#puffy talks him through it while jack mostly just holds him and kisses his head

[tvdisc]

agere tommy, baby tiem. Caretaker Puffy and secondary caretaker Jack, who doesn't really know what he's doing but is trying his best. Toms like one of those big dogs who thinks he's a lap dog, curling up against Jack like a baby but his legs are just everywhere. It makes him giggly.

When he regresses Jack doesn't always notice at first cus Tommy is just immature in general sometimes, but little tommy is a lot worse at talking and at not crying in every day situations. Even if Jack is mad at him he usually tries to just put their argument on pause when Tommy regresses cus his mind ain't right and he's usually in flashback. Jack just sighs and brings Tommy to bed with some water and either comforts him for a bit (usually just quiet cuddles) or tells him to take a break and come get up when he's ready.

[jackrrabbit]

Clean /// Sakusa x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: [College dorm AU] Sakusa can’t stop thinking about you in the shower.

A/N: Indirectly inspired by @seita​ and @bakatenshii​, who made me think about soap and Sakusa’s cum in conjunction…thanks guys :P

Tags/warnings: masturbation, mild cleanliness fetish if that’s a thing?, Sakusa wants you and is in deep denial about it

It’s not like he started doing it on purpose. Not at first.

On weekdays, you wake up at the same time that Sakusa gets back from the gym: 7 AM exactly. He timed it that way because they clean the dorm bathrooms at 6:30—they’re still revolting, but they can’t be as bad as the ones at the gym. He can avoid touching the stall walls if he has to, and…he has to. 7 is the perfect time—even the students with 8 AM class can’t be fucked to wake up that early, so he gets the row of mirrors and stalls to himself.

Except for you.

Your room is right next to the stairwell; when Sakusa jogs up the stairs (two at a time, blood still pumping from his workout even though the sweat is already cooling on his back) he can hear your alarm through the thin wall. Always 7 on the dot: your phone blares an obnoxiously loud ringtone, there’s a muffled protest from you and your roommate curses at you to turn that shit off, it’s seven fucking AM. By the time he’s standing at the bathroom sink brushing his teeth, you’re usually pushing through the door in your pajamas, holding your towel in one hand and rubbing your puffy eyes with the other.

So it’s not like Sakusa plans this. It’s a coincidence. Mostly.

“G’morning…Kiyoomi.” You interrupt yourself with a yawn in the middle of the sentence. Your voice sounds heavy with exhaustion and he wonders, not for the first time, why you bother waking up so early. You don’t seem like a morning person.

The toothbrush is still in Sakusa’s mouth, so he just nods to greet you. You smile sleepily and then bend down to reach your bathroom locker, and—fuck, fuck, you’re wearing the shorts again, the threadbare cotton ones you wear whenever the weather gets a little warmer. They’re thin (so thin he can see the high cut of your panties underneath when they’re stretched over your ass, not that he’s looking), and they’re short.

Do you know how much you’re showing off when you bend over like that to rummage through your locker? You’re basically showing your ass off, the smooth muscle of your thighs rising up into those perfect cheeks, and between them, the dingy cotton stretched tight over your mound—

He’s not looking. He shouldn’t be looking. Sakusa lowers his gaze in the mirror to spit the toothpaste into the sink.

“Hey, can I borrow some of that?”

You’re standing at his elbow now, blinking up at him. Pleading. When he wordlessly hands over the tube, you grin, eyes crinkling up at the corners like he just offered to take your hand in marriage rather than letting you have some toothpaste that he wasn’t going to miss anyway. “Thanks! You’re the best.”

You barely know him. Sakusa’s pretty sure that these early-morning bathroom encounters are the only times you two interact.

“How was your workout?” you ask when you’re done brushing your teeth.

Sakusa has to grip the edge of the counter to tear his eyes away from you when you spit it out—white foam dribbling out of your mouth and down your chin—but that’s beside the point. “It was fine.”

“Yeah? Did you run or go to the gym?”

“Gym.” Why are you so curious? You’re too friendly.

You hum appreciatively, rubbing foamy circles of cleanser into your skin. The smell of it is light—floral, but barely. Lavender, maybe. That’s step one of your morning skincare routine, which Sakusa’s pretty certain he knows as well as you do by now. Next will be toner, and then you’ll save the rest for after your shower—but before you reach for the next little bottle in the row you’ve lined up on the bathroom counter, you turn toward him. “I should get back on a regular gym schedule too. Maybe one day I’ll go with you?”

“If you can wake up that early.” The remark must come out harsher than Sakusa intended, because you raise your eyebrows and your mouth drops open—but a second later you’re smiling again, turning back to the mirror so you can pat the toner into your skin.

“You’re probably right. I don’t know how you wake up at six in the morning every day.”

5:45, he wants to correct. But if he keeps talking to you, you’re going to notice he’s staring. So he just finishes washing his face without answering, puts his stuff back into the locker, and makes his way over to the shower stalls, leaving you and the scent of lavender behind.

There are five stalls. All open, of course. Second from the left has the best water pressure, and the one on the far right has a removable shower head and heats up the quickest. But Sakusa chooses the middle stall. For no reason. Not because he knows exactly which stall you’re going to pick, and he wants to be sure he’s in the stall next to yours when you do. He takes his time—undresses slowly, folding his dirty gym clothes even though they’re going straight into the laundry; sets his shampoo and conditioner and body wash out on the bench in the order that he’s going to use them; turns the knob to just the right angle to get the right temperature and waits for it to heat up until he can see the steam saturating the air.

By the time Sakusa’s under the water, massaging shampoo through his hair and feeling the sweat slough off his skin along with the shower spray, you’re done with your pre-shower skincare, padding over from the sinks to the stalls and picking—predictably—the one next to his. He has to strain himself to hear it over the sound of splashing water but he does hear it: your cheap pink flip-flops slapping against the tile floor, the relieved yawn in your breath as you stretch (you always stretch) and the soft rustling of fabric as you take off your clothes and deposit them in a heap on the bench.

