#well Terry it sure as shit ain't sad

[kumkaniudaku]

Sorry 2024

Summary: This is Terry's sorry for 2024. He ain't gonna mess up no more this year.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: None

Previous: *Askew

Pastel blue light filtered through linen curtains and filled the quaint kitchen while Patrice maneuvered between the refrigerator and nearby counter. She spoke a mile a minute, running through a laundry list of important tasks and updates to keep Terry aware of the day’s needs. 

He halfway listened while he scarfed down piping hot oatmeal to satisfy post-workout hunger and used his index finger to scrub backward on game film from the previous week. His receiver core was shaky at best. They’d need to tighten up in the final game of the season if they planned to start their playoff run strong and remain in the hunt for a the ever elusive state championship.

“Honey, don’t forget I’m driving your truck to work because you’re getting my oil changed during your lunch. Where are the keys?” The sugar-sweet lilt in her voice reserved for Terry and Terry only went mostly unnoticed by her husband. 

“Yeah. That’s good, baby.”

Patrice paused packing her lunch and shifted her weight to one side with a hand on her hip. “You’re not even listening to me.” 

“I heard you,” he answered, finally looking up. 

“What did I say?” 

“That you’re taking the leftovers. That’s good with me. I’ll grab something on base.” 

“I said that fifteen minutes ago. Strike two.” 

Terry’s mouth hung open for a half second as he thought back through their one-sided conversation. Admittedly, his mind was split into a million different streams of thought. Work problems, coaching responsibilities, household bills, the incoming holiday season, and its host of arrangements all fought for his attention day in and day out, leaving little room for intentional quality time with his wife. 

For Patrice, the indifference toward her when she talked to him was frustrating and getting old. On too many occasions she’d forgiven him for staring off into space or flat-out ignoring her when she spoke. If silence is what he wanted, she was well on the way to granting his wish. 

Swallowing down a gulp of water, Terry rushed to respond. “Woah, woah! Two? What was the first?” 

“I asked you to turn the dryer on last night while I took a shower and guess who woke up to wet clothes this morning? C’mon. Guess!” 

“Oh, shit.” Terry’s face contorted as he winced at the memory finally returning. 

“Oh shit. Go away.” She mocked with an exaggerated deep voice before rolling her eyes and making a face. Mimicry, in his experience since the tender age of 15, was usually the prelude to a vicious attitude that had turned many into sworn enemies for life.

“My bad, Treece. I started wa-” 

“Watching tape and forgot. Sing me a different song, Terrence.” 

The disappointment etched in her beautiful features sent Terry’s stomach into the soles of his feet. Patrice’s full lips sagged into a heavy frown as she wrestled food containers into her lunchbox without looking in his direction. He could take her mumbling her anger or sending more than a few curse words his way. But the sadness in her silence was too much. 

After pressing pause on his screen, Terry took measured steps toward Patrice to avoid disturbing an angry lion. 

He touched her hip first to test the waters. When she didn’t reject him, he moved in to take up space behind her and pull her back against his body. He pressed a soft kiss behind her ear. “I won’t make excuses. Forgive me, sweetheart. It won’t happen again.” 

Resistance faded slowly but surely as he nuzzled his nose into her neck between kisses. Tense muscles melted under his touch, relishing the extra attention meant to settle a disagreement. Anger fought to remain the chief emotion. Everything in her wanted to continue forging a war path until she was satisfied with the destruction. But she’d always had a weakness for this man with a smooth baritone and big hands that he loved to rub up and down her body.

She kissed her teeth before turning to plant a kiss on his cheek as a silent truce. “Whatever. You’re lucky I like you more than most other people.” 

“What I gotta do to get that like to a love before you leave the house?” 

Patrice pulled Terry’s bottom lip into another kiss and smiled. “It’d be great if you confirmed you used your mama’s Costco card to get the study hall snacks like we talked about.” 

Terry froze. For days he’d had the nagging feeling that he was neglecting a task. Something important but vague among all of the other thoughts and responsibilities swirling in his head. He’d hoped for a reminder, but not like this, not on the heels of wriggling his way out of Patrice’s wrath only moments before. 

Ever perceptive, Patrice didn’t need him to speak to know that he’d, once again, missed a memo. Anger was back from its short hiatus and making her body hot to the touch in a way Terry had been spared from his entire life. 

