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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year

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one of these nights - Dean Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (vaguely post-s3) with some Sam Winchester & Reader.

Tags/Warnings: friends-to-lovers, Fluff then Angst then Smut, Sex on/in the Impala, implied/technical cheating, drinking, Reader is a Hunter.

Words: 20k.

Notes: a lovely little commission for the lovely lacilou on tumblr. this was my first shot at writing a dean-insert (as a hardcore samgirl), which was an absolute blast!! hope u enjoy!!

Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

All your life, you’d never been keen on cliques. But there’s a certain magic in rolling up to a small-town Massachusett dive with yours.

It’s a little funny, calling Sam and Dean your clique. You know that, yet it’s true. You breeze inside the bar like the most popular kids in school, slow-mo strutting down the hall in the movies. Even with them behind you, you can picture it in your head on film: Dean’s jacket swinging with his saunter, Sam’s hair falling in his face, your jewelry swishing at your neckline. Tonight is already a movie. The thud of your boots together makes this pleasant rhythm, parting the Friday night crowd around the three of you, and you lead the boys to the counter with a sense that today has been perfect. The hunt you’d just spent three weeks on had been tied up with the prettiest, cleanest bow. No casualties. No scrapes that couldn’t be fixed with some whiskey and a bandage. Dean is snickering at his joke, and you and Sam are pretending it’s not as funny as it actually is. Things are perfect-perfect.

Even with your two gigantoids as buffers, the bar you’d picked to commemorate a hunt well done is packed to the brim. You gather around the only empty stool at the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and as you wait, you manage to worm your wallet free from your pockets with only a little elbowing. After so long the boys have zero mind for personal space. It’s kind of cute.

“I’ll cover the tab tonight, boys. Call it an early Halloween present,” you beam, and over your shoulder Dean whistles.

“Damn,” he says, “you really are in a good mood.”

You turn your grin on Dean, wiggling your wallet at him so the coins inside rattle like a tambourine. “We’re celebrating! And you wanna know how I know?”

Another group of people squeezes through the crowd behind you, bumping Dean even further into your personal bubble. He tries to be subtle about it, gliding in like an air-hockey puck, but you can tell that he lets the momentum carry him a little further than it needs to. If you brought it up he’d just explain it away as a product of how damn loud it is in here, _____, you can’t fault a guy for having shit hearing! But you know it’s on purpose. Tonight is good for so many reasons, but the first is Dean being relaxed enough to do that. To walk that line with you.

“How do you know?” He asks below the roaring bar chatter. Dean does have shit hearing, since he’s spent so many years behind a pistol, so he tips his face toward your cheek to make out your voice. A wave of gasoline and aftershave floods your senses.

You share a conspiratory look with him, side-eyeing Sam and hiding your smirk behind your hand. “‘Kid told me he plans to have two beers instead of one.”

Dean lights up, because while teasing Sam is fun, it’s ten times funnier when you both gang up on him. “Two? Break out the balloons,” he snickers, and drops a hand on your back to lean past you. There, he drawls at his brother, “You sure you can handle partying with the big kids, Sam? Me and _____ are kind of professional post-hunt drinkers…”

You pump your fist in solidarity because, hell yeah, what a healthy coping mechanism. Over a decade of training has made you a master of the Winchester sense of humor, so just this kills Sam a little—he’s in a ridiculously good mood too, and you can tell because he’s being even more of a tight-ass than usual.

“Cut that ‘kid’ shit out and maybe I’ll throw in some jäger,” Sam grumbles. Or, he tries to, but he’s still smiling to himself.

Again, you share a look with Dean that goes over Sam’s head (metaphorically, of course). Two beers and some jäger in him could end in only one way: you and Dean dragging over two hundred pounds of giggly man-boy the three blocks to your motel. Dean makes a face like that’s the last way he wants to end tonight, but you know from experience that being carried home piss-drunk is way more fun than it sounds. For you, at least.

Last time, you’d been laughing too hard for either brother to keep you on your feet. It was great. Whenever you complained about something, one of your best friends in the whole world appeared to magic the problem away. You were laughing too hard to walk? Dean scooped you up and carried you all the way to the Impala. Your heels were murdering your ankles? Sam wiggled them off you, trailing behind you and Dean with them slung over his shoulder. You fell asleep to the soft jostle of Dean’s walk and the low timbre of his voice humming Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes you still caught yourself singing it when you got ready for bed.

“Hold on—that table’s opening up. I’m gonna steal it for us,” Sam notices. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he goes, “Order for me.” Realizing the troublemaker he’d just handed that responsibility to, Sam wheels back, and asks you instead. “Actually, _____, can you—?”