Sakusa tilts his head up into the shower spray and feels the stray drops clinging to his eyelashes and wonders how much he’d be able to see if the walls were made of glass.

Today is Wednesday, and that means you’re going to wash your hair today because you always wash it on Wednesdays. Sakusa can already smell the shampoo you use filtering into the air. What is it? Sharper and more bitter than mint, medicinal almost—he’s considered asking you a few times what it is, but he can’t figure out a way to phrase the question.

Hey, (Y/N), tell me what product you use to wash your hair. Ever since I started jacking off in the shower to you, I can’t get off unless I’m smelling it.

That probably wouldn’t go over well.

Fuck, he’s already hard. The heat of the shower is nothing compared to the heat of his blood pumping down to his cock. Sakusa rinses through his hair quickly, freeing up his hands so he can palm his shaft and give it a tentative stroke.

Through the shower wall you give a light, soft sigh of appreciation, and Sakusa feels his cock jump in his hand. You prefer your showers hotter than he does—white puffs of steam are rising up over the gap between the stall divider and the ceiling, and you always come out flushed. The heat must feel nice, hm? He can almost see you, standing naked under the shower head in just your stupid pink flip-flops, letting rivulets of water drip down from the crown of your head to flow lower…over your shoulders, your back, your tits; your fingers lathering the shampoo through your hair, soap bubbles washing the grease away from you, draining away yesterday’s grime so you’re all fresh and squeaky clean.

You sigh again, and your voice is pushing out behind the breath. A moan, almost. Do you ever touch yourself in the shower? He’d be a hypocrite to think you shouldn’t be able to take advantage of this rare moment of privacy…it’s so hard to get time to yourself in the dorms, he can sympathize… So maybe you let your hands dip lower while you wash, shift your thighs apart so you can fit your fingers between them. Pet that puffy little cunt, push your fingers inside, feel your slick wash off in the water just to be replaced with more.

Sakusa wraps his fingers around his cock and slides his hand up the shaft, moving slowly so he can savor the light friction. Your hands would be soft, wouldn’t they? Softer than his. You don’t have calluses like he does—all that lotion you use must be doing you some good. And your hands are a lot smaller than his are…you’d probably have trouble getting one hand all the way around. You’d have to use both hands to hold him, hold his cock and pump him, jack him off…

If your hands are too small for him, what about your mouth?

The shower is so warm and you’re so close. Sakusa closes his eyes so he can breathe in that sweet medicinal smell and imagine you in here with him.

Your mouth. Soft lips, no makeup, just your natural color dampened from the water and your spit and his precum, closed around him, stretched around him to accommodate for the mass of his cock sitting in your mouth. Little pink tongue flicking out to tease the tip, lapping flat at the underside and then kissing it. You’d be a tease, a fucking tease. Looking up at him with those eyes, batting your eyelashes over your dewy-wet cheeks as you try to swallow him a little deeper. He’d tangle his fingers around the back of your head, push the strands of wet hair away from your face, pull your mouth up and down on his cock while the water splashes down around the two of you—

There’s a click of a cap popping shut and your shoes smacking wetly against the floor while you reach over to grab another bottle. You’re humming to yourself—a song Sakusa’s heard on his friends’ playlists and at parties but he doesn’t know the lyrics. Sometimes you sing in the shower (always softly, under your breath, so quiet he’d barely be able to hear if he wasn’t listening) but today you just hum. Maybe you’d sing out loud if he wasn’t there?

You’re probably being considerate to him...you do seem like the type. After all, you must be as aware of his presence three feet away from you as he is of yours. You probably think about him in the shower too.

Sakusa’s hips buck forward, pushing his dick through his hand as he pumps it with no real technique or rhythm, just trying to match the pace of his breathing to what he can hear of yours. The heat of his impending climax is coiling low in his belly, even though it hasn’t been long—it never takes long when he’s thinking about you. You’ve practically become a part of his own morning routine, to the point where he couldn’t even get off when he went home for spring break a few weeks ago. When the two of you move out of the dorms and go your separate ways, it’s going to be annoying. He should really stop this, wean himself off you while he can…not that he really wants to.

Your voice isn’t bad when you sing, but it’d be a lot better moaning his name.

People fuck in the showers. Sakusa knows that, he’s heard them himself and always been acutely disgusted at the filth of it all. Dorm bathrooms are notoriously foul—there’s a reason people wear shoes when they’re showering, and the thought of people actually fucking in here makes his skin crawl. But with you? He can see it, he can feel it—the soft fat of your thighs in his hands, skin dimpling under his grip as he holds you up; your arms twisted around his neck hugging into him; the hot water streaming over both of your bodies as his cock slaps into your pussy, burying into that tight wet heat.

Sakusa grits his teeth to stifle a groan and wonders if you heard it, and then he’s feeling around for the memory of your sleepy “Good morning, Kiyoomi” and warping your voice in his mind until he can almost hear your lips wrapping around his name, panting it, whimpering it, choking it out between pleas for him to fuck you harder—Kiyoomi, please, fuck me fuck me just like that, fuck my little pussy til I can’t walk straight Kiyoomi I need you!

God, he wants to hear it, he wants to say your name, wants you to know he’s jacking off to you. Sakusa’s hand speeds up and his hips are thrusting into his fist, the water making wet clicking noises every time his cockhead moves up past his fingers as he imagines fucking you right here in this shower. He’d make you cum, make you clench and tighten around him, make you wake up the entire goddamn floor with your screaming, and—fuck, he’s mouthing out the syllables, and then he can hear his own voice out loud and he’s saying your name—

“K-Kiyoomi?”

Your actual voice—lifted, high and clear as a bell ringing even stifled by the stall and the rushing water hits Sakusa and he flinches—and cums, cock jerking under his grip as the sticky white fluid shoots out to coat his hand. It’s good, so good, so fucking good, you said his name, you said it, fucking perfect—the release passes over him so forcefully that he has to hold his breath to bite back the stuttered hiss of pleasure from deep in his throat.