She fought to wrestle free from his grasp, her body thrashing until he relented and let her go. Terry watched her stomp around the kitchen, snatching items from the counter and forcing them into her bag on her way to the front door. He remained hot on her heels with pleas to make things right on his lips until she stopped short at the coat closet.

“Strike three! You’re so fuckin’ selfish sometimes, Terry, I swear.” She grumbled as she swapped her car keys for his on their shared personal items hook. “I thought you would grow out of that by now but here you are, damn near 33 years old, and still doing the same shit.”  

The dig at his past transgressions stung more than Terry expected. He tried to maintain his composure though the wounded man inside wanted to get to the bottom of why she’d chosen to toss such an insult out so casually. 

He took a deep breath to quell the combative questions clawing through his throat while he watched her shrug on her coat with spite in her eyes. “Look, I messed up. We don’t need to start throwing jabs back and forth. How can I help?”

His attempt to reach out for her hand was thwarted once she snatched away to yank open the front door.

“Terrence, the time to help was early this week. Hell, last night even. I don’t have time for your sorry this morning. I gotta go figure this out by myself yet again.” 

Immense guilt attached itself to Terry, producing a heavy heart as he tried to make sense of Patrice’s most venomous blowup to date. Never had she been so crass toward him, not even when he deserved it most. She’d always been the pinnacle of grace and forgiveness. What scared him most was the suspicion that she was more unhappy with his disappearing act than she’d let on in all their honest talks about their path forward after heartbreak. Half of him wanted to chase her into the early morning chill, stop her from leaving, and convince her to call in so that they could sort through every issue, past and present, until they were back on the right side of newlywed bliss. Rational thought told him that some things were best solved through action.

Bitterness fueled the remainder of Patrice’s day. Jokes in the breakroom were no longer funny. Her class clowns were less charming by fourth period. A fierce bout of irritability resulted in a pop quiz for her senior AP English class for not participating in the group discussion to her liking. Every second of every minute carried a dark, heavy cloud that she couldn’t shake. 

She wanted to scream at Terry until her chest caved in from exhaustion. She wanted to throw things across the room, destroying every item in her path until the sting of compounded letdowns, actions he wasn’t even responsible for, was distilled back into the tiny box of rage she kept tucked away in her heart. She kept it hidden on purpose. If it ever got loose, there was no guarantee she could fix the damage it left behind. 

Once school bells had rang and children were carted off to their respective homes, Patrice sat behind her desk with a small committee of cheerleaders congregating in her classroom. She kept her focus on grading the mountain of quizzes she’d created for herself, silently ready to give everyone extra credit for the attempt. 

“Ms. Ellis,” Alana, her captain, started as she dusted Doritos remnants from her fingers. 

Mikayla cut in. “It’s Mrs. Richmond now. She got married! You see her ring.”

“And you ain’t invite us?” Alana gasped, pretending to be offended. “That’s cold Mrs. Richmond. I thought we were cool.” 

“We’re cool, Lana. I didn’t know I was getting married until it happened. No one was invited.” 

“Can I at least see that big ol’ diamond up close?” 

Young girls with fairytales and romance novels seared into their perception of love begged for a chance to see Patrice’s wedding band up close. With more energy, she would shoo them away and redirect them to the bulletin board they abandoned to snack and gossip amongst each other. But arguments before work were taxing and all she could bring herself to do was push away from her desk and join them in the center of their circle with her hand outstretched for their inspection.

Oooh, ahhs, and everything in between overlapped as each young lady took her turn running their fingers up against the clear stone and white gold band engraved with her new initials. 

“I want me a ring just like this!” Camille explained as she took a picture to send to her boyfriend. 

“Can we see your husband? Is he nice like you?” 

Patrice paused. “Uh…yeah. He’s a nice man. You all should be with nice boys, or girls, or whoever you like. Don’t allow anyone to be anything less than nice to you.” 

“Okay, but can we see him,” another girl reiterated. 

“It’s Coach Richmond, duh,” Mikayla exclaimed. “They got the same last name. And they was in this old yearbook together. I saw it in Ms. Shields's class when we were having a yearbook meetin’.” 

