#tonto text post

[tontoemojis]

Appreciation post to all my semiverbal & semispeaking , nonverbal & nonspeaking friends . Appreciation post to all my AAC users friends who use AAC for whatever reason . To my friends with language disorders , to those who type & talk weird for whatever reason . To anyone who feels good talking in 3rd person . Who those who can ’ t or won ’ t communicate at all .

This post goes for all my friends & all the people & non people out there . You all deserve love , respect , support , appreciation & also recognition . Love you all so much !!! 🧡

[enidsinclair]

no but this for real ! imagine meeting THE princess of mandalore and say that to her face lmao i felt second hand embarrassment for him ngl

[just-shairahhh]

The Way I Couldn't Love You

~ A "The Way I Loved You" story continuation.

Summary: Will you and Eddie get a second chance at what you lost? Or will the history tear through everything you had once built together?

Note: This post is a continuation of the story, "The Way I Loved You".

"And there you were, years later. Again. Sobs breaking through your chest. Again. Sending tremors in his heart. Again. Except this time, Eddie Diaz knew who they were for. "

Everyday. Every single day of the first year since you moved away, you imagined in your head what it would be like to see Eddie again. A thousand scenarios swirling in your mind, tentacles of the nightmare you had to live through every day, creeping into your broken heart and imprisoning it in a tight grip, as you lay there. In the same dark corner. For hours. Until sleep showed you some mercy and reeled you in. Everyday.

Anger. Hurt. Betray.

You’d imagined it all. It was as if you could picture his stormy, hazel eyes pierce into you, the storm brewing in them upending your life all over again. And then you stopped. Squeezed your eyes tighter and stopped. You could feel the bile rising in your throat at the mere thought of seeing hatred in the eyes that had only ever looked at you with love. Pure, selfless love. No, it was too soon. You can’t see him yet. So you picked up your phone from the corner of the sofa you had slammed it in and replied to your sister’s text in a single word, “No”. And that was the hardest thing you had ever had to write, which was funny because once in a Spell-Bee competition you thought, “Embourgeoisement” was hard.

Your sister’s question did not leave your mind for the rest of the day, though. Or the coming week. Or the months that followed.

“Eddie was here again. Asking for an address or a contact. Said he really needed you. And that everything was falling apart. He looked worse than before, y/n. Should I send him your address?”

What did he mean everything was falling apart? Is he okay? Are his parents hurting him again? You tried to shut the voices out. You'd be back home on the next flight if you let them come in. Plus, he had Shannon now. He would be okay.

"I am sorry, Eddie. There's nothing more I want than to be right next to you. But if I fall again, I won't be able to get up. I can't. I need to heal. I really, really need to heal. I cannot live in this pain anymore. I am so, so sorry". You whisper into the night as you snuggle further into your pillow.

.....

“I don’t want dinner, mom! Leave me alone. Please.” The last word already more breathless and shakier than you’d like.

“That’s too bad. Cause I got you your favourite; that disgustingly sugary sweet abomination in the name of coffee” Eddie said as he entered through the door and made a very disgusted face as if someone had asked him to take Tabasco shots. Someone had once, by the way. It was you. And he had still made a better face. “And Chef Eddie’s personally mastered craft, tacos and enchiladas.” He said, proudly smiling and throwing around chef kisses.

You gave him a blank stare. And a second later, he relented.

“Fine, my abuela made them. God, woman. Lighten up. You broke up with an el tonto. I always warned you he was an el tonto. Not even a real man. Maybe you were a bigger idiot. But eh, what’s done is done. I’d say we celebrate”.

And just like that, at the mention of Josh, fresh tears broke free, replacing the now dried ones.

"Hey, hey, hey. I am sorry. I was kidding. Come here.” Eddie stepped in closer, about to engulf you in a hug.

But you pushed him away. “Go away, Eddie. Seriously. I don’t want to see you right now.”

“I will not, y/n. Not unless you eat. Your mom said you haven’t eaten anything for hours.” His light-hearted banter now long gone, a more assertive voice stepping in. You knew it meant that he was concerned but you hated when he took that voice with you. It was very different than the one he took with Shannon. That concern was always laced with a soft plea at the end or a light kiss behind her ear.

Shannon. Just her name, brought out the anger you’d been trying to hold in.

But you try once more to not let the agony engulf you. To not be the person you are about to become if Eddie does not listen to you. “Go. Away. Eddie. I will have the food when I am hungry.”

Eddie, however, was not having any of it. “Come on, here. Let me get this for you. If you try one –”

And that’s when you lost it and screamed at the last person you ever wanted to raise your voice at. “GO AWAY! WHAT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND!” He tried to reach out again but you swatted his arm away. Hitting him on the chest once. Twice. Thrice. So he would just listen to you. Why is he not listening to you? He needs to go.

The long suppressed agony now letting itself out completely. Josh was not a good boyfriend to you. But he was a good friend before that. And when you broke up with him, you knew you’d lost that. This was all Eddie’s fault. He left you. All alone. And he went to Shannon. And you thought maybe, just maybe if you start dating, it will all go away? This... this hurt. All this pain. But it did not. But you knew. In your heart, you knew that it was not Eddie's fault. That he did loved you. He would do anything for you. Just not in the way you wanted. And that tore at you every day but that was not his fault. It couldn’t be.

And then you realise you that you are still hitting him. What are you doing? You stop as soon as you realise that and look up. There he was, your best friend. Taking it all in. Not saying anything. You feel so awful, so absolutely broken. And you feel tired. So very tired. So with a barely held sob, you slump forward, into his arms. Which were waiting for you, as if knowing. Waiting. Understanding.

So, you sob harder. Because that was the first day in all these years it had truly set in that Eddie would never be what you craved in him. You'd always thought one day it would all come back. That he would come back. But now you knew that he won't. He would always be here though. Just never yours.

But what you didn’t realise that day was Eddie’s heart was also breaking. If not more, then just as much as you. That was the first time he felt his best friend was slipping away and he was unaware. So very unaware of how much his best friend had loved this guy who broke her heart. He cursed himself for not understanding the gravity of the situation. What he didn't know was that, the sobs breaking through his chest, causing tremors in his heart were not for Josh but for him.

You didn’t notice the bandage on his knuckles for the next few days. You also didn’t notice that Josh Lawson was gone longer than the bandage had stayed.

And Eddie never told you either.

.....

“y/n?”

“Eddie.” You whisper softly.

You couldn’t recall how long you were spaced out for. When cold, familiar tears slid down your cheeks as easily as they used to, only then did you start to process the situation again.

“I- I... I have a few engine supplies to check. I should...” Buck slowly started.

No! Evan! What must he even be thinking? You slowly raise your eyes up at him. Expecting the worst. But his kind face only held understanding in them. He gave you a tight lipped smile before taking a few steps backward.

“Oh, this” you softly started and he followed your eyes and and looked down at the basket in your hands.

“Right.” He quickly took the box from your hand. “Muffins are my favourite! Ooooh, blueberry!” He gave you one last smile and walked back.

You still hadn’t looked at Eddie but you could feel his eyes follow you. With a deep breath, you somehow muster the courage to look up and nothing would have prepared you for what you saw.

You wished it was what you feared it all those years ago. You truly did. Anger. Fear. Betray. But he wasn’t any of those things. He was simply... lost.

Third Person POV:

There comes a time in everyone’s life when we lose something precious. A person, a memory, an object, a feeling; something we always, effortlessly considered a part of us. We would look everywhere, drive ourselves insane and would not know how to survive without it.

But then we learn. Slowly. Painfully. We grasp on how to survive without it and we start living again. But then one day, it turns up. But by then we don’t know how to feel. We have learnt to live with what we have lost but that doesn’t mean we have not felt incomplete in our existence. And just like that, we are back to the day we lost and we were lost. As clueless now as we were then.

Eddie Diaz was lost. He didn’t know how to take in what he had learnt to let go, now standing right in front of his eyes. The day that y/n left, she didn’t just take away his best friend, she took a part of him with her. A part that he had willingly given away to her to safekeep the first day he saw her across the fence looking at him with eyes that promised him the world. A part that was always meant to be hers.

A soft sob escaped y/n’s lips. Tears now freely slipping down her face. She had run this day through her head uncountable number of times. She thought it would all come back. The ghosts of her night and the nightmares of her day. The girl she used to be. But they didn't.

All that came back were the memories she had long buried down. But this time they didn't strike her like a snake, angry and hissing, it's fangs out, ready to poison her. This time, the memories hugged her like Eddie used to. Soothe her like Eddie used to. Make her feel understood... Like Eddie used to. And in that moment, all her doubts dissolved, and she knew that she had made the right choice when she decided to leave. Had she stayed back, she would have started hating Eddie, every memory she had of him and she knew that she would have started hating herself.

But she had still done Eddie wrong. She knew that. While her heart had healed for her, it also tore through her for what she had broken. There was no escape. Her only escape from everything life threw at her for the longest time, was now standing right in front of her; eyes wide, mouth agape and tears, years worth of tears threatening to spill through the barriers of his eyes behind which Eddie had managed to hide himself for a long time now.