You raise a hand before he can finish. “The cheapest pale ale they have, I know. Now, go, before we’re forced to sit on the pavement outside all night.”

Sam gives you this trusting nod that’s just golden, because the second he’s gone you twist to Dean, your partner in crime, and squint in thought. “...So. You think he’ll hate the peach daiquiris or the malibu cocktails more?”

The smile that hasn’t left Dean’s face once since you walked in only grows. You feel the hand on your back loop around to your waist, squeezing you against his warm side in appraisal. “God,” he sighs, wistful, “you’re my brand of evil genius, you know that?”

You sputter out a laugh instead of something clever, because, well. When Sam is in a good mood, he digs his heels in and sasses back to everything you say. When Dean is in a good mood, he squeezes the bare skin where your jeans meet your shirt, carries you home, and gazes at you with big glittery eyes and rumbles, I hear the train a-comin', it's rolling 'round the bend…

Apparently, you do about the same thing on your good days too. Gliding into him with that same air-hockey puck subtlety, you squeeze him around the back, asking in your sweetest voice, “Can you go see how many songs are in the jukebox’s play queue for me? I wanna dance to—”

“I know what song you want to dance to,” Dean smugly finishes your thought, so certain of your preferences that your heart does a little jig. “You know what d—?”

“—yeah, I know what drink you want,” you finish for him, just like he had for you.

Dean’s face glitters with open fondness for just an instant, then disappears into the constant flux of people, leaving you to suck down the gasoline-aftershave-leather fog that follows him. You can still feel the friendly pinch he’d given your waist by the time your drinks arrive, the ache of it fading into your skin. The leftover adrenaline from your accomplished hunt was still pounding through your system, so the haze of Dean's affection layered on top has you skipping back to your table.

You can taste it mingling with the cigar smoke in the air—something’s different with Dean tonight. Him and you. Sam had noticed, too, because after he accepts his peach daiquiri with an unphased huff, he waits to speak until he’s safely hidden behind his laptop’s screen.

“That was a lot of touching up there,” he says, as if he’s talking about the weather.

You take the same tone, shrugging like he’s pointed out it’s gonna rain later. “S’ been a good week, Sammy.”

Any attempt to come across as tame is useless. You’re an open book. A part of you wishes you were less obvious, but Dean’s pinch still tingles in your side and the left side of your body is alive with phantom leather jacket sensations. Shit.

“Your hands are shaking.” His brows bounce once at you over the article he’s reading.

You have nothing smart to say at this, and instead choose to scoop up your own daiquiri and clink it against his. Distraction tactic. Sam cheerses with you, but doesn’t drink from his glass, clunking it down next to him and simmering with you in your crush-pumped silence. He gets this particular look on his face when it comes to you and Dean. It’s squinty, knowing, and not an inch different from when he was a little kid. You remember the cool girlfriend that your own older brother had had in high school, and what your relationship with her had looked like. She was awesome, and every day you prayed she never left. Sam has always had that same quiet hope in his eyes—please stick around forever and take care of my dumbass brother. I’ll pay you.

Many, many times, too many times to count, the swirling threads of your feelings and Dean’s had crossed, but not once had they ever knotted together permanently. He would swing into your life and then swing out. You would live in his for a little while, threads looping and weaving, but nothing ever came of it. Putting it into terms more complicated than that usually made your chest ache like a rail spike had been driven through it. Tonight is one of those nights where the ache feels good, where loving Dean is a special secret you can whisper behind your hand to anyone you want.

Words swim in your head. There is no easy way to explain to Dean’s kid brother that Dean is the best man in this room and this world, that he bleeds goodness like other men bleed mud, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Sam would probably roll his eyes. You are rolling your eyes at yourself. But on the up-and-down rollercoaster of your relationship, these last few months have been the strongest climb to the top yet. Maybe that means you’re going to hit a big drop. You’re a hopeful person, though, so you can’t help but read Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror differently. This is it. He’s not looking at the lonely girls by the bar or the pretty ones on the dancefloor. His eyes are on you.

Blinking yourself out of your head, you putter out the lamest version of your buzzing thoughts.

“I get the feeling tonight’s different,” you say, talking into your glass and avoiding Sam’s laser-focused gaze. On instinct, you stare at the vague clump in the crowd where Dean should be. “All these months of…” you gesture broadly, “I think… something could happen.”

Sam pulls a face. “Ew.”