More oohs and ahhs, this time fawning over the new football coach on campus and the picture Mikayla had saved to her cellphone. Patrice listened to them gush over the thorn in her side as she eased into a desk to take the pressure off her aching feet. 

Camille looked between the photo and Patrice with a smile. “He was your boyfriend when y’all went here?” 

“For a little bit. Right before we graduated. But we broke up that summer.” 

“How come?”

“He wanted to go to the military and I wanted to go to college,” Patrice answered after a deep sigh. “So, he went his way and I went mine because I wasn’t changing my mind. Remember that. Do what you wanna do. You have a whole life ahead of you.” 

The girls all mumbled some version of their agreeance before another question pushed the tea session forward. 

“Then how did y’all get married. He came back?” 

Patrice smiled at the memory of Terry standing on her porch that fateful summer morning. “Yeah. He just…came back. We talked and never stopped talking after that until he became my husband.”

“Did he say sorry at least?” 

“He always says sorry. All the time. He’s nice like that.” 

A chorus of swooning ‘awws’ rang out in the classroom and escaped into the hallway. Terry was nice like that. It didn’t matter that Patrice wanted to hate him and call him every name but a child of God. He always apologized and he always meant it. 

A distant smile covered Patrice’s face as she twirled her wedding band around her finger. 

Camille took the opportunity to poke fun at her coach. “Aww, look at Mrs. Richmond, y’all. She smiling big! You gon’ let him come to the AP Christmas party?” 

“That ain’t fair! I’m not in AP English and I wanna see him.” 

“Oh my God, we all gon' see him at the games. Calm down.” 

“Alright, alright, alright.” Patrice couldn’t contain her laughter at their eagerness to meet a man two times their senior with no interest in them outside of their connection to her. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day. Today, I need y’all to hurry up and-” 

A knock at the door interrupted Patrice, bringing her attention to a tall, slender young man who instantly turned heads. He smiled bashfully at all the ogling until Patrice redirected his eyes with a wave of her hand.

“What’s up, Deanté? You leave something in here?” 

“Nah. Coach Rich told us to bring some stuff to you. Where you want us to put it?” 

“Umm, I guess you can put it back here by my bookshelves,” she directed, pointing to the back of the room. Confusion created fine lines on her forehead. “I’m sorry, what’s happening?” 

Deanté shrugged in the way only teenaged boys too cool for school could before waving in the rest of his crew. Each of them came bearing the gift of snacks, carrying boxes of wholesale goodies to their intended place like worker ants serving their queen. Chips, cookies, pretzels, juices, and water stacked high along the wall instantly turned her quaint classroom into a stockroom until they’d delivered the final package. Bringing up the rear was Terry with flowers in one hand and a carryout bag from Patrice’s favorite bakery in the other. 

Pressed khaki slacks and a cotton polo fighting for dominance against his veiny bicep should’ve thanked him for making them look better than they ever could alone. Patrice wrestled her gaze away from his long legs to look away before she ended up flustered in front of impressionable children.

He lightly knocked against the door, his gaze soft and his smile welcoming. “May I come in?” 

Like the audience track from a 90s sitcom, young girls squeal in his presence, making him chuckle. Patrice rushed to control the madness. 

“See, this is why I have to keep my eye on y’all. Head to the gym and warm up. I’ll meet y’all down there.” They groaned their displeasure in a last-ditch attempt to buy more time with Terry. She re-emphasized her instructions. “Go on. For every second I have to keep looking at y’all after I’m done talking, that’s a lap. One, two, three…”

Quick feet and the threat of additional exercise cleared the room quickly, leaving Terry at the doorframe waiting for permission to enter. Patrice stood and straightened her turtleneck before inviting him inside. 

“Come in. Close the door behind you.”

Terry did as he was told in silence, hoping to appease the Queen in her castle. Patrice tried to remain stoic as she approached her portable lectern to thumb through the day’s notes and lesson plans. He deposited the flowers onto a nearby shelf then slid into a desk at the front of the class and waited for her to at least acknowledge him beyond a fleeting glance. 

Finally, she looked up and pointed at the white bag resting in front of him. “Is that for me?” 

“Yeah,” Terry smiled. “I haven’t seen you grab one in a while so I hope you still like the cinnamon roll. If not, I got the lemon loaf too. Your other favorite.” 