“Kiyoomi?” you ask again from the other stall, voice uncertain. “Did you say my name? I thought I heard you…”

It takes him a long moment to catch his breath, and another to work up enough control to straighten and raise his hand to the spray, letting the cum wash off his skin and down the drain in cloudy white trickles. “I didn’t.”

“Oh, sorry! Guess I imagined it.” You’re back to your cheerful self, humming that brainless melody and soaping yourself up without a care in the world. So gullible. Like always. And it’s not like Sakusa wanted to get caught, but…he can’t help wondering what you’d do if you knew.

Maybe you’d hate him. Maybe you’d call him a creep, stop showering when he does, avoid his gaze when you pass each other in the halls.

Or maybe you’d be into it.

Sakusa finishes his shower at the same time you do, so he can catch you just as you step out of the stall. “Oh—“ you start, barely keeping yourself from bumping into his chest. “Oops!”

Your face is stained pink from the heat of the shower��or maybe it’s the way you’re staring at his bare chest that’s making you blush. Sakusa’s not flattering himself—he knows he’s good-looking, knows what the years of athletics have done for him, and you are staring—but just for a moment before you catch yourself and right your gaze back up to his face, absently watching him towel off his hair. The fact that you let your eyes stray a little gives him permission to do the same, so he takes a moment to examine the lines of your shoulders, your soaked hair sticking to your neck, the dip of your cleavage under the fluffy white robe you’re wearing.

You smell good, all soft and wet and clean. Sakusa can’t help imagining if you taste that good, too.

“Um…s’cuse me,” you say after a moment when he doesn’t move to let you pass through the walkway. You could try to skirt around him, but he’s so big.

“What shampoo do you use?”

You blink and pat your hair self-consciously. “It’s, uh, tea tree oil? It has peppermint and lavender and stuff too I think, it’s really good for waking up in the morning—sorry, I know some people don’t like the smell—“

“No, it doesn’t bother me.” Sakusa’s eyes narrow before he steps out of the way to let you walk past.

I like it, he wants to add. But he doesn’t.

[tedisnotdead]

Renee nodded silently, walking off to join Matt and David while a peacekeeper guided him to the meeting room.

Andrew waited, alone in silence for a few minutes.

The weight of what he had just done settled on his shoulders. He didn't regret it and would never regret it. Saving his brother's life, his brother who had a future with the boy of his dreams and the job of his dreams now in his path. A job that could save more lives than Andrew would kill to protect him.

The door burst open and Nick ran in, wailing. He fell to his knees by Andrew, sobbing. Andrew swallowed before offering his hand.

"You are so brave." Nicky said, looking up. "Please win. I can't lose you, please Andrew."

"Don't use that word Nicky." Andrew said, trying not to focus on what he was saying.

"You need to win, and you need to come home." Nicky begged, squeezing Andrew's hand. "For us." The please was there, but it was silent. But it screamed in Andrew's ear.  

Erik and Jesse walked in, followed by Aaron. Jesse's lip was wobbling as he clung to Erik's hand. Erik seemed to be the most composed, but Andrew could see the pain and panic in his eyes. He looked back down at Nicky, who was now leaning his head on Andrew's arm and whispering the prayers his parents had engraved into his soul over and over again.

"How dare you."  

Andrew looked up, seeing Aaron glaring at him. His whole body was shaking as his sniffed his way through every tear rolling down his face.

"How dare you." I have shouted again. "You can't put your life at risk for mine. I won't let you, I won't!"

"It's too late." Andrew said before focusing on Jesse. "Would you like another hug?" he asked, and Jesse nodded timidly.

Andrew held his free arm open and Jesse stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Andrew's chest. Andrew wrapped the arm around him, holding him close.

"You know this could be your last one, right?" Andrew whispered as Erik sat opposite him. Andrew pressed a small kiss to the top of his head. Jesse nodded into his pec. "But you know I'll always look after you. No matter what." Andrew moved his gaze to Aaron, who was still fuming. "Even if I don't come back, I'm always looking after you. I promise."

"You never break your promises." Jesse whispered.

"No, I don't." Andrew whispered before looking up again. "I'm gay." he said, and everyone looked over. "I'm gay and I've been hooking up with Roland for the past year."

"Roland?" Aaron asked and he nodded. "He's a jack though? How did you meet?"

"I came off a shift at the same time as he was preparing for one. We showered together." Andrew muttered, looking at his twin. He moved his hand down to cover Jesse's ear, pushing the other against his pec. "I gave him a blowjob and it's been pretty much weekly since then. I met him at Renee's fight lessons though, we sometimes sparred." He loosened his grip on Jesse's head, stroking the fair blonde hair.  

"I'm so proud of you." Erik said, looking up.

"Thank you." Andrew said, clenching his fists. He would not cry. "Tell her I said thank you for picking me up when she did." He would not cry. "Tell her I said thank you for every second she looked after me and cared for me." I have. Would. Not. Cry. "Tell her I said I'm sorry for all the shit I put her through and I'm sorry if I don't win."  

The tear rolled down his cheek as he nodded, silently telling Erik he was done. Erik smiled before tugging Jesse's shirt lightly.

"All my bets will be on you." he said, picking Jesse up. The peacekeeper opened the door and shouted through, alerting them that their time was up. Aaron ran forward, engulfing his brother into a hug.

"Win." he whispered harshly before storming out.  

Nicky stood up on shaky legs, finishing his final prayer before kissing Andrew's forehead lightly.

"I love you Andrew." I have whispered. "I always have, and I always will." Erik took Nicky's hand before leading them out.

Andrew waited in silence again, until the door opened with a calmer entrance. Jean stood in the doorway, smiling. A small, dark orange muffin was in a clear, sealed tub balanced on a small box in his hands. His cheeks were red and his whole face was blotchy. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, the aftermath of Jean Moreau-Wymack crying.