"You're not in uniform" y/n whispered out. Her heart had started to spiral down several dominoes of emotions. And she could no longer think straight. Instead, she decided to focus on the patterns on his mustard yellow shirt.

"Yes, because my uniform totally should be your first concern after you just up and left the night of my wedding. While you're at it, why don't you go inside and check the logs to make sure whether I was on time for my shift or not?" Eddie replied.

What further pushed y/n down the ledge was the fact that Eddie did not shout, or scream or throw the words at her. He simply sounded... Defeated. Long gone was the boy who held fire in his eyes. Standing next to her now was a man who had seen it all fade away.

Soldiers. Friends. Humanity. His best friend. His Marriage. And maybe somewhere, himself. Or atleast the version of him that she used to know. She could not stand there pretending he had changed when she was the one who pulled away first.

So, she kept quiet and focused on the colours running checks on his shirt.

Brown. White. Blue.

"You left me, y/n. Why." He did not ask it as a question. More like a statement. As if he too, had gone through that one moment he found out y/n had left. For a very long. In a never ending loop. And when you do that enough, your mind starts to give you answers. Not the one you necessarily seek but the ones that bring out your worst insecurities. And there he was, her heart's closest confidant doubting all that he was, for himself and for her, on the basis of a single memory that turned both their worlds upside down all those years ago.

Brown. White. Blue.

"You told me you would be there for me forever but you weren't. During the worst trials of my life, you weren't".

She could feel his voice tremor slightly as he slowly stepped closer. A single treacherous tear making its way down his beautiful face.

Y/n's POV:

Brown. White. Blue.

"You told me you'd always be my by side. But maybe you didn't mean those promises enough"

Brown. White. Blue.

"Or maybe I wasn't enough. Your family obviously knew everything. And our friends did too, I'm guessing. Everyone content with your decision, happy for you. I felt it."

Brown. White. Blue.

"And there I was, the only one left in the dark. Driving around like someone took away a part of my soul. And guess what? That is exactly what happened".

Brown. White. Blue.

"And I waited. For the longest time. Because I couldn't have imagined my life without you. Because I loved you. And I thought you did too. So why?"

"It's because I loved you." You scream at him through the tears, each word that he had said, striking all the cords that you had yourself been stricken by before.

You looked up at him through your clouded eyes and knew, that still, he had no idea.

Well, what time like the present? Infront of a firehouse, where he works. Where you'd come to meet one of his colleagues. What would be a better place to share the most vulnerable, sensitive corners of your heart?

"It's because I loved you that I let all the hurtful emotions of a teenage heart tore through me but stayed by you when you needed to talk about your relationships. It's because I loved you that I stood beside you and fought against your family so that you could marry the woman you loved, when all I wanted to do was scream at you, ask you to not marry her. It's because I loved you that I left the people, the home and the family I'd known all my life so that I didn't end up hating you. Everything was always because I loved you. And it was because you couldn't love me back".

You fall apart, sobs wreaking through you but no sound making it out because you were pressed into his comfortable, warm chest. One hand tightly holding you, as if he still couldn't believe you were here, as if you would disappear if he let go. The other weaving through your hair. Like he used to do all those years ago, something he knew would always calm you down.

And there you were, years later. Again. Sobs breaking through your chest. Again. Sending tremors in his heart. Again.

Except this time, Eddie Diaz knew who they were for. As everything started to make sense to him.

"You know I loved you. I always did." He spoke softly into your ear. His voice heavy with emotions, trembling at every pause. His cheek pressed against your hair.

You could feel the realisation coursing through him and the guilt digging in his chest. It was Eddie. You knew him better than yourself on some things. The way he pulled you closer and tightened his arms around you, burying his face into your hair; told you enough.

"Yes, you did. But not the way I loved you. And that is so okay. I couldn't be more at peace. But that's now. That was not what was going on then. I needed to leave, Eddie. I am sorry. I really did. Every corner of that town spoke to me of us. I felt suffocated in my own home. I needed to be there for myself. I never meant to leave you. But if I hadn't, I would not have been able to be there for you either". You whispered back. Putting it all in your words. Hoping he would still get you like he always did.

He nodded. Just once. Softly.

"There's a chinese place down the block. I just got off duty. Wanna get some food? Maybe I will tell you about this y/e/c eyed beauty Buck couldn't stop talking about ever since he met her. I'm guessing that would be you?" Eddie smiled down at you. It wasn't a lot. But it was a beginning. Or the promise and hope of one. But where would you be today, had you not been living for the hope of it all.

"Actually, tell me about you first. And the very handsome Christopher. I know there's a lot to catch up on but spring rolls are a very good place to start. But then we are jumping right back to what Evan said about me." You smiled back as he led you to his car, shaking his head at you.

Things might not be okay for a long time maybe. It will take time and efforts. A lot of both. Some things you've to let time heal, others you have to work on for an even longer time. But it's efforts you're willing to put, maybe more than Eddie this time. And that's okay. Both of you are gonna be okay.

"Oh, you won't believe who I met in LA. And right on my first week. A little piece of shit we went to high school with. It was so annoying. Character development really is not for some people. Also, about Evan.... Uhmmm..."

.

.

.

[la-chacha-gris]

Today I woke up feeling a bit down, somewhat disappointed while checking notifications and seeing that the posts I had scheduled came out well (and they weren't flags that can't be seen now). But you know what? Silly speculation with a weird photo in a post back in text written live has put me back in a perfect mood, yes indeed. I will try to be more poetic, foxy and sincere, because I was already getting bored of my own account. That must be the way, I suppose.

Hoy desperté algo pocha, cierto desencanto mientras comprobaba notificaciones y que los posts que dejé programados salieron bien (y no fueron flags que ahora no se ven). Pero ¿saben qué? elucubrar tonto con foto rara en post atrás en texto redactado en directo me ha devuelto estar de perfectísimo humor, vaya que sí. Más poética zorruna y sincera procuraré ser que me estaba aburriendo ya de mi propia cuenta. Ese debe ser el camino, supongo.

Good Morning/Buenos días!

[tontoemojis]

ALSO HAPPENING TO ME , I thought that it was just my free trial privileges being gone ...

Boy what the fuck is new cough drop update ? Why is part of my board cut off? The fuck?

Is y’all also have problem? Am going to explode

[pablitogavii]

Could you write one Gavi fic where he's talking to her through social media, just as friends, but he starts to develop feelings for her, his agent finds out and gets really worried about his career if he gets in a relationship, so he "makes" Gavi's mind to get away from the reader (she has abandonment and rejection issues) without a proper explanation, he excuses saying that the reader wants his money and whatever. But some months after the reader moves to Seville and gets really close to Aurora (she knows Aurora is Gavi's sister but Aurora doesn't know her), and one day Aurora takes her to a barca match, and Gavi tries to make up to her?

I guess I'm back y'all lol! I like this idea very much!

y.n.bebe

New York, USA

I think I like this little life...happy birthday to me hehe

liked by pablogavi and others

coments:

brimccormix: happy birthday bebsss

y.n.bebe: thank you gorgeous girl💗

stacymiggs: princesaaa

y.n.bebe: nooo youuu!🥺

brianfereda: happy birthday!

y.n.bebe: thank youu!

pablogavi: pretty girl

y.n.bebe: 😳

When you saw that THE Pablo Gavi called you "pretty girl" for the whole world to see, you couldn't stop staring at that comment for the next two weeks.

Your friends went crazy calling you lucky, and pushing you to send him a message but you were obviously too shy to do that. Besides, who knows how many "pretty girls" he's talking to on the internet.

Meanwhile, Gavi spent all of his free time and training brakes going through your posts and smiling like an idiot at your cute face on his phone screen.

When you first popped up on his screen, he just had to reach out and pray you don't find it cocky on his part. You were just so pretty...

"Sempre con esa nena, cabrón! Dale! Enviale un mensaje!"Pedri hit Gavi's head making him groan and finally get the balls to slide into your DMs. He said a simple "hey pretty girl" before leaving his phone in the locker room to join his teammates.

pablogavi: hey, pretty girl

y.n.bebe: hey😊

And ever since that night, you've started texting, face timing and chatting non stop. You haven't told anyone about it, not wanting to make a drama over something so new and also not wanting him to think fame is what you're after because it's not.

"I'm so tired, nena" Pablo groaned while laying in bed and face timing you as you did your math homework diligently.

"Then go to bed, tonto!" you giggle and he just stayed quiet staring at your face until you looked back at the phone screen and blushed at how intense his gaze was.

"Me gusta cuando hablas Español conmigo, bebé" he smirked making you blush bright red and roll your eyes pretending to be annoyed.

"When do you have training in the morning?" you ask while he yawns.

"Five am" he answers and you open your eyes wide really looking up to him being so diligent about his career.

