m your girl now?  It’s only our first date, I didn’t know you were that serious,” you remarked, using Nikki’s line against him.

              “I’d like you to be,” you said.  “You’re so much different than all the other girls I’ve been with.”

              “Likewise.”

              “So that’s a yes then?”

              “That’s a yes,” you said, giving him a smile.  You were probably biting off more than you could chew by dating Nikki, but tonight had been the most fun and excitement you’d experienced in a long, long time and you weren’t about to let that go.  

              “I’m calling you a cab,” Nikki said, popping a couple coins into the slot of the machine.  You waited patiently for him to finish, hugging your purse to your chest again and praying it wasn’t still raining outside.  It probably was.

              “Can we wait in here?  I didn’t bring a jacket.”

              Nikki nodded and you two spent the next five minutes waiting by the door of the Denny’s in comfortable silence.  When the yellow vehicle finally pulled up outside, you bid the bass player farewell and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.  You were blushing pretty hard yourself, but couldn’t help but notice him turn a few shades pinker under his smudged makeup too.  The whole ride home you couldn’t get him out of your head. You were already dreaming about Monday.

***

So I’m probably going to write a part 2 to this because I didn’t quiet get as far into the relationship as I wanted, so be on the lookout for that!