"Good luck," he said, stepping forward. "I'm going to miss you for these next few weeks."

"It could be forever." Andrew said and Jean nodded.

"It could be. But it could also be a few weeks." Jean laughed, stepping forward and sitting beside Andrew. "Your promised muffin. It's in an air-tight box, so it should last a little longer. I picked the largest one in the batch."

Andrew snorted, looking at it. "I will eat it in your honor." Jean smiled. "Should I eat it in the Capitol, and when people ask, I say it's only the best baker to ever walk Panem, Mr Jean Moreau-Wymack." Jean giggled, looking down.

"I made these for you. Either you would get them now, like you are. Or you would've got them for your nineteenth birthday, to celebrate your safety." Jean said, handing him the box. "You don't have to open it now. You're probably sick to death of emotions today."

Jean trailed of as I have watched Andrew pop the lid and pull out the contents. A new set of armbands hung from his hands. They were mostly made of black cloth but had leather around the wrist and padding under the leather on the heels on the hands. The stitching was almost perfect, like a Capitol suit.

"They're beautiful Jean," Andrew said, "Thank you." Jean smiled, tears building up along his lash line. "Look after them for me." Jean nodded. "And ask Jeremy out. You're going to need someone else to talk to now." Jean nodded, laughing.

"You're still such an asshole." I have laughed, looking down. "Andrew. I love you. Like a brother. So, try and win. S'il vous plaît."

Andrew's eyes widened.

Jean knew the rules about please, and how he couldn't say it. The memories of the times Andrew fucked up so badly and got himself into the worse situation possible, and Betsy couldn't help him. Jean had discussed with him when these rules were first laid down about whether asking him in French would still trigger any unwanted memories. Andrew said no, it wouldn't. Jean still agreed that he would only use the French version if he was desperate.

And this was the first time he had ever used it.

"Ditto Jean." Andrew whispered, looking back at the armbands. "And I will. Don't worry."

[hopesbarnes]

Black Swan (6)

Summary: Y/N used to be a Russian spy under the code name Black Swan. But that was a lifetime ago. Now she’s a part-time avenger, dance teacher, surrogate sister to Natasha Romanoff, and trainer to new Shield Agents. She’s come a long way from the days of killing targets and being tortured. But when someone from her past comes around will she be able to ignore her history anymore? Or will she end up falling in love with the only man her sister ever loved?

A/N: There will be a double post tomorrow at 9pm and I promise you it’s good! Also! If you haven’t seen my post about taglist please check it out (I just reblogged it) If you are currently on tags and I don’t hear back I will remove you. 

((also huge shoutout to @disaffectedbarnes for helping out and catching my dumb spelling mistake))

Later on, when you’re back at the compound you run into Bucky. Literally. 

“I’m- oh hey! Sorry!” you said when you realized who you had run into. 

He blinked at you a few times then simply said, “You like movies.” It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement so you nodded and he grinned wide. 

“I started watching movies from this list online, it said that they’re movies everyone should see. I’m on this one now, wanna watch it together?” he asks bashfully holding up Titanic. Upon seeing the title you agree. 

“It’s one of my favorite movies, but we need tissues and food before we start. It’s like three hours long,” you say heading into the kitchen him following in tow.

“Tissues?” he asks. 

“Trust me.”

A little bit later you have pizza, chips, tissues, and tea and you’re setting up the movie. 

“Sinkin’ happened a few years ‘fore I was born. Ma talked about it once I think, and we learned about it in class,” he says. 

“I always forget how old you are,” you say amazed that he was only a few years younger than the ship. 

You’re at the point in the movie where Rose jumps back on the ship and Celine Dion is playing in the background. You’re full-on crying and Bucky looks over to catch your mouthing along to the “You jump, I jump right?” line. He pauses the movie to look over and ask if you’re okay. But instead of answering you just scold him for pausing and tell him to shush and watch. He just nods a small smile on his face despite the movie. 

As the band stays to continue playing the tears are falling down your face even more. Bucky reaches out to hold your hand and rub circles across your palm as he watches the movie intently. When the scene of the elderly couple in bed and mother tucking her kids plays you swear you see a single tear fall down Bucky’s face. 

When Bucky watches Rose realize Jacks’s dead you actually see Bucky crying. Not just a few tears, but completely puffy-eyed. When the movie ends you’re now completely cuddled up against him and both of you have tears free-flowing down your faces. 

“That was beautiful. And sad. But mostly beautiful. I mean they really loved each other.” he says after a few minutes. 

“Yeah, makes you wish you had someone to give everything up for.” He looks at you for a moment, and you look back holding his gaze. For some reason, you can’t look away. This man who has been through so much holds your attention and you realize it’s not that you can’t look away, it’s that you don’t want to.

After a minute of just holding each other’s eyes, he slowly leans in and you don’t pull back. You can barely see his face, the low lighting of the credits is the only thing lighting the room. But it’s enough, and as his lips meet yours you feel right. Your hand reaches up to hold his cheek, and his arms circle around your waist, almost as if making sure you are really kissing him. Your eyes are closed tight, and all you feel is his soft salty lips, still wet from the tears that fell. The kiss isn’t rushed or intense like every other kiss you’ve had before this one. No, it’s tame and affectionate and you can feel each and every one of his emotions all at once. Your mouth moves in time with his. And it feels like home. He feels like home, like safety and everything you’ve ever run from. And just as soon as it began it was over. 

“I uh- that was nice,” he says completely flushed. 

You laugh lightly, “Yeah, it really was.” 

He smiles at the sound of your laugh. “Promise you won’t tell anyone I cried, it would ruin their ideas of me.” 

You laugh even more, “I promise, but in return don’t tell anyone about that kiss. I want to figure this out with you first before anyone knows.” Mostly Natasha.

He nods, “so this is a this?” He asks timidly.