After all those years separating their adulthood from an entire semester of sneaking away during lunch for a warm, doughy signature roll, Patrice couldn’t believe Terry still remembered such a trivial detail. 

She bit her bottom lip to hide a smile as two short steps took her to the desk beside him. Metal creaked against the floor while they turned to face each other in seats too small for Terry who had come a long way from his high school physique. 

Terry watched Patrice quietly remove her treat from the bag and cut it in half with a plastic knife. She carefully placed one side on a clean napkin and passed it across the small gap separating them. 

She lifted her portion into the air and smiled a friendly smile. “Cheers?” 

“Cheers.” 

Their respective hunks of roll kissed the other briefly before they took big bites to satisfy early afternoon cravings. Terry chuckled as Patrice hummed her satisfaction with her eyes closed and shoulders lifted near her ears. 

A little piece of Heaven. He was happy to provide anything other than the strife he contributed hours earlier. 

“Thank you,” Patrice whispered once the delight of her first bite had passed and her eyes were open again. “It’s still my favorite. You were right.” 

He didn’t respond past a small nod and a small half smile as he watched her enjoy another bite. His thumbs nervously twiddled around themselves while he wrote and erased apologetic statements in his mind in a search for what to say next. 

“Treece, I can’t say enough how sorry I am.” 

“We don’t need to do this. I overreacted and threw things in your face.” She started, trying to stop the uncomfortable discussion before it could start. 

Terry remained steadfast. “No, you didn’t. You called me out and it was the right thing to do. I have been selfish and you’ve caught the brunt of that for a long time now. It’s not fair.” 

“I just…fuck.” Tears that Patrice had managed to keep at bay during work forced their way past her waterline before she could stop them. She dabbed at them with a napkin and took a deep breath. “I’ve had to be really independent for a long time. Relationships didn’t stop me from doing things on my own because they convinced me that asking for help made me weak. Then you came along and immediately took on more than I could’ve ever asked.”

“That’s what I’m here for, baby.” 

“Yeah, but when you stop all of a sudden or pick and choose when you wanna help, it makes me afraid that one day, you’re gonna stop altogether like everyone else. And I really, really can’t take you being like everyone else.” 

Another layer of Patrice had been shed to leave behind an emotionally raw, vulnerable woman searching for an anchor in her life. The tears were gone, but they left evidence of deep-seated hurt on her face. 

Terry reached across his desk for her hand which she offered without protest though she refused to look him in the eyes. He kissed her knuckles softly, paying special attention to her ring finger before lacing their fingers. 

Sad eyes looked across at her. “You’re my main priority. If you want me to drop all this extra shit, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. Say the word and it’s gone.”

“I don’t want that. Be honest with me. Listen to me. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay,” he spoke into the inside of her wrist. “Give me a chance to be better.” 

“You already are.” 

Where misunderstanding has once festered, a flower of progress bloomed. They’d traversed uncharted territory as a unit to find common ground that would lay the foundation for years to come. 

Patrice made the first move toward reconciliation, standing from her desk to meet Terry at his side. Her hands cupped the sides of his face, tilting his head up to hers as she stood over him. 

“I love you. Always. I might still be a little miffed, but I’ll get over it. Promise.” She landed a flurry of kisses on his forehead and he accepted while he wrapped his arms around her waist. 

“I understand. I’ll earn your trust again.” 

Fuzzy feelings and chaste affection in what they believed was a safe space were cut short when a small yelp and thud sent a group of girls crashing to the tile floor, pushing her door ajar.

Patrice giggled along with Terry as she turned to get a look at the spectacle. “That’s what you get for being nosey. Now get to the gym for real this time.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Richmond,” they all chanted as they scrambled to stand and scatter. 

Terry listened for them to exit hearing range before turning back to Patrice and leaning up to kiss her lips. 

“I’ll be done with practice at 6:30 sharp and come straight home. Don’t worry about dinner or anything else. Let me handle it.”

“No problem.”

Final kisses and another promise to be home on time sent Terry and Patrice in opposite directions with optimism pumping through their veins. Tomorrow would bring its own storms and issues to work out. But, those were tomorrow’s problems. 

Today, they’d lick their wounds and settle next to each other on the couch with love in their hearts and the taste of each other on their lips to make every hard time worth the end result.