"Then you really should get some sleep, and we can talk tomorrow again hm?" you ask not really wanting to end the call but also wanting him to get his rest. He always loved how selfless you are and how much you took care of him. It really warmed his hearts.

"I hate it that you're so far! I swear I'm gonna travel to New York and kidnap you and bring you back to Barcelona with me ... and never let you go ..." he said sleepily and you felt your heart jumping thinking about the possibility.

"Hm and if you get bored of me?" you smile and he shakes his head still staring intently at you in the eyes.

"Impossible, my pretty girl..." he said and you smile remembering the very first time you read those words on the screen.

Pablo Gavi was a man of his words, and since that conversation he promised himself that he will surprise you with a travel to Barcelona really soon. He planed everything and mailed you a ticket during his two week vacation.

He still remembers the nerves while standing at the airport waiting at your gate to see your pretty face finally in person. The moment you walked out he recognized you...he couldn't forget the pretty face he stared at through the screen for past four months just now it was real.

"Hi, pretty girl..." he said again and you jumped into his eyes smiling wide and holding onto him tightly. You couldn't believe this was real yet. It just felt like a dream.

"Ready to explore Barcelona conmigo huh?" he said and you smiled and taking his hand nodding and walking to him car with your baggage.

Days passed so quickly and everything was PERFECT. Ice cream dates, walks on the beach, coffee shops and all the infamous tourist attractions...you were falling in love with this city...and you were also falling in love with this boy.

Day before your flight home, Pablo took you to a football game for the Juvenil and you were excited to watch it with him knowing it was his passion.

"So what do you think?" you show him your Barça jersey and he so badly wanted to ask you to wear one with his name on the back but how could he? He still didn't have the balls to ask you to be his official girlfriend!

y.n.bebe

Barcelona, Spain

it's so pretty here 🥺😊

liked by pablogavi, pedri, joaofelix and others

comments:

pablogavi: pretty girl in barcelona 😍

y.n.bebe: hehe😊

brimccormix: girl!!?? spill the TEA!

y.n.bebe: what tea???

lucasmith: looks like someone stole my crush!

y.n.bebe: 😂

"Next time I come, I want to watch you play..." you said while the two of you sat sadly on the airport waiting for your boarding.

"Y/n..." he said looking down as you looked up

"Hm?" you say feeling your heart beating fast from how close your lips were to each other.

"Don't go..."he said and you swore your heart broke when you saw his pleading eyes. Neither of you wanted this distance...it was so unfair but there was nothing you could do about it now.

"Pablo we're friends now and you can visit me in New York..." you said but before you could finish his lips were smashed onto yours to shut you up and you closed your eyes enjoying the sweet sensation of his cold minty lips on your.

"Do you want to be my girlfriend, pretty girl?" he said and in that moment all your past insecurities and abandonment issues returned yelling inside your head. What if you get attached and he disappears like other did? You were so scared but looking at him it was impossible not to agree!

"Yes! I do Pablo..." you say and he kissed you again until they called for your flight to start boarding in five minutes.

[theorphicangel]

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Tags: enemies to lovers, college au, smut, 18+, slow burn,

synopsis: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single, brooding man in possession of a good future in genetics, must be in want of a girlfriend.

Or at least a fake one to get his family off his back.

(college au & fake dating trope ft my favourite grumpy man who doesn't fall first but ends up falling harder. ouch.)

taglist: @oharasfilipinawife @palesatan @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @amelialysm @crimin4llyins4ne @strawberryjuice9 @beezusvreeland @faretheeoscar @lunablackcosplay @t4naiis @peachey-pie @mcmiracles @hardlystrictlystarwars @migueloharastruelove @fruityfucker @kingtwhiddleston

series

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Chapter 5: Crime and Punishment

Miguel would be lying if he said that he’s been able to sleep well lately.

He’s been lucky to get any sleep at all.

He’s managed to fit into the college lifestyle pretty decently. He’s set up a routine that he follows religiously: Wake up, work out, coffee, read up on pre-lecture notes, lectures, eat, work shift, lab work, eat, study, read up on his post-lecture notes, sleep and repeat.

That's all he can do here. Ever since he’s arrived onto campus he’s been successful in maintaining a bubble away from…all of that shit going on at home. It’s been a pretty useful distraction.

But…something that he can’t consciously admit to himself, is that being in a bubble means leaving everything that’s going on at home on a backburner.

Miguel stares up at his ceiling from his bed, his hands behind his head, resting on his pillow. If he stares for long enough then he can just about match up patterns from the wall paint and if he stares for even longer than that, then they start to slowly move. He’s been awake for a few hours now, only managing to make it to around 3am before waking up or rather jolting awake. But he’s used to early mornings. Always was.

Unexpectedly, his phone begins to vibrate on his bedside table. He frowns, his alarm isn’t due to go off for five more minutes. Leaning onto his side, he peers over at whomever is calling him at this hour. His screen brightens up with the caller ID.

‘Gabriel is calling….’

Miguel stares at the phone for what seems like forever until it stops ringing.

A minute later, just when he thought he was in the clear, text messages began to come through. One right after the other.

Gabriel: (sent 6:56am)

- I know you’re awake mig’

- Look, if you’re not going to answer, fair enough, but you’re going have to face it and communicate with us one day.

(sent 6:57am)

- Just talk to mamá por favor. If not now then it’ll be worse at thanksgiving.

- Trust me.

Miguel places the phone down after reading the messages from his home screen. He chews on his bottom lip, a mix of emotions beginning to grow in his gut. He’s not sure what they are exactly but they seem to make up the familiar combination of anxiety, guilt and fear. He curses to himself under his breath, rubbing his hands across his face.

‘Por dios, you’re so pathetic. Tonto, what are you doing?’ [fool]

He can’t help but reflect on his avoidant behavior, he knows what he’s doing but he just can’t seem to muster up the courage to face his problems. He knows that going to college is essentially him avoiding his problems and he knows that he’s in the wrong for leaving his brother to try and pick up the pieces despite Miguel supposing to be the older sibling.

Falling back into his avoidant behavior Miguel pushes his thoughts away with a sigh and forcefully drags his limbs out of bed.

He’s about to head to the bathroom to brush his teeth when another text comes through from Gabriel.

And this one is impossible to ignore.

Gabriel: (sent 6:01am)

- ‘Also…why is your car for sale on Craigslist?’

- ‘For 69 bucks?’

Miguel: (sent 6:01am)

-What?’

/

“Girl, are you okay?”

MJ’s voice snaps you back out from reality and you stumble over your words in giving a reply.

“What? Oh, uh– yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

It was an obvious lie, but MJ doesn’t get paid enough to deep dive into your problems and judging by your body language you’d rather she not say anything at all anyways.

Telling your mother – or rather — lying to your mother that you had a boyfriend has to be one of the stupidest things that you have ever done. And trust me, you have done many stupid things.

But where the fuck were you going to get a boyfriend? And most importantly, who?

Lyla had suggested Peter at first and you had too but that was before you realized that he had an ever-growing crush on MJ. And like I said, you don’t get paid enough to care but you’re pretty sure that she likes him back. Now more than ever, you’ve been noticing them together, often third wheel to their awkward but cute interactions together. He’s nervous and chatty but she’s a good listener and you figure that they balance each other out.

Now only if you could find someone like that. Someone that your mom would believe that you’re dating. Maybe you should ask Peter if he has any friends who are available. Maybe you could–

Your thoughts are disrupted by the sound of MJ calling your name. You glance over to the counter to where she’s serving a customer and by the looks of it…it’s a very well-known customer.

“Someone wants to see you.”

As she tells you so, you can’t help but notice her tone indicating a tone of flirtation between you and this particular customer but once you see the look on his face, you know that it will never get to that point.

Miguel is the one standing by the counter and a chill runs down your spine when you meet his eyes. He’s staring at you, unblinking, with his jaw forcibly clenched.

Shit, you think, he definitely knows by now.

“Uh, sure.” You say, putting down the towel that you were currently wringing with your hands. As you make your way around the counter you try your best not to look nervous as you approach him.

“Outside.” He murmurs, his tone and face grave.

You follow him without a single word, a hole of anxiety opening up in the pit of your stomach.

The two of you make it outside, the bitter October air nipping at your bare arms. Wrong day to wear a short sleeved shirt, you think to yourself, attempting to distract your mind from the tension of the conversation that you’re about to have. You can feel your cheeks begin to go cold and you cross your arms in a failed attempt to maintain your warmth.

“What the fuck is this?” Miguel shows you his phone screen.

You could tell he was seething, despite him seeming to maintain his calm externally. His phone screen is open on a website browser illustrating an advert for a car and you recognise that it’s his car.

It was your advert.

You squint your eyes, pretending like you’ve never seen it before. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Don’t keep up the bullshit. I know it was you. Who else would do this shit to me for revenge?”

You shug, attempting to seem nonchalant. “Maybe you have a lot of enemies out there Miguel, especially with the way that you treat people.”