“Yeah, I think I want it to be.” he nods again and you just lay in his arms for some time, feeling perfectly content.

Later on, you leave his room. But not before a few more kisses, and promises of returning tomorrow. You head back to your room tired from the long day and fall asleep. It’s the first night in a long time you don’t wake up or have nightmares, and you have a small inkling as to why that might be.

The next morning you wake to multiple texts from Natasha. Your phone buzzing nonstop and you somehow manage to grab it, and open your eyes enough to read her texts.  

Nat: So… 

Nat: I slept over his house.

Nat: I’m in deep

Nat: Haven’t felt this way since I was young

Nat: Wake! Up! Need to talk about this!!

You reply half groggily.

Y/N: Coffee and food. Need. Talk while eat. Ok. 5 minutes.

Somehow Nat understands your choppy text and sends an okay back. You begrudgingly get up and throw on some clean clothes and meet her in your kitchen. She’s by the stove humming to herself.

“Morning sleepyhead,” she says far too cheery for 7:30 am.

“No.” you reply honestly. 

She shakes her head and sets down coffee and a plate of Blini. 

“Блины? Должно быть, он был очень хорош в постели, чтобы ты приготовила мне блины.” (Blini? He must have been really good in bed for you to make me pancakes.) you say while eating.

“Сисси, О Боже, это было хорошо,” (Sissy, oh god was it good) She says sitting next to you with a plate of her own. 

The two of you breakdown into giggles. She tells you more about her night, and how birdbrain is just as accurate and precise in bed as he is with his bow. She seems happy, happier than you’ve seen her in a long time. 

All you want is to feel just as happy as her, and maybe Bucky is your chance at that.

[littlebird-99]

I Don’t Do, I Love You

Dean x Reader

Part 1

Mentions: a slight mention of self harm, language

Characters: Dean, Reader, Mentions Jody and Donna

Any and all mistakes are mine. Hasn't been Beta'd

Italics are flash back

Bold is songs

“You pushed her away Dean, you broke up with her, and now you're admitting you love her, you miss her, you're pathetic” he says, shaking his head. “Dean, you realize it's been 5 years since she left us, 5 years before you made her leave us” he says.

Dean just looks at him, before he looks down, “I know Sam. I know I did, and I'll get her back.”

She moves, turning to turn her music on, frowning then the song Why Ya Wanna By Jana Kramer starts playing, “oh great.. even the music” she groans.

Y/n went to work that morning, her eyes puffy, her makeup a mess, and her hair even messier. She growls getting out of bed, “come on y/l/n.. he's an ass and you hate him” she says softly, looking at herself in the mirror. “He didn't look for you for five years. He broke you heart, all because he couldn't say I love you” she says.

She starts getting dressed listening to the song. She chewed her lip and thinks, “out of all of the places, in this little town, yeah you had to come walking in here and sit down… I'm hiding and hoping, my face ain't to red since we've been over been trying like crazy to get you out a my head..

So oh.. why ya wanna show up in a old tshirt that I love, why ya gotta tell me that I'm looking good dont know why, you were thinking, you were doing moving in for a heart like ya dont know I'm coming in glued. Why you gotta, why ya wanna make me keep wanting you” she sings along. She shakes her head, biting her lip as she think, she removes her make up, before she hops in the shower, washing the heartbreak off yesterday off.

“He's already left town, just like you'll do”

“He really had left town, no way in hell is he still he, he's a Winchester.. they only care for family”

“Wasn't I-I family?”

“Stop it.. he's gone.. again, just forget again”

She spoke her head, sitting down in the tub as the water washes over her, shivering and shaking she cries.

“I wasn't family.. I'm not blood either”

She never heard the door to her motel open, nor the knock on the bathroom door. But she did hear.

“Is that really what you think?”

She jumps, grabbing a towel, quickly wrapping herself around in it.

“What're… why are you here?” She stutters, he shakes his head, “is that really what you think?” He questioned again.

She shakes her head, “get out Dean” she all but whispers, “no, damn it, please talk to me. Is that really what you think?” He questioned again, this time more umph in his voice.

“Yea..  Because you always said you'd be there for me Dean, but you weren't… were you? Where were you?” She asks, her voice cracking.

“Oh don't start with me…” he says, “I was there--”

She laughs half heartedly, shaking her head, “no you weren't! You kicked me out, told me we were done Dean” she says. A new song started playing, Wasting All These Tears By Cassadee Pope.

She listens to the music, shaking her head. “Get out Dean… please just let me move on” she cries.

He stops, she hasn't moves on yet, that's a good sign, he needed to try. “Y/n/n please” he whispers, stepping closer, his own tears filling his eyes “please”

She shakes her head, moving to step out of the bathroom, he stops, time freezes as he looks down, “what.. your.. damn it!” He growls, he shakes his head, holding her arm gently. The scars have been added too, ones he knows what happened.

“I did… I made.. oh god” he whispers. Y/n pulls her arm away quickly, “get the fuck out of my room!” She yells, he shakes his head, “I'm not leaving you!”

She goes to push him, but he holds her back, shaking his head, “stop it” he says.

She shakes her head, “you stop. You didn't even fight for me! You just pushed me away, I thought… i thought you were different!”

“I am different! I care about you! I miss you! I miss my best friend” he yells back. “I'm not going anywhere” he says softly. “Ever” he adds, holding her tight against him, before he slides to the floor. Both of them surrounded by the sounds of tears and the music.

An Hour Later

She pulls away, shivering “i.. I need a drink” she spoke quietly, but trusting her voice, “a-and I need to get dressed” she adds.

He stands up, helping her stand up, “I've got Jack in my car.. you get dressed I'll be back” he says. She nods, still standing there.

He walks out, leaving her be for a few moments, quickly grabbing the whiskey from the trunk, and going back in, finding her on the bed, in a giant shirt that.. that was his.