-----

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[george-rr-binks]

Politicians, cops, billionaires, CEOs, insurance companies, ladder-pullers, and bootlickers: You think this is funny?

Literally everyone else: Well, Terry, it sure as shit ain't sad.

[burningcrab]

ocean's 13 is so fucking good. the cinematography is more fun than the first two movies. the writers made perfect use of the previous movies. they have a bit where they riff on the bourne movies because matt damon is there. every other line is some throwaway joke and every single one works. there's an entire subplot about two guys starting a workers' strike at a plastic manufacturer in mexico. "you think this is funny?" "well, terry, it sure as shit ain't sad."

[wack-ashimself]

You think this is funny?

'Well, Terry, it sure as shit ain't sad.'

-ocean's 13

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

To My Soul

Summary: You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don’t even walk the same hallways twice. Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Every now and then, your paths cross.

Inspired by Van Morrison’s “And It Stoned Me”

Warnings: Some loneliness. This story is *soft*, there’s not much to warn about.

Author’s Note: Super thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock​ for the AMAZING image and mega suggestions. You really shaped this story. @glassjacket​, thank you for the relocations and the flails. I was nervous about my first Sam story. 

Word Count:1525

ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

To My Soul

Walking is lonely and cold tonight. 

Before you’d moved into the bunker, you used to open a window and listen to the crickets to calm your mind on the nights when you couldn’t sleep. It’s been several months now; the Winchesters have made every effort to help you settle in, but nights underground are long and far too quiet. 

You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don’t even walk the same hallways twice. 

Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Dean watches movies, listens to music, drinks, sometimes even punches things. You’ve joined him for a few of the less violent pastimes, at his invitation. You would never have intruded on your own, but he saw you pacing in the hallway and called out. Dean is easy to spend time with, and in the months you’ve known the Winchesters, you’ve grown more comfortable with him than any other person, save one.

Judging by the lack of sound effects from Dean’s room, the elder Winchester seems to be enjoying a rare night of easy slumber.

Sam has his own sleepless nights, and he resorts to fairly Sam-typical activities to occupy his mind. He does occasionally watch movies, mostly documentaries, but mostly he reads. 

Sam reads so much, so often, that the library seems odd without him seated at the table, several volumes spread out around him, his notebook and laptop fighting for space on the crowded surface. He always has suggestions for books from the library, subjects you would never have considered but somehow never fail to interest you. Sometimes you curl up in a chair with a warm drink, letting the sounds of his scratching pencil or tapping keyboard mesmerize you.

Either Winchester would be more than welcome tonight, but at some point during your time in their bunker, you’ve come to anticipate your quiet nights with Sam. Soothing and quietly welcoming, Sam’s presence helps you sleep better than a full day of hard labor.

You love watching Sam work with his hands, any task really, but especially writing in his notebooks. His hand dwarfs any writing utensil he uses, and yet his fingers curve and glide so elegantly across the pages. He doesn’t mind you watching, just keeps at his research, though you’ve noticed lately that he’s smiling more than he used to.

Seems like it to you, anyway. 

The library is depressingly empty tonight, feeling far too open and drafty without its most frequent inhabitant. You chafe at your arms, trying to buff some heat into your goose-bumped skin, and frown at the polished table top. 

Absent of its typical stacks of dusty tomes and scribbled notes, the table seems almost superfluous. But it isn’t the table or even the library itself that drew you here on your nighttime stroll. You realize with a start that you’ve begun to take Sam’s occupancy of the library for granted, counting on the comfort of his welcoming smile and quiet inclusion.

Something to consider, you think, momentarily at a loss. Another draft whispers past, and you shiver.

Maybe he managed to find some peace tonight. Never one to begrudge someone a good night’s sleep, you decide to try an old trick and head towards the kitchen, running through the options of hot drinks in your restless mind.

Soft music drifts from the open kitchen doorway, floating out of the dimly lit room. The golden light of a small lamp makes the industrial room seem softer, more intimate than its usual stark appearance. Sam sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug, nodding vaguely in time to Van Morrison emanating from his phone’s speaker.

At the sight of him, relaxed and easy, warmth suffuses your body from your fingers to your cold-stiffened toes. You can’t help but smile; you don’t often get to see Sam this peaceful. 