Miguel frowns, a crease appearing between his brows. He opens his mouth to speak yet you manage to beat him to it.

“How’d you even know that was me? It’s not nice to throw accusations around y’know?”

Miguel snorts. “And you know what else is not fucking nice? Selling other people’s cars!”

At the sound of his raised voice, you look around to see if there was anyone approaching. It was early morning, the morning lecture coffee rush awaited you in just fifteen minutes. By then you had to get rid of Miguel.

You were infuriating him by the second, it was beginning to grow clear that your innocent trick was not working. That deep pit of anxiety in your stomach began to grow larger and larger, your palms getting sweaty in the process.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have done it if you were a little nicer to people and if you hadn’t posted that review.”

“Oh, so it was you?”

Shit.

Miguel continues on. “It’s illegal to sell other people’s property without permission, you know that right?”

“Of course I do.” you lied. You stammer for a few seconds, searching for an excuse. “You nearly made me lose my job for fuck’s sake.”

“You didn’t lose it.”

“Nearly!”

“But you’re still here aren’t you?”

You groan aloud, not believing the words that are coming out of his mouth. “You’re acting like such a jerk!”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t even have proof that it was me. That’s not my email account.”

He clicks his tongue. “Quit the lying, it doesn’t look good on you. Plus, Peter told me you were looking for my car.”

Remember earlier when you said that lying to your mother about having a boyfriend was the stupidest thing that you had done? Yeah, well scratch that.

“You could get criminally charged for this, do you realize that? Attempted theft or whatnot. And then not only would you lose your job but it’d get you suspended from the university too.”

Your face falls. “I wasn’t actually going to sell it–”

“But it seems like you didn’t think about that did you?” His tone was venomous, sharp enough to cause physical pain to you.. You can’t help but feel as if he was getting some sort of pleasure out of this, out of threatening you. “Not so smart are you? I’m almost glad that I caught you, if Peter didn’t tell me–”

“If you’re going to go to the cops then I’ll take full blame.” You interrupt. “Peter had nothing to do with this.”

Miguel raises a brow. “I didn’t think you’d take full responsibility.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like to do bad things to innocent people.” you spat.

“Innocent?” He repeats. “Wow, tienes sentido del humor.” [ ‘you’re quite the comedian’ / you have a sense of humor’]

You bite down on your lip. “I'll take it down but you promise not to drag Peter into this?”

Miguel nods. “You have till the end of the day to take it down.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“You won’t call the cops on me?”

He shrugs. “I can’t promise that I won’t and–” Miguel points a finger at you to stop your interruption. “There’s nothing that you can say that would change my mind if I do.”

Your shoulders defleat. Great. You’ve just somehow managed to make your life a living hell all for the satisfaction of revenge.

“Oh.” He turns around to face you. “And for your information, I deleted the review ages ago.”

It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in.

Oh great.

“You fucking–”

“What? Bastard? Jerk? Go ahead, call me all of the names you want, nena. Don’t you think that you’ve done enough damage for once?”

Ouch. You’re not even sure how to respond to his last comment.

You remain silent as you stand on the curb watching Miguel leave, your fists are curled up by your sides. Your nails dig into your palms until it hurts, trying to distract your mind from the full tsunami of anxiety that paralyzes your body.

What the fuck do you do now?

You don’t think that your life could get any worse than this. Not by a mile. In less than 48 hours you’ve managed to be not only a liar but a criminal.

As you step into the cafe there might as well be a visible gray cloud over your head. MJ knows not to ask any questions as you return back to your station. She gives you a longing look, wordlessly asking if you were okay. Ignoring it, you keep your head down, trying to bite back your tears until the end of the shift.

‘Keep it in until the end of your shift.’ you told yourself. ‘Keep it all in.’

You: still nil*

Miguel: 2

*[point redacted due to illegal activity]

leave a comment to lmk if you would like to join the taglist!

[bugsplaypen]

ꕀ☆ [welcome to my account] ☆ꕀ

DNI

- 14 or under | 26 or older

- if you don’t trigger warn for arachnophobia or post anything related to S’s

- post gore / ed / sh / abuse content

- if you don’t use basic tw / cw / fw

- dsmp fans or if you post about it

- lgbtqia+phobic (including being against neo pronouns & xenogenders)

- “good faith” labels

- racist / colorist / all lives or blue lives matter / asian hate / use racial slurs you can’t claim

- ableist (including using high / low functioning terms, “asperger’s” label, blue or puzzle piece to represent autism, against educated self diagnosis, use the r slur at all.)

- sexist / misogynistic

- right winged

- demonize witchcraft, paganism, or satanism

- ageplay, petplay, dual com, or anything related to or under that umbrella

- “sfw” kink, kink or nsfw accs in general

- use the terms “little” (not including system littles) or “little space”

(why below)

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

DMS

- use tone tags

- don’t call me pet names

- don’t ask me to be your cg or regressor

- no small talk / don’t ask to be friends just let it happen naturally

- don’t baby me unless given permission.

- no heavy baby talk

- no mature language or topics

- do not flirt w me. i have a lovey partner.

- don’t ask personal information

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

names

names you can call me / some of my name hoard

- koda

- grey

- star

- dottie

- winnie

- lilac

- bear

- pluto / plu

- grid

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

about me

1. {name} legal is greyson, but the names above work too :)

2. {big age} 20

3. {small age} 0-10

4. {petre smallest to biggest} bunny, kitty, calf, puppy, dino, shark, black panther

5. {others} i have an awesome sauce bubba :3, autistic, adhd, possibly dyslexic, hEDS & POTS, PCOS, cane user & ambulatory wheelchair user, satanic pagan witch, therian & otherkin

6. {special interests} i have many, but my main ones marine life (sharks & penguins specifically) and ancient egypt

7. {likes} purple, black, yellow, blue, forest colors, fnaf, minecraft, stuffed animals, doing crafts, anime, alt music (mostly emo, rock, metal), kandi etc etc

8. {dislikes} S’s arachnophobia, liars, sea food, opera & k pop, tomatoes & mushrooms

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

tags

🐏bubba

📖text posts

📦user boxes

📺shows

🪩binkies

🍓food

🪡crafts +

🩼disabled agere

🩹mental health

⚙️gear

🧸toys

🌿stim board

🐀mood board

⭐️stars

🏳️flags

🪸ocean stuff

🧃agere

🦴petre

🐾therian / otherkin

🐻my moodboards

last two by secretfiles | caregiver flag by tonto / freddy

[monsooninn]

Berakhot 12a: 23. "The Shacharit."

Well the PM visited the Taco Stand so I guess that's the end of it. What did Mr. Netanyahu say during their conversation? Thanks for the Terror Tunnels? Mor Mormons must on the way! How'd you guess that's what we wanted?

You did not obey the Great Hillel and instead put the man who attacked Israel back in the White House.

I wash my hands.

The Mishnah says, of course I was right. Will it tell us what is going to happen next now that Israel shall not lead humanity to a Midnight Benediction at the Ya'all Come Back Now Saloon?

23. Rabbi Bar Hinana said: Anyone who did not say "truth and stability" in Shahrit, and "truth and faith" in Arabic - did not neglect his duty, as it was said: To say in the morning your grace and your faith at night.'

Hinana means "please."

Bar Hinana Please! Please Bar Hinana!

As the Talmud says we missed our date and are now starting what is called a Fourth Shift. That means as the Mishnah says it is time to recite the Shahrit, the Morning Prayer and start our preparations for the Seder all over again. Shit happens and it happens to us more than the rest, we know what to do.

The text of the Shahrit is not a Report, it does not lead to freedom, rather as the above says it leads to truth, faith, and stability."

Here are some parts of the Shacharit morning prayer in English:

Asher Yatzar: "Blessed are You, Adonoy our God, King of the Universe, Who formed man with wisdom and created within him openings and hollows" 

Ashrei: "Adonoy is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and great in kindliness" 

Blessings of the Shema"Accept the “yoke” of heaven; proclaim the Unity of God; love God; study Torah; teach your children; recite Shema in the evening and in the morning; put on the tefillin of the hand and head; put up mezuzos on the door-posts" 

SO back to basics, to calisthenics, healthy eating, saying prayers, waiting and seeing.

The Value in Gematria is 10188, י'‎קףח‎, Y'Kafah, "will be deprived."

There is no way or hope Israel will be able to constitute or be free while Donald Trump, the Mormons and Republicans depend on Israel's slavery for votes. I'd hoped the world would recognize his evil and channel its rage, disappointment, and hunger for revenge at America instead of Israel after October 7, which it perpretrated, but now we are back in the saddle, Tonto. Buckle up. We are all once again about to be raped by little kids with iv needles in the middle of the night.