“I can't keep kissing strangers pretending they're you Dean..” she said slowly, “I can't keep pretending that every night, I'll crawl into our… your bed back at the bunker” she says.

“I'm broken… I'm just a vessel than when I was with you” that sentence broke him. He slides over the whiskey and she opens it, chugging from it quickly.

He watches from the couch, giving her space as she talks.

“Wanna know what's even worse?” She questions, looking over at him, through her lashes, he could see the years of hurt. “The worst of it… is that seeing you? Makes me wanna jump right back in” she says.

“But I'm stronger than that... I'm stronger then just running back to you.. at least that's what I'm telling myself” she says, she takes another chug, this time it was worth 5 shots.

He frowns, “hey.. hey give me that” he says, quickly going over and taking the bottle. He puts the cap back on, and sets it next to him on the ground.

“I wanted to stop loving you.. but it's those damn green eyes. Those perfect emerald eyes..” she spoke, “you don't understand… i'll never stop calling you, no matter what I do”

He sees her wheels turning, before he speaks softly, “I did search for you.. I thought you'd go to Jody's, so I went there, she didn't see you. Went to Donna's, no sign. Garth's: nope..  you weren't anywhere” he says.

“Letting you go.. letting you go was the hardest thing I've had to do” he spoke with a soft voice.

Her next question makes him freeze, snapping his head up to look her in the eyes, why couldn't you love me back?” He shakes his head..

“Seriously?” He growled, before he took a deep breathe, “I fucking loved you more than anything” he spoke, saying that word. “I'd travel to hell and back, just to tell everyone how I felt”

“I couldn't tell you back then because i was fucking terrified! You were the one person who gave a shit about me.”

“Can't you see.. I'm poison, people get close to me they get killed.. or worse. I couldn't let that happen to you!”

She scoffs, the whiskey hitting her head, giving her the push she needed.

“Fuck you Winchester. You don't get to do that. Not now! Not while I'm drinking. Not while we're both crying” her voice was raised, the tears starting to fall again.

“I can't believe you… I won't not matter what I try” she whispers, “but I will. In my head, those words will live on, because I still fucking love you because I'm a--” he rushes forward, crashing his lips into hers.

It was heated, full of sadness, regret, mostly love. Tears fell from both sets of eyes, both of them clawing at the other.

He pulled away first, his forehead resting on hers, “then lets sleep.. sober up, calm down. And talk” he says, he pulled away. Grabbing the Jack, and his jacket, walking to the door.

A small voice stops him as his hand hovers over the doorknob, “please stay…” she whispers.

He nods, he walks over, sitting down, he takes his shoes off, then his shirts, and his jeans next, before he pulls the blankets back, covering her uo, then himself and facing her, running his fingers through her hair.

“Sleep” he spoke softly.

Feedback is important!!

[allthevmff]

No Love like Your Love

by TheLastGoodGoldfish

Come back to me.

Veronica wakes with the words running through her head. Part of a dream, most likely, if she was sleeping deeply enough to dream. Something about Logan. It’s entirely possible; she checks the clock on the wall and sees that an hour has passed since she drifted off for an impromptu afternoon nap atop (a still out-cold) Logan.

Come back to me—her drowsy mind repeats, turns it over once, twice, then dismisses it as nothing. Logan’s right there, couldn’t possibly be any more back with her, except that he’s asleep.

Veronica stretches her neck to work out the kinks. Logan Echolls is, by and large, a first class mattress, but he’s a little bulky. Most importantly though, he’s a gracious mattress: he barely bitched about it at all, when she abandoned the other couch to curl up on top of him like a cat in a patch of sunlight, interrupting his reading before promptly passing out. Dubliners sits spine up on the living room floor beside them, and Logan’s breathing is deep and rhythmic beneath her.

They’re on vacation sort of. One of Logan’s friends from high school owns this place—a beautiful lake house at South Tahoe—but it’s understood that Logan can use the house whenever he likes. Veronica’s been up here half a dozen times in the three years since they got together. This weekend’s the first time this season, though: it’s January now, and snow’s been light, but there’s a nice dusting of powder, and Veronica has but to turn her head to watch the delicate white flakes drift down onto the deck. If she got up and crossed the room, she could see the icy water and a shoreline of frosted evergreens, almost too picturesque to process. She’ll say this for Dick Casablancas: he can pick a house.

Snow is still something of a novelty to Veronica.

She grew up in deserts: Tucson, Tulsa, Phoenix, Vegas... There was a summer in Ann Arbor and a few months in Minneapolis, but her mother (and her mother’s slew of unimpressive boyfriends) seemed to gravitate to the heat. Then college in sunny Neptune, grad school at Stanford, and a career that kept her moving in some of the world’s hottest climates, excepting that year in New York and the winter spent covering demonstrations in Moscow.

It’s the third in a five day excursion, just her and Logan in this vast, well-appointed house. There’s a fully stocked kitchen, TV, fireplace, and plenty of room for the dogs to wander. So far, it’s been two and a half days of bliss: they work and fuck and cook good food; take the dogs out and watch movies in the evenings. Logan will want to snowboard tomorrow.

Maybe their workaholic inclinations make it impossible for either of them to “disconnect” entirely, but slogging through a scientific journal on the newest super-virus for background is a lot more tolerable when there’s a view of the lake and a half-dressed ex-Naval aviator making lasagna within reaching distance.

Veronica shifts again. Pokes her chin into Logan’s chest, fidgets with the collar on his thick wool sweater, and waits to see if he’ll stir. He doesn’t.

Last winter when they were here, he asked her to marry him.

No, okay, not exactly that.

He asked her if she wanted to get married. He didn’t have a ring or get down on one knee or anything. He just asked her if she wanted that, like he might ask her if she wanted tacos for dinner.

Except no, he’d been more serious and earnest than that, asking. In the bedroom they always use here, after a really outstanding round of morning sex, with snowflakes on the window and coffee brewing in the next room.