You clear your throat quietly, not wanting to startle him. He turns, his eyes meeting yours, and he sits up straighter. Your heart flips at his infectious smile.

You’re ninety-seven percent sure that his face lights up a little extra.

“I hoped you’d wander this way,” he says. Even his voice is calmer tonight, and you take a moment to simply drink in the serenity of the room. The empty spot across from Sam seems terribly inviting as he waits for your reaction.

Being the direct subject of Sam’s attention is suddenly a little more intense than you can handle. Rather than confront that thought, you glance around, looking for some new subject of conversation. You raise your eyebrows and nod questioningly at the little lamp on the table. Sam follows your gaze, and his smile turns a little bashful.

“Didn’t feel like researching tonight. The library was too cold, so I snagged the lamp and brought it with me. This is easier on my eyes than the overheads, especially since the whole point is to relax. Y’know?”

Yeah...yeah, you do know.

The song on Sam’s phone ends quietly, switching to the next.

Half a mile from the county fair, And the rain came pouring down...

“I, uh…” He clears his throat, some of the bashfulness apparently spreading to his vocal cords. His fingers shuffle awkwardly around the mug as he glances away and then back. It’s difficult to tell, but in the dim light, Sam’s face seems oddly flushed. 

“I made some extra mulled cider, in case you, uh… I thought you might...if you want some. It’s in the pot on the stove.”

Your own cheeks heating, you smile your thanks and move across the room to the shelf where the coffee mugs sit. 

You’re not short, not exactly, but something about living with a pair of giants who each have at least six inches on you can be slightly irritating at times. For example, when the first row of mugs have been used and the second row are just at the edge of your reach.

We just stood there, gettin’ wet, With our backs against the fence...

You sigh and stretch, inadvertently bumping the mug back an inch or so.

For the love of…

“Here, sorry, let me-”

And then Sam is behind you, reaching up to help. His chest presses against your back, so warm, and his arm brushes against yours as his hand accidentally grabs your fingers instead of the mug in question.

Your breath catches in an embarrassingly half-squeak, half-gasp as a tremor runs down your spine, and you both freeze. 

Your body sings at every contact point. Your entire universe narrows down to this room, this one moment. It’s all you can do not to lean into Sam, turn in his arms, and just -

“Are you...are you okay? I’m sorry!” Sam’s voice comes out in a hushed stutter. 

Afraid to move, not wanting to break the spell, your gaze travels slowly up his arm to where his fingers are caged tentatively around your own. Your hand doesn’t seem to be sweating yet, thank god, but…

Oh, the water. Oh, the water. Hope it don’t rain all day.

God, he’s so warm.

Sam’s fingers curl around yours, careful and decisive, and he draws them down to your side. He turns his hand so that you’re palm to palm and slowly twines his fingers with yours. 

His other hand moves up to rest on your waist, exactly where it's meant to be. He leans down, his arms pulling you close, his jaw resting light and scratchy against your temple.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow hard against the sudden paralysis in your throat. All those nights in the library, watching those same fingers flipping pages, scratching notes, combing back through his hair, and somehow you never realized. 

And it stoned me to my soul. Stoned me just like going home, And it stoned me. 

An invisible knot in your chest loosens, and suddenly your breath comes easier. There is absolutely nothing stopping you from leaning back, taking this metaphorical step. In the dim, golden light of Sam’s little lamp, the two of you alone with the quiet, crooning song, Sam’s strong arms around you, everything suddenly feels easy and simple.

It feels like home.

Your turn your face to his. You’ve never been this close, close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes, the creases pressed into his skin from more than a lifetime of suffering and laughter and fighting. His eyes, dark in the muted light, are wide and still as he waits for you to decide.

Just as he’s done every night. No need to make him wait anymore.

You press your lips to his before you lose your nerve, and his intake of breath sweeps cool over your mouth before he returns the kiss. Careful and deliberate but with a hint of the strength that lives within him. And so very warm.

You pull back just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his. Eyes still closed, he exhales, a short little chuckle that curls his lips and relaxes his shoulders.

“Yeah, Sam. This is definitely okay.”

[betweendoctorsanddetectives]

well terry it sure as shit ain't sad!!!

[ohnotom]

I did it.

I watched the Ocean's films.

I forgot how much I loved them. I know they're not that great, but idgaf.