You kick him under the table. “Shut up,” you laugh, “I’m being serious, dude. Dean—”

…appears right beside you. In your mind’s eye, he emerges from the crowd bleeding with easy cheer, glistening gold at the edges in the bar light. “You rang?” he says. “Got your song going for you. Should be the next one.”

Dean slinks out of his jacket like a tomcat, all casual slyness, and hip-checks you when he slides into your half of the booth. It’s practical—he would have to squeeze, sitting by Sam. With you, Dean has all the room in the world to manspread his thigh against yours and toss his arm over the back of the seat behind you. The flesh of his arm never actually makes contact with the back of your neck, but it could. He survived off those little almosts.

Just as the three of you get settled into conversation, the last song dies out, swaying into the first bluesy chords of One of These Nights by the Eagles. The second that first brassy note plucks off the lead guitar, a match sparks in your chest. Dean spins to catch your eye, gleaming with excitement. The old urge to get up and conquer the dancefloor becomes irresistible. You can still feel your last case in your weary bones a bit, but there’s a certain grime to hunting that can only be scrubbed off by a good time. Dean knows this, too, so you’re led by the wrist out of the booth before the lyrics even start. He steals a sip of peach daiquiri and then you’re off for the open space between the tables. You’re laughing so hard your cheeks ache.

You’re chased by Sam’s playful shout. “Don’t have too much fun out there!”

The race to the lyrics is literal. You know there’s only a few seconds of interlude before they start, and Dean, after decades of being your one and only dance partner, knows precisely when they kick in. One of you decides that you must be in the middle of the sparse crowd the second Don Henley starts singing, and the other accepts this without question. You end up laughing, scrambling, and shoving a couple of people to get there, but god—the supporting piano lands and the bass struts and the lead guitar just stings. Like always. You break through into a clearing at the heart of the bar’s dancefloor, and for a second all you can see is Dean. He skids to a stop in his boots and laughs his ass off the whole time, stumbling inwards and making a mad dash to get your hands in his. His grin shines and his eyes crinkle with glee. The fire and anguish from your earlier hunt is gone. Now it’s just him, as you’ve always remembered him.

“One of these nights…” you laugh to each other. With your hands scooped in his, Dean starts funnily salsaing you back and forth with him to the beat, which instantly splits your sides. You’re laughing too hard to sing with him, “One of these crazy old nights…”

Through giggles, you dryly comment, “Excellent starting move.”

“Why thank you,” Dean replies.

You shift his salsa dancing around in a circle, then follow the spin all the way out, wing-span wide and only one hand tethered to Dean’s. With the ease of practice, he whirls you back in. Each move is unrehearsed and mostly random, but you and Dean have listened to this song in particular at least a hundred times, and danced to it just as much. Some beats of it you can’t help repeating from other nights spent dancing in bars. For example:

You’re wrapped in one of his arms, hand still held, while Dean’s other seamlessly lands on your waist on time with the next line. “We’re gonna find out, pretty mama,” he drawls with purpose, leaning in close enough to make your neck tickle, “what turns onnn your lights…”

He does this every time. Every time, it makes your chest tight with this shivery warmth you just can’t shake.

Dean used to be pretty shit at dancing, but after a hundred bars with a hundred names you’ve forgotten, it’s the one piece of him that you’ve pried loose from John’s influence. Sam isn’t looking and nobody knows who the two of you are. For once, Dean lets loose. He slides his hands down your arms and hooks your fingers in his, calloused and thick, rocking you back and forth with the rhythm. You think to yourself that Dean would make a great musician. He keeps time with ease, falling into a relaxed four-step (you’re pretty sure that’s what it’s called) and losing himself in the words. The swinging openness of it makes him look just gorgeous. Dean’s cheeks are rosy with exertion, the hollow of his throat shines with sweat, and he never looks away from you even once.

Every other day of hunting season, Dean… compartmentalizes. He takes the fever the two of you feel now and packs it down where nobody can find it. You see those feelings shake loose from their reigns every once in a while, but there’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over them out in the open: here, cupping your lower back and crooning lyrics.

“...been searchin’ for the daughter of the devil himself,” he murmurs, throwing you a playful eye-roll at the symbolism you’re both tired of living. “I’ve been searchin’ for an angel in white…”

You drop a wrist over Dean’s shoulder and he rocks in close, tilting back and forth on his feet. Together, you mumble along with Don Henley and sway in a cozy circle. You take the rare opportunity to relish how he feels pressed against you. Saying anything will spoil the magic, so you just let it wash over you, purposefully coasting away from the few rational thoughts your brain is producing.