“Would you want to get married?” Quiet and sweet, like he can be with her. His voice gets low, tender; it makes her ache. A husband, a dozen boyfriends, a roster of romances and flings who promised her the moon—no one’s ever loved her like Logan.

She was genuinely surprised, when he asked. “You want to get married?”

“I don’t know,” with a shrug of his bare shoulders. “Yes?”

“Why?”

He’d laughed; didn’t even take offense, which was almost enough to make her change her mind on the spot.

But they’d both been married before: marriages that ended as ignominious flops. Worse in her case—she understands that Logan and Lindsay parted on reasonably amicable terms—but all the same. She couldn’t picture going through all that again. She already did the big fairytale Church wedding with the puffy white dress and the tiara-veil (Jack’s family was very traditional). She’d felt silly dressing up like a virginal princess at the age of thirty-two; she’d feel downright comical doing it a decade later. Calling up her gal-pals and asking them to pause hectic careers and family schedules to wear generic teal dresses and be bridesmaids? Her seventy-year-old father having to walk her down the aisle again?

“I’m not saying we rent out the MacArthur and televise it, Mars,” Logan said, like he could read her mind, “But putting it on paper could make some things easier.”

“Well when you put it that way.” She traced a finger down his chest, trying to conceive of something tactful to say. She gave that up pretty quickly, though: “I don’t want to get married again, Logan.” She hadn’t been able to look at him when she said it, but she felt him go still beside her. Only for a moment, and then he resumed the slow, steady circles his thumb drew on the small of her back.

“Okay.”

And when she shifted to look up at him, he was relaxed and sincere. Okay. He pulled a face at her and it made her ache again, but happy.

“Still love me?” she’d teased.

He kissed the tip of her nose. Shrugged, beleaguered: “I guess,” and laughed when she bit him.

  She extricates herself from the couch and the slumbering Logan. Veronica has no recollection of pulling the soft plush throw-blanket over them—that must’ve been his handiwork. She arranges it back around him, then yawns, stretches, and wanders down to the basement level first floor to check on the dogs. Maggie and Goat are resting peaceably in their beds in the den, enjoying a vacation of their own. When the snow stops, Veronica will take them out.

The house is still, silent, as she heads back up to the kitchen. Puts on coffee and collects her tablet to work at the table.

She skims e-mails but is mostly unproductive. She holds a mug of hot coffee between her hands, habitually clinking her ring against the china as her attention drifts across the room to the giant window and the falling snow outside.

  Never again, she vowed the day she finally signed the divorce papers. Like swearing off alcohol during a hangover: never a-goddamn-gain. 

No more chasing picket fence fantasies. Normalcy, stability? Overrated, and mostly fake anyway.

She’d held pretty true to the promise, too. Took a nice freelance contributor gig in Spain and had two fleeting but lovely romances there. Then there was a year in London when she thought she might try photography-sans-journalism (till the boredom nearly killed her) and then back at the Los Angeles desk to be closer to her dad in Neptune. During that period, there’d been Jackson, Dan, and Mike in succession—each relationship ending when they started expecting serious progression. Mike got so far as to ask her to move in, and she had almost considered it. He would have made a good partner, but there was something painfully familiar about the relationship: nice at the beginning, comfortable. They had compatibility, a solid repartee. And yet after months and months, Veronica had never been able to engage with him on any level other than surface. They could banter, sure, but Mike never seemed to realize that was all they could do.

So they split and, a few months later, Logan happened. Just waltzed on into her life like he belonged there.

On their fourth date, she told him about the week she spent alone in a motel room in Vegas while her mom went on a bender. A month after that, he was tagging along for a four-day work trip to Paris. It hadn’t felt fast or serious. It just was. Abruptly, there was someone they each wanted to do everything with, and that was it.

  “I got married on the rebound,” Logan had told her, very early. It was always easy for him to talk about Lindsay. “Surprisingly? Not the best idea.”

“Yeah, I’m shocked that didn’t work out for you.” They were on a date, Dim Sum on North Broadway. Logan gestured a lot with the chopsticks.

“My ex and I had just had this long, exhausting break up. We had a lot of problems—both of us... there were substance abuse issues, and—we both worked too much...” (Carrie was unfaithful and a drug addict, but real conversations about Carrie—and Lilly—wouldn’t come till much later) “...so when I met Lindsay, she was the exact opposite. She taught yoga and fell asleep after half a glass of Chardonnay. I figured since there weren’t any of the problems I’d had with my ex, we’d be perfect. So we kind of rushed into everything.”

“Didn’t work, huh.”

“We had nothing in common.”

“I mean—half a glass of Chardonnay? You probably should’ve seen that coming.”

“Lasted less than three years, and I was deployed for about a third of that.”

  Tap, tap, tap goes the ring on the coffee mug. It’s almost four, and the snow has stopped. She’ll let Logan rest a little longer before she starts pestering him. They haven’t decided on dinner yet.

  There was no puffy white dress, no tulle, tiara, roses, or DJ, when she went ahead and married Logan. As predicted, it was mostly a matter of paperwork, but they did it at the Neptune courthouse, and her dad was there.

Logan never tried to talk her into it or anything. He didn’t even raise the marriage subject again. In fact when, last summer, Veronica had decisively stated, “Logan, I think we should get married,” he’d just rolled his eyes and carried on with his business, brushing his teeth. “What? I do.”

He spit into the sink and asked, “Is this about that stupid article?”

“No,” she said, defensive. She folded her arms and leaned against their bathroom doorframe, pleased with neither Logan’s accusation nor the overall lack of enthusiasm in his response. She had never proposed to anyone before and had expected to be taken a little more seriously.

Logan threw her a skeptical look, then resumed brushing.

“It’s not about the stupid article,” she insisted. “I don’t care about the stupid article.”

“So that wasn’t a heated e-mail I saw you writing to Bob Severino earlier?”