[oldtvandcomics]

Lone Ranger + AO3 Texts: TV Series Edition

[tontoemojis]

hey rats !!! , gonna turn off anon for a while since people wanna call me slurs & accuse me of being a predator { I am 16 & a survivor } . I ’ d love to see if you assholes have the balls to call me slurs with your main accounts exposed !!! 👍

[sweet-lie-and-cruel-reality]

Arroba todo mi salón:

Se ven bien pendejos faltándole tanto el respeto a los profesores. No se ven cool ni nada, son idiotas, dan pena y hasta yo me enojo por su poca capacidad de entendimiento, son muy fastidiosos y los odio.

~OuterSpace.

[valentina-mz]

"Colorín colorado, eres tonto o retrasado".

[23ciyes]

Tonto

¿Soy tonto por decirte lo que siento, soy tonto por decirte que me gustas, por decirte lo linda que me pareces, y y más tonto aún por que acabe con esta amistad? No lo entiendo, pero esto yo no lo quise así, solo paso, y sabia que tambien estaba la opcion de que todo podría salir mal y aun así lo hice, por eso creo que de verdad si fui un verdadero tonto.

[tinyboxxtink]

"Doppelganger" *Part 2*

Yoooo I'm glad people love this! I'll be honest, not totally sure where this is going, but you know it'll be action packed, and full of angst. I already know it's gonna get pretty dark, so watch out for that if you're easily triggered by things.

That being said, let's get going!

If anyone missed part one, here's the premise:

Premise: Nevada's thugs see you and Rafael get engaged in the park and send a picture to Nevada, who realizes they have the exact same face. To which he immediately decides he is going to use for his full advantage....And that includes getting you.

And here's part three!

Tag List

@madamsnape921

@lolliepopsicle

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@milkshqke

@wanniiieeee

@word-scribbless

@gibbs274

@sassyada

@aprildecker-blog

@bookishfanfic

@stars-in-the-skies-world

@stars-trash-18

@omgsuperstarg

As I found out from @objection-argumentative, I've left some people out of my tag list?! I'm so sorry, if you're one of them please let me know! And if you're not already on it and wanna be on it, please let me know!!!!

Also Also @madamsnape921 said she hadn't been getting notified by Tumblr for the new posts, so let me know if that's happening too!

Okay enough talking. Enjoy.

--------------------

The next day you walked out of class talking to one of your friends, Gabi.

“God, that monologue is going to kill me,” Gabi sighed.

“I know, Shakespeare is the WORST,” You agreed.

“Mr. Carlyle doesn’t--Oh my god,” Suddenly she stopped talking and walking, putting a hand to her chest.

“What?” You looked around you in confusion.

“Someone important must be here,” She whispered.

“....Why do you say that?” You raised an eyebrow at her.

Gabi nodded towards a guy who looked much too old to attend a university, an earpiece in his ear, sitting on a bench near you pretending to read a book.

“Oh sweet Jesus….” You muttered.

“Oh my god, who do you think it is? Patti Lupone? BEN PLATT?!” Gabi began looking all around you frantically.

“Ohhh I’m sure it’s someone nowhere near as important,” You sighed, walking over to the man.

“Pursuing a back up career?” You crossed your arms.

“Uh, Ms. Y/L/N,” He slammed the book shut in surprise.

“You can leave, officer,” You instructed him

“I’m sorry ma’am I’m under strict orders from the ADA--”

“Oh I’m SURE you are,” You rolled your eyes as you pulled out your phone.

“Hey you, I was just--” Rafael started.

“What happened to trusting me?” You cut him off angrily.

“What?” He asked in confusion.

“Was your copper enjoying the view?” You asked while glancing at the cop.

“...Dammit John--” Rafael muttered angrily.

“Don’t blame John, he was just ‘following orders’,” You gave John a sympathetic look.

“Baby look--”

“No, no baby,” You cut him off. “Do you know how embarrassing this is?!”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“I don’t care what you meant to do Rafael, what you did was wrong. And if you can’t see that then we’re done talking for now,” You hung up the phone and looked at John.

“You can go, John,” You told him.

“But, my orders--” He protested.

“Would you rather have the wrath of Mr. Barba, or me?”

“Good point,” He nodded with a smile. “I’ll see you later, Y/N,” He patted your head and walked away. You looked back over at Gabi who was staring at the scene with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, are you famous?!” She squealed as you walked back over to her.

“What? No--” You half laughed at the idea.

“Are you researching a role?!” She got more excited.

“No, it’s my--”

“Oh I get it,” She nodded. “You’re like, the mayor’s daughter or something right?”

“Oh God--” You muttered, realizing she was right: this is exactly how a dad would react. “NO, I just have an overprotective boyfriend,”

“Oh my god! Is HE famous?”

“No, he just has too much at his disposal,” You rolled your eyes. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay…” She realized you were trying to the subject so she let it go-- for now.

---------

After your last class, you walked out to find Rafael waiting for you.

“Hey, baby I’m so sorry--”

“Save it,” You put a hand up. “Do you know what my friend asked me, after she saw the little stunt you pulled”

“What…?”

“She asked me if I was the mayor’s DAUGHTER,”

“What?! I don’t-- He doesn’t even have a--”

“That’s not the point, Rafael!” You tried to keep your voice down as not to cause a scene. “My point is you’re acting like an overprotective FATHER,”

“That is so low--”

“No, it’s not!” You cut him off. “Do you know how hard it is to convince people already that you’re my boyfriend and NOT my dad?”

“THAT is low, Y/N--”

“....Fine, it’s low,” You sighed. “But I’m serious, Rafael. You have to stop,”

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” He put a hand to your face.

“And I told you nothing will! You have to trust me if we’re going to be partners,” You held up your engagement ring.

“I know, carino--” He looked at you with puppy dog eyes.

“Parents and kids have a power dynamic, partners are equal,” You took his hands. “Are you my dad, or my partner?”

“....Your partner,” He pulled you into a soft kiss, causing a few stares as people walked by.

“I love you, Rafael,” You pressed your forehead against his, showing him you weren’t upset anymore.

“I love you too, mi vida,” He kissed your cheek. “Can we be done now, love?”

“Yes, I suppose,” You nodded as he slipped an arm around you as you walked down the street.

-----------

Nearby, two different henchmen of Nevada’s were watching the two of you from across the street, one was on the phone.

“Told you,” He nudged the other one. “She’s like a tick on a dog, sucking him all day and night,”

“So, where did you find her?” Nevada asked.

“We’re at some fancy school,” The one on the phone rolled his eyes.

“Julliard, tonto,” The other one hit him, admiring the campus greenery.

“Oh sorry,” The one on the phone made a face. “Julliard, Javi says,”

“Ooooh, she's fancy,” Nevada chuckled sarcastically.

“I’ll bet money the cabron pays for it,” The one on the phone laughed.

“Oh I’m sure she pays for it, Alejandro,” Nevada teased. “...In blow jobs,” He added with a laugh. “Keep eyes on them, see if they go back to his place,”

“Got it, Vada,” Alex nodded, hanging up the phone.

“So what are you gonna do ‘Vada, swoop in and get her?”

“....I’ve run a god damn empire for 15 years, as a SHADOW, Beto,” Nevada looked at him like he was an idiot. “You think now I’m just gonna fuck that up for some puta?”

“Well I don’t know I just--”

“Did I fucking say you could speak, tarado?!”

“No, I just--”

“My God, he’s still going,” Nevada laughed in disbelief, making Beto nervous.

“Y’know what, I don’t need this incompetence in my crew,” He glanced at one of his other men. “Abi, take him out and shoot him,”

Abi nodded, as two other men grabbed Beto and started dragging him out.

“No, wait!” Beto begged. “Please, ‘Vada I’m sorry! No! NOOO!!!!!”

“Fucking imbécil,” Nevada shook his head as he pulled out a cigarette from his leather jacket and lit it. Suddenly, his phone lit up. He glanced down at it, and Javi had texted him the address of Rafael’s town home.

“Excellente,” He smirked evilly.

“Now we can begin,”

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @mystifiedgal donated $10, and requested Sam developing mind-reading and learning what Dean wants. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

(read on AO3)

It starts as dreams, the night after they lose Ava. They drove straight from Lafayette to Peoria and after Peoria they move one town over so as not to be newcomers in a town that just had a homicide, and they work all through that day, in Bloomington, calling contacts and putting out feelers, trying to see what might've happened to a short sweet dark-haired girl, a secretary, who'd never done a thing to deserve this. Sam couldn't stop thinking that, no matter how stupid it was. How Ava, how all the rest, hadn't done a single thing to merit this kind of punishment.