It’s unfair that he feels the way he does—and you know Dean does, he’s told you and you’ve told him and it’s all been laid out before—and still strings you along like this. You know. You should be pissed at him every time you think about it. But it’s Dean, and having a piece of him you don’t see is better than having none of him at all.

“...One of these nightssss…”

The Eagles eventually seep into another band’s song, which you assume is your signal to quit. Your vision loses its luster and the glittering lights of the world dim back to normal. Dean will have his one lucky dance with you, then, since you’re a bunch of old people, you’ll retire to your table and shoot the breeze until someone calls it a night. That’s how this always goes.

You pull your cheek from where you’d laid it against his shirt. It takes you a bit to put your thoughts into words, so you’re slow to assume, “Wanna get back to our drinks?”

When you meet eyes, Dean’s are soft, and he smiles with this quiet pleasure roving all over his face. Dimly, you register that Burnin’ For You by Blue Oyster Cult is chiming through the bar now, but. He runs his hands down your arms—sort of planting you in place, like he wants to keep you here with him. Your whole body zings with millions of little electric pulses that pump into your head like a fog too thick to see through. More than anything, you want to stay too.

Around you, the dancefloor is alive with people. But Dean has a habit of making you feel cinematic, so you can almost see how the extras fizz into the background as the camera settles on you and him alone. The bar lights hang overhead, hazy and warm. Your soundtrack is lively and familiar. The moment hangs… neither of you wants to give it up.

“Yeah. Why don’t we, uh,” he clears his throat, “grab a few sips and then head back here, huh?”

Suspended in place by the pound of your own heart, you slide your palms off his chest and put on your slyest grin. “Dancing is way more fun when you’re tipsy.”

Dean slips on a smile of his own, then turns to lead the way out of the crowd. For just an instant you feel like you can’t get your feet off the floor, and you watch him go, head spinning. Deep down, you worried that you might’ve been pushing your enthusiasm to its limit thinking tonight was the night. For the last decade of your life, you’d been waiting on Dean. But something really is different now, because, true to his word, Dean snags a few sips of his drink with you and then you’re back out on the dance floor.

The next few songs fly by. Everything is Dean. The heavy thump of boots on the worn-smooth floor, the growing buzz of alcohol in your system. You’re at the center of his stage, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. If anybody but you came up and waved a hand in his face, you doubted Dean would even notice. You talk about your favorite albums and he laughs at every joke you make, giving you that big-eyed, pirate-smile Dean Winchester look that melts your insides. His eyes are on you.

You swim your way through Double Vision by Foreigner, you on lead air-guitar and Dean supporting with some seriously impressive air-drums. Neither of you consider yourselves professional singers or anything, but there’s a moment in the chorus underneath all the noise where you swear you and Dean harmonize. All the rowdy guitar and drum-playing smooths into The Police’s Roxanne. Your face is immediately sizzling hot the second you hear the starting chords, since every time, without fail, Dean pulls out all the stops to dramatically croon the song to you. The last time it’d come on the radio, he’d chased you all over Bobby’s house, serenading you with a beer bottle microphone. He does it this time too. When you laugh and squirm away, he finds your wrists and guides you back into him, palms everywhere, making kissy faces and everything.

You suppress the urge to seek revenge and huff, “You don’t even know what this song is about, do you?”

Dean snorts, but his eye contact with you is purposeful. “Course’ I do. S’ about a guy who’s so into his girl that he doesn’t want to share her with anybody else.”

Instead of having an apt response for that, you internally shrivel up into a ball and lose any fire left in you. Dean, satisfied he’s shut you up, noses your ear and sings, “...Wouldn’t talk down to ya… I have t’ tell ya just how I feel, I won’t share you with another boy…”

The mushy impression he’s doing of Sting fails pretty quickly, so Dean softens into his own voice. For the millionth time tonight, you’ve found yourself with your arms around his neck and his face hovering around yours. If you mention it, Dean will drop everything and run. You know that. So you don’t sing that particular song with him. Allowing him to sing it to you is much sweeter, anyway, and the slower the music gets the closer you’re allowed to be.

And boy, every guy in the room must be aiming to get a slow dance with his girl, because soon the steady flow of rock n’ roll on the jukebox drizzles into Elvis and The Temptations. You joke about this to Dean, giving him a small out. Just in case.

“You hate mushy music,” you tell him, even if you both know that’s not exactly true.

Dean’s warm palms coast over your waist and you draw your nails across the flannel on his back, soaking each other up. A memory pierces your train of