Robert Severino of Vanity Fair had written a profile on Veronica. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, primarily focusing on her work following a recent senatorial campaign, except at one point, for no discernable reason, Severino included the line: “Mars, who was married to former CNN anchor Jack Roan between 2019 and 2023...”

“I don’t care about the stupid article,” she said again, and it was true. Kind of. She cared in the sense that it was an idiotic line—sexist, too, what did her ex have to do with the photos she took on Senator Gracio’s campaign?—but she didn’t truly care that they brought up her marriage. Her initial reaction had even been amusement: they might just as well have mentioned that Derek Keener took her to senior prom.

But then after a few days, the phrase started to grate on her. Jack’s name didn’t belong there. It was only there because of some piece of paper that said they’d been married, and the paper wasn’t even valid anymore. Frankly, Veronica was of the opinion that there didn’t need to be any other name included in an analysis of her damn career, but as long as there was going to be one...

Then the more she’d thought about it, the more she’d started to realize that there were all kinds of ways her and Logan weren’t linked. If he were to die tomorrow, would she even get a mention in the obit? And yes that sounded crazy and self-absorbed, but—what would they call her? Girlfriend? Partner? Dog co-parent? Their names were both on the lease, so they were at least legally bound roommates.

Logan finished brushing his teeth, rinsed, and dropped the toothbrush into the cup with a flick of his fingers. Then he grabbed the floss, all the while watching Veronica’s reflection in the bathroom mirror as he waited for elaboration.

Veronica wished she could elaborate. She wanted to explain that she didn’t care about a piece of paper—a piece of paper wouldn’t dictate how she felt or what she wanted—but other people cared, and that made it difficult to ignore.

“Mars?” he asked, after another long moment of silence. When she still hadn’t found the words, he tossed the dental floss container up in the air, caught it, and walked over to her. “It’s okay, y’know.”

“I know,” she said, annoyed with herself more than anything. “I just...” just what? Just wished that she could articulate the fact that in her entire life, four decades on this planet, she’d never been the first person to say I love you in a relationship before, and even though she maintained that he’d coerced it out of her by cooking Greek food shirtless, it still felt like a big deal for her. But the outside world refused to believe that it was a big deal until she put it in writing. “It’s just—hard to explain.”

“Yeah.” He reached her, brushed stray hairs back behind her ears. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, Veronica. You’re it.” Fuck. Her chest felt strung tight. How was he so much better at this? “So if you figure out how to explain it, let me know.”

Veronica leaned in, pressed her forehead against his collarbone. “Sounds good.” She inhaled deeply, breathed him in, and when she trusted her voice, said, “I can’t believe you rolled your eyes at my proposal.”

“You proposed while I was brushing my teeth.”

“I thought you hopeless romantics appreciated spontaneity.”

“You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Anyway, they went to the courthouse about a month after that.

   Veronica is finishing her coffee when she hears Logan coming awake in the next room: his groaning and mumbling, then the creaking of the couch as he rouses himself. He ambles into the kitchen, wincing and stretching.

“I fucked up my back on that couch,” he gripes over a yawn, as he makes his way over to the counter.

“Did you check the cushions for peas, Your Highness?”

He throws her a look and starts rummaging through the cabinets. “Want some?”

“Hmm?”

“Coffee?”

“Oh. No, I just had a cup.”

Out of the side of her eye, she watches him fix his drink. He’s wearing grey sweat pants and a dark-red Henley t-shirt under his woolly green cable-knit. Vacation Logan, Veronica thinks and it makes her smile.

She wonders sometimes, what it would have been like if they’d been together when he was still in the Navy, still facing regular deployments. He consults now, works remotely as often as not, so there’s a certain freedom to their schedules. She wonders how she would’ve coped with months and months of absences, Skype as their only link, the steady dread of imminent danger.

She wonders what would’ve happened if she got to know him ten years ago, when she was married to Jack. Especially towards the end, when things were visibly falling apart—

It’s a grim and depressing speculative route, so she detours away.

Imagines instead meeting him when they were in their twenties. Imagines meeting Logan when he was an impulsive hotshot pilot, and she was a reckless aspiring photojournalist, eager to prove herself. She’s seen pictures, and—though an older and wiser Veronica appreciates the soft lines just beginning to appear on him, the warmth and calm in the version of Logan that grins up at her from her tablet lock-screen—she understands herself well enough to know that the twenty-five-year-old Veronica would have been all over the prior model. They would have driven each other crazy, undoubtedly, but would they have managed to stick with it? If they’d come together earlier, would they have tried their hands at the picket-fence fantasies too? Maybe some Logan-and-Veronica fucked up version of it, anyway—

Or, she wonders, if they’d met as teenagers... if her dad and mom hadn’t split up when Veronica was little, and she’d grown up in Neptune, like Logan did. Completely possible. Would he have liked the smart-mouthed middle school version of her? Would she have fallen for the round-cheeked, tanned and highlighted pretty boy she remembers seeing on magazine covers since childhood?

She imagines the years and years of each other that they never knew. But then again, she likes to tell him stories, and she likes to hear his. Maybe it all worked out as intended in the end.

  Logan has his coffee now and he sits down at the kitchen table, kitty-corner from her. “I don’t feel like dishes,” he says, “Let’s go out to dinner.”

“Okay.”

“The pizza place or the nice place?”

“Mmm,” she considers it. “Pizza.”

“Okay.”

He turns and looks out the window at the winter wonderland view provided to them. Veronica thinks snow is still a bit of a novelty for Logan, too.

“How’s your back?” she asks, and he smiles softly.

“Sore. You fucked it up.”

He smirks at her, and Veronica tries to muster up a little remorse. “Sorry. You made a comfortable mattress.”

“Mmm.”

She tilts her head in a way she knows he finds frustratingly irresistible. “Still love me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Always.”

via AO3 works tagged 'Veronica Mars (Movie 2014)' https://ift.tt/2EKIWsk March 20, 2019 at 11:36PM