He falls asleep though he didn't think he would. Dean's reading at the table with the lamp turning the backs of his ears, his neck, pure white, and Sam's looking at him and thinking about Ava's face shocked-white in the neon from the motel, and then he's asleep, and he's dreaming but it doesn't feel like dreaming. It doesn't feel like a vision, either, how that vicious sharp reality climbs down his throat. In the dream he knows he's dreaming, and he isn't really there, and not even the vague protagonist-body that's usually in his dreams, when he dreams he forgot to study for an exam, or is standing in a rotting house with an empty gun and ghosts slipping through the walls, or smiling at a clever girl with her blouse unbuttoned just right. Instead this dream is—feeling. A wash of dark, and water lapping at the edges of a boat he can't seem to see beyond. Dean, sitting in the stern, his head in his hands, and because Sam isn't really here he can't yell or act or splash the dark water into Dean's face, but—as soon as Sam thinks that, about splashing the water, the surge of fear is so overwhelming that the world turns black. Dean's fingers curl against the side of his head, his ring flashing, and his lips are parted and wet and something unknown flashes through Sam's gut and when he wakes up, dragging in air like he's been running a mile, the room is dark and Dean's a curled lump on the other bed and Sam carries that strange, fearful feeling with him all through the next day, like a fresh-broken bone, throbbing.

Dean frowns at him when he's snappish at lunch, but doesn't call him on it. Dean's being careful with him, which Sam—hates, is grateful for. So Sam maybe didn't have the best reaction to finding out their dad's last words, and maybe the thing with Gordon was—a lot. Gordon was a lot. Ava, poor Scott Carey, Andy and Ansem, Max. It's all been a lot. Dean maybe has been struggling with the secret he was carrying but Sam's struggling with how his mouth tastes like metal all the time, thinking of yellow eyes looming up out of the dark, and so he'll take some concessions, maybe even a little pity, if it makes Dean focus on what they really need to focus on. Dean's letting him direct, not looking for other hunts, staying right here in Illinois and keeping his nose to the ground for Ava or for any hint of another 1983 kid with unexplained powers, and Sam doesn't need anything else, beyond that, not right now. They'll work out the rest later.

Trouble is: Sam's focus is split. He spends the day casing details of Ava's life, job and fiancé and family history and any single second where her life might have brushed against the dark, and at night his dreams are a flood. Black water, rising. Dean, terrified, and his skin that kind of white that comes from a flare of too much exposure, and his eyes dark hollows, and the bones standing out in his hands, clutching at his head. On the fourth night of everything the same choking claustrophobia Dean turns his face and Sam sees that he's bleeding, from the ears and from the corner of his mouth, and the blood is so dark it looks black, too, and Dean covers his mouth with one hand and then though the surrounding water is the same endless expanse the boat becomes that cabin where Azazel rode their dad's body, the shift seamless and unexplained in the way of dreams, and Dean's got a hole in his stomach, the blood flooding out onto the dry wood of the boat/cabin floor, and he puts lax fingers against it that don't stop the bleeding at all, and Sam wakes up that time and has to scramble for the bathroom, retching, although when he clutches the sides of the sink nothing comes up and his mouth just tastes like—saltwater.

That day Dean brings him coffee in the morning and tries to be circumspect. He's bad at it. "Starting to smell like a dorm room in here, man," Dean says, mouth quirked. "Laundry stank and BO and, uh, making like the Lone Ranger?" He makes a vague gesture around his lap, but his heart's not in it. "Gotta air it out, dude. See some sunlight for twenty minutes."

"I'm working," Sam says, but to be honest he's not. He's sitting there with Ellen's half-remembered list of demon sightings in the last six months and instead of working the map he's been staring at the closed curtains for the whole time Dean's been gone. He drags his good hand over his face and lets his heavy casted arm thump down over the notebook. Dean raises his eyebrows, letting a glance over the empty map make his point for him, and Sam sighs. "Making like the Lone Ranger?" he says.

Dean's smile gets more real. "Unless you've got a pretty little Tonto around here, somewhere—" he starts, and Sam rolls his eyes and flicks a crumpled ball of wasted notes at Dean's face, and while he's sputtering Sam says, suddenly desperate for it, "Yeah, okay, we could use some air. Laundromat around here?"

"Hey," Dean says, sitting up, "I don't think I heard myself volunteer for laundry duty—" and then, twenty minutes later, they're installed at a laundromat, empty at nine on a Tuesday morning, Dean bitching still about whose turn it is to fold the whites but looking decently happy, stretched out in one of the shitty plastic chairs with coffee resting on his belly and a morning talkshow on the crackling TV mounted in one corner of the ceiling, and Sam feels it.

Sam feels it. There's a chair between him and Dean, piled with a box of donuts and the police folder Dean went out and stole yesterday, and Sam grips the armrest on the side Dean can't see and squeezes so hard the metal edges hurt his hand, and it's welling up in him. A grey clouded day with a shaft of sunlight slipping through and warming a patch of cold dirt—that's what it feels like, Dean's happiness. Sam licks his lips and breathes shallowly, controlled. When he glances over Dean's watching the show—some sponsored segment about a special vacuum for pet hair, in which he seems completed absorbed—and he's relaxed, in that way that Sam's only ever seen Dean relaxed when they're alone. Completely in his body, unselfconscious of how he's taking up space, boots kicked out on the grimy floor, his eyes clear. A fleck of pink donut frosting on his top lip. There are shadows under his eyes because he doesn't sleep enough and there's a bruise at his temple where Gordon hit him, but he's okay, for this moment. Sam can feel it, in a completely distinct way to how he feels his own body, his own aches and tiredness and worry, and he sits there in ringing panic until the washer buzzes. Dean blinks, the spell of the daytime anchors suspended, and frowns at him, and says, "Hey, earth to egghead, I am here in a strictly supervisory capacity," and Sam has to roll his eyes again and stand up and deal with the laundry, and there's Dean, again, the happiness muted and rolled under—a dragging pull at the chest, an ache long-held and familiar. Worry, concern. Annoyance, too, and then as Sam's dumping their load of jeans and jackets into one of the rolling baskets that twinge of annoyance slips away into guilt, and he has to brace his hands on the sides of the basket and breathe again, slowly, trying not to crawl out of his skin with the violation of it.

"What?" Dean says, while Sam's silent over the wet clothes. "Did I leave gum in my pocket or something?"

He knows Dean. He has known Dean, from when he was little and running around after him thinking his big brother was the coolest smartest person in the world to when he was a sad kid thinking his brother didn't actually like him that much to when he was an angry teenager wishing his brother would take his side in anything, ever, for fucking once. Dean was always a known quantity, no matter what. No surprises. Sam knew when he was cheerful and angry and hurt and he knew how to deal with every version. This is—more than that.

No signs, still, of Ava. They move outward. Day trips, stretching out into different towns, different precincts. They split up, Sam renting a car, and on the state highways with the radio silent Sam tries to think, with Dean not around with his thoughts filling up the air between them.

He catches hints, with other people. A sheriff who's not sure why some U.S. Marshal is asking questions, and he's clearly annoyed but there's an undercurrent Sam catches, a sapping weariness and sorrow that Sam blinks over before he excuses himself, wondering. A search: a wife, recently dead at forty. Sam chews the inside of his cheek raw on the drive back to Bloomington, and Dean texts and says dinner? back in thirty and Sam replies I'll pick up pizza and he waits in the lobby of the pizza place with his knee jogging and a waitress smiles at him, professional, and Sam takes a deep breath and looks at her, taking in her sneakers worn around the edges and her muscular legs and the greys pulled back into her ponytail and she says, "Can I get you a Coke or anything while you wait, hon?" and a swirl of heat curls into Sam's stomach, slants down queerly low, and he sits up straight and watches her eyes flick over him, his chest and lower, and he blurts out, "No," and then, too late, "thank you," and she frowns and the heat fizzles out into disappointment and he thinks, fuck. Fuck. What now?

With Dean the feelings bloom raw and real and present. Sam doesn't have to look. A day of frustration and no leads but Dean doesn't actually feel the frustration, not really, because he's humoring Sam's obsession over finding this girl Dean never even met—and there's a little satisfaction there, too, something that makes Sam set his beer down a little too hard on the table when he recognizes it, because they're spinning their wheels here, Dean thinks, and that means that Sam's being kept here, safe, away from demons and whatever plans there might be, so he's getting what he wanted, after all. The second Apes movie is on the motel TV and Dean's watching that, scratching his belly idly after too much pizza, and Sam goes into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet and presses his fingers into his ears so hard he can't hear anything but the beating rush of his own heart, and even through a closed door and quiet and dark behind Sam's eyes he can feel it: his brother, content to be here with Sam, on a night where nothing's yet gone wrong. Little does he know.

Is this some new shift, in Sam's visions? Not only to see the future but to see—what? He doesn't know how to define this. He's seen in movies when people read minds, like that terrible Mel Gibson thing that Dean loved even if he pretended it was shitty—it's always narrated dialogue, someone's thoughts piped directly into the psychic's head. What Sam's getting isn't as useful as that. Emotion, shifting sensation, the ebb and flood and draining drag of how people move through the difficult world. Guilt, misery. Contentment. Fury, brief and shocking, enough to make Sam snap the pencil he's holding, and he looks up to find Dean leafing through Dad's journal, his face a calm mask, and Sam thinks, jesus, he has to tell Dean. He has to, and yet: what can he possibly say?

The dreams are still bad. Sam comes awake like out of a sucking bog and he breathes slow, eyes on the ceiling. Dean's small snores in the next bed. The fear's a pool, lapping against Sam's skin, and he turns his head and says, very quietly, "Dean." There's no answer because of course Dean's deep asleep, of course he's dreaming, and Sam rolls over, watches the slow rise of Dean's chest, concentrates. The dark rises thick, miserable, but Sam already knows that part.

He gets up, keeping quiet, and takes the step between their beds. The room isn't all that dark, the parking lot lights seeping bright behind the curtains, so it's easy to see the gilded line of Dean's cheekbone, his lips parted in sleep, his eyes closed and still. His face tipped toward Sam's bed. Sam wants to touch it so abruptly that his fingers are already reaching out but he stops himself. He leans over, instead, bracing a hand on the headboard, and tries to focus, tries to pin down the amorphous shifting haze of Dean's thrumming head. When he closes his eyes he doesn't see the black lake, the creaking boat, but the fear slips, slides, lapping against him. Against them both. Sam can't grasp it. He's not Andy, to push thoughts into someone else, and he doesn't see how he could get control of this—to ease the fear, or tell Dean somehow that it's going to be okay even if, really, Sam's not sure that's true. He stands up and turns away, goes to the window to look out at the silent parking lot and breathe, waiting it out. The dream swells and subsides, around him, and maybe that's Dean slipping down into a different REM cycle or something but it's a relief. Sam presses his forehead against the cool glass. Visions, and now this. His pointless, stupid powers, that don't let him do anything except see shit he can barely hope to change. Whatever powers the yellow-eyed demon was after them for, Sam hopes he won't be disappointed that Sam's in particular are completely impotent.

By the time two weeks have gone by Sam's—used to it is maybe not the phrase, but he can deal. Still in Bloomington, still searching. Waiting around, now, mostly, for Ellen's contacts to get back to them, for Ash to come up with anything on a scrape of, as far as Dean could relate, the entire internet. If Sam's honest with himself he thinks they're never going to find Ava, and if they do certainly not alive, but they're looking anyway. Dean doesn't suggest they move on, doesn't argue for anything else. He keeps them fed and caffeinated, finds new badly bowdlerized action movies to watch on the room's TV, follows Sam's leads when Sam suggests a new avenue of searching. His dreams are a little calmer, maybe just from the fact that they're stalled in place—a vacation, of a sort, like Dean asked for even if they're doing nothing remotely fun—and during the day Sam sits surrounded by his thoughts and it's… comforting. Sort of.

Happy isn't the word, Sam realizes, for that thin sunlight feeling. Contentment, maybe. Dean has it when they're quiet together, when they're doing stupid chores like laundry or taking a break in research to make some salt rounds, when they're arguing over Stallone versus Van Damme for the tenth time. When they're working Sam's gut tightens without his say-so in random spikes of anxiety, of worry. His heart clenches and he actually puts a hand over it, and he's just reading the police blotter in the paper, so when he looks up and Dean's got his half open to the obits, Sam frowns and says, "What?"

Dean jerks, like he was caught at something. "I didn't say anything," he says, and his face is calm but his hand's spread over some thin column, some family's sadness, and when he gets up to piss Sam pulls the paper around and sees it's an obituary for someone's father, dead a little too early, and Sam sits back and puts his knuckles into his eyes and breathes out, trying to shake the lingering ache of it.

Coming out of the shower that night, Sam wraps a towel around his waist and steps out into the bedroom. "What's for dinner?" he says, thinking he'll argue for Chinese whatever Dean says, and thinking that he might try searching up more information about Ansem's family, in particular, to see if there were any patterns there they could use, and he's in his own head enough that it takes him a minute to feel how the room has shifted around him. He pauses, leaning over his duffle bag, trying to pinpoint.

"There's that cheesesteak place over on 15th," Dean says, easy, but he's not at ease. Sam's feeling that same unexpected swoop in his gut, that low achy pull, and this time it's not from a woman but from a guy and so it's a tightness in his nuts, his blood heating. Sam grips his t-shirt in both hands, tight enough that his broken wrist aches. His cheeks have flooded hot and he stands up, shrugs his shoulders and feels the cold air on the water still on his skin, and the—the lust, because that's what it is, this thick wanting that's pulsing up through his stomach—it swoops low, shifts, and the flooding rise of guilt and fear that follows is so fast that Sam coughs, shocked.

"Yo, Marlee Matlin," Dean says. "Cheesesteak?"

"Yeah," Sam says, not turning around. He doesn't want to see what face goes with this feeling. "No onions on mine."

Dean snorts. "Heathen," he says, and there's a rattle of the keys being dragged off the table and Dean swinging into his leather coat, and he says, "Have clothes on by the time I get back, you exhibitionist," and the tangled mix of wanting and terror and shame is so thick that Sam can still feel it when the door's slammed behind him, when the car's rumbling on, fading only when the sound of the engine does, and Sam turns around then finally and looks at the empty room and thinks—nothing. His brain doesn't know what to do with this.

The cheesesteaks are decent. They watch the local news for any blood-and-guts, and then Frasier reruns. Dean's content has been blasted away by what happened earlier but he's acting fine and Sam's wondering, now, how often he's been fine when something raw and bizarre was rearing up in him. How long it's been in him. "You okay?" Dean asks, at some point, light but careful, really asking, and Sam dredges up a half-smile from somewhere and shrugs, says, "Just thinking," and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Oh, god help us all," and Sam throws a balled napkin at him, and Dean grins and swings into the bathroom and Sam hears the sink go on but when he closes his eyes his head is full of Dean's head, and he can almost see it: Dean braced over the sink, his head hung between his shoulders, his cheeks hot and his hands clenched and him saying to himself something like stop.

Sam blinks, back in the room. He did hear that. Stop, Dean says, inside his own head, loud and deliberate, but his thoughts swirl somewhere else and he's imagining—there's Sam's back, broad and damp and golden in the light, and the low line of the towel around his waist, and the wet curl of his hair around his ear, and how Dean wanted to put his mouth there, so badly he could almost taste the water—and then the harsh wave of recrimination floods the image out and Dean looks up into the mirror and thinks to himself, in clear words that he doesn't say out loud, you pathetic fucking freak, and Sam has to get up off the bed and slam out of the room and stand in the parking lot with freezing air on his bare arms and he holds his hand over his mouth so he doesn't curse out loud and he thinks jesus, bad enough that one of them is thinking it—the self-hatred that's tightening up his chest is hardly easing, from getting some distance, and soon he'll have to go back into the room because Dean will wonder what the hell he's doing, standing outside in his socks like a weirdo, and Sam has to say—he has to—this isn't fair, to either of them—but how can he say it without Dean knowing exactly what Sam must have overheard—overfelt—and Sam knows his brother, always has, and he knows what'll follow. A freakout, to say the least. Recrimination, reflected blame, anger and then fear—always the fear—that Sam's slipping further away, or worse that Dean will have pushed him further away—and Sam can't do this, he can't live like this, without Dean. He can't handle this stupid, terrible year, not without his brother on his side.

He takes a deep breath, cold in his lungs. Jesus, is that what he's going to do? Just live with it, because—

"Dude, what the hell?" comes Dean's voice, behind him. Sam turns and finds Dean, yes, standing in the open doorway, his hair a little damp at the edges like he splashed his face, his eyebrows high because here's his little brother being a weirdo like always. Except that he's more worried than his face lets on, and there's a rising tide of is something happening, is this something about the demon, the tang of fear that fills every night.

"Thought I heard something," Sam says, trying to interrupt it before it gets too bad. "By the car. I think it was just a dog or something."

He's a better liar than Dean gives him credit for; already it's working, the fear sliding into warm exasperation. That thin, frail beam of sunlight. "Freaking out Fido, now?" Dean says, while Sam walks wincing back across the parking lot, scattered gravel poking through his socks. "New low, bro."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, brushing past where Dean's holding the door open, and there's a thrill—in his chest, in Dean's—that he clamps down on, ignores, but he can't ignore the misery around it. That's a problem.

Sam stays awake that night, waiting for Dean to sleep. The black lake, the blood. Sam turns on his side and watches Dean's face and closes his eyes slowly, thinking of that moment just before the guilt, the shame—the clear, unadulterated want—and when he dreams they're in the cabin, again, and Dean's bleeding with his unconcerned hand holding nothing inside, and the water surges hard against the sides of the boat, floods the floorboards, and Sam opens his eyes and slides off his bed onto the floor and lays his hand onto Dean's stomach where in the dream he's dying, and he presses his forehead against the mattress and shudders, aching with how much it hurts, and the dream—shifts.

He breathes in, still halfway in sleep himself. Dean's hand covered in blood and his shoulders hunched up, but his face turns up and he sees Sam, standing there in the doorway watching him. He says something but Sam, the real Sam, can't hear it; the Sam-of-the-dream comes closer, looms. He looks a foot taller than Dean, broader. Monstrous almost. Sam catches his breath and the dream-Sam puts his hand over Dean's hand, holds it tighter against the wound, and Dean tips his head back and murmurs something and the Sam of the dream presses their hands tighter, hard enough that it should hurt except in the way of dreams there's no real pain but only the knowledge of being torn open—and then the Sam of the dream leans in and presses his mouth to Dean's, a chaste strange kiss, like kissing marble—and their hands sink into Dean's stomach, tearing—and when the kiss ends Sam lifts up and Dean opens his eyes and Sam's eyes are yellow, from edge to edge, and Sam shoves away from the bed, scrambling so fast he slams his shoulder into the frame of his own, and by some fucking miracle Dean doesn't wake up so Sam's left panting, alone on the carpet in the dark, a remembered warmth against his lips and his hand feeling an echoed-ghost slickness of black, dripping blood.

He puts on his sneakers, a hoodie, sticks his phone in his pocket but turns it off. He goes for a run. Three a.m. is silent around here and he needs that, needs no people. He runs hard enough and long enough that it's hard to think beyond the burning in his thighs, his lungs. His hurting shoulder where he's going to have a bruise.

When he gets back Dean comes awake at the door opening. "Where were you?" he says, bleary, and Sam says, "Out for a run, go back to sleep," and Dean's tired enough that he blinks at Sam heavily and mumbles, "Okay, freak," and subsides, turning over and hugging the pillow close. Sam stands with his back to the door, his hands fisted around the knob, watching as Dean slips back down into sleep, and it's deep, dreamless, a relief.

Sam showers and takes his time about it. He's not getting back to bed today. He washes his hair and his face, not bothering to be careful about keeping his cast dry anymore—it's almost time for it to come off, anyway—and his brain won't empty, won't let him forget. He can't get the image of his own eyes out of his head. Glinting gold. The version of him in the dream wasn't cruel, because it wasn't human. Peeling Dean open and giving him what he wanted and killing him, all at once. It's not hard to interpret.

He washes the rest, streaking soap. Takes his limp dick in hand, running his thumb under the foreskin, and then holds himself, his cast braced against the tile wall. He hasn't jerked off in—he can't even remember, the last time. It could clear his head. He squeezes, sliding wet up to the head, but what he imagines is—Dean's mouth, in the dark, barely parted. His own shoulders, gleaming inside Dean's head. He lets go of his dick and wipes his hand over his lips, trying to get the sensation out, and shuts off the water. It can't go on like this. Not like this.

He dries off in a half-assed way and tugs on boxers and nothing else. Out in the room Dean's still asleep and dawn's not yet rising. Sam shuts off the bathroom light and in the mostly-dark goes over to Dean's bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, and puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. A blurring shift, coming on like a slow dimmer switch, as he rises up out of whatever dreamless space he was in. "Dean," Sam says, very quietly, and Dean's eye slits open, gleaming. He turns his head, rolls back a little, and Sam's hand drags along to his shoulder, fitting there on the smooth warm round of it. Dean blinks and is still almost entirely offline, the fog of his thoughts nothing but grey sleep, and Sam leans down and kisses him, then, catches his mouth a little off-center with his lips dry, his breath sour, his body warm and loose and unable to stop him.

No reaction for a few seconds, either in his body or his head. Sam opens his mouth and presses Dean's lips wider and gets the morning-taste of him, thick and strange, soft. He touches Dean's chin, the damp edge of his cast dragging against his skin, and it's that which seems to wake Dean up—his body going stiff, his mind flooding with—god, Sam can't untangle it all. "What," Dean says, against Sam's mouth, pulling back, but Sam grips his shoulder and presses him flat against the bed, leaning over him, keeping him here. Flicker of his eyelashes in the dark and his mouth's shining now, too, from Sam's mouth. Sam's stomach turns over to see it.

Sam doesn't say anything. Dean's breathing hard, looking up at him. Fear, pooling around the bed, flooding the room like the bed's the boat and the room's the lake, and Sam maybe doesn't get it entirely—he thinks of his eyes, yellow in Dean's mind, and his hand clenches hard enough on Dean's shoulder that Dean cringes away, grips Sam's wrist. "Sam," Dean says, uncertain—wondering if he's still dreaming—and Sam leans down and kisses him again, ignores Dean's stiff scared lips and licks inside, knocking him open, his cast heavy on Dean's chest, his wet hair dripping cold. He feels it, of course, when it starts to wake in Dean—the sensation of his body, his mouth, the warmth rising south, the shock of getting this—the confusion—and he pulls away, enough that he can look into Dean's eyes, says, "Feel this," and breaks Dean's grip on his wrist and slides his hand down under the blanket and past Dean's flinching belly to his dick, heavy in his underwear, swelling. Dean takes a shuddering shocked breath and the rise of want is so thick that it chokes out the fear, the guilt, his mind going full and focused at getting his dick held by someone he wants as badly as he wants Sam. God. To know that.

The want is so intense that Sam knows it won't matter that he's never done this before. A dick is a dick, though, he figures, and he slips his fingers inside the waistband, finds the pole of it—thick, the skin unexpectedly soft—and Dean's body arches under his, his breath hot and fast already. Sam doesn't want this, not in the same way, but it hardly matters when Dean's desire roars high between them. "Touch me," Sam says, and Dean goes for Sam's chest, his shoulders, grasping in fumbled shock, while Sam gets a better grip, pumps, finding a rhythm. Awkward with his left hand but clearly doing the job, from how Dean's already shaking, his thighs spreading for it under the blanket, his fingers tight in Sam's skin. Sam leans down, finds Dean's mouth again, and Dean opens for him easy, letting Sam inside, his hands finding Sam's jaw. His fingers careful, uncertain—sliding up into Sam's damp hair, holding—and his hips jerk—and Sam licks into Dean's mouth and pumps him faster, his shoulder sore and aching, his fingers getting slick—jesus, Sam runs his thumb over the head and feels the wet leaking—and Dean jerks under him like touching a live wire and comes just like that, hips shoving up into Sam's grip, wet heat that spills over Sam's hand and against his wrist. Sam gentles his grip and Dean jerks into his palm, getting the last of it out. His chest is heaving, under Sam's cast. Sam kisses him, again, and Dean's teeth drag against his lip, and Sam slides his hand up out of Dean's shorts and presses his palm firm against his bare belly, heedless of the mess.

When he lifts up Dean's staring at him, fixed. The room's inundated with his thoughts, a whitewater crush. Sam's mouth tastes like metal. Dean's fingers reach up, white, and touch his cheek, and Sam drags in air and lets himself be touched, and Dean doesn't know what to do with this. He wants to tackle Sam back to the bed and he wants to crawl under something and he wants to be not who he is because who he is has ruined—

"Stop," Sam says, pressing his palm harder against Dean's belly. "Stop thinking."

Dean licks his lips, looks back and forth between Sam's eyes. Distracted from the misery but just as bewildered, and worse. "What are you thinking?" he says, after a few seconds. Scrape of voice, thick and unsure.

"I'm thinking I want you," Sam says, and Dean blinks and this terrible curl of hope goes through him, another kind of light like a brush of rose-fingered dawn at the edge of a dark landscape, and Sam hasn't felt that, hasn't come close to that, this whole awful time. Sam bites his lips and hopes Dean doesn't hear the next part as qualification: "I want you here. With me. Not—freaking out. Not worried about—whatever it is you're always worrying about."

Dean swallows. His face turns away a little. "Me, worry," he says, breath of a scoff, and there's that rawness again, the shame pulling at his gut. Afraid of this and afraid of Sam in equal measure.

Sam can't stand it. He won't have it. "Don't," he says, and Dean's eyes flick at him sidelong, his mouth turning to some unhappy shape, and Sam pushes in and spreads out over the top of him and kisses him again, his wet gross hand sliding up Dean's side, his mouth crushed hard against Dean's mouth. Dean kisses back this time, for real, and he's—softer, tenderer, than Sam would have ever imagined Dean would kiss, if he had ever imagined it.

It's Sam who breaks the kiss—every part of Dean, body and mind, is full of the feeling that he would never, ever stop unless the room was on fire, and maybe not even then—and when they're breathing against each other Dean's hand worms up out of the blanket and finds Sam's side, over his ribs. Squeezes there, very lightly, his heart thrilling terrified at the presumption. "Sammy," he says, one word a complicated snarl of a question, and Sam shakes his head, can't answer. He moves his right arm, bracing the cast instead by Dean's head, and Dean's chest rises under the release of the weight. A release, all over, and that dawn keeps rising, though the lake's still black and its depths are impossible to see.

Sam tucks his head down, his face in Dean's throat, like they're hugging, like something familiar at least, and Dean's arm goes around his back, holding him. "Sam," he whispers, against Sam's hair. Sam closes his eyes and feels the surge of it: tender, violent, aching. A glut that presses against the back of his teeth with all he wants to say and won't.

He doesn't know if that feeling is his, or Dean's. Behind his eyes it's black and dawn's still not here. On a lake, in the dark, there's a boat creaking, the water surging high but not yet spilling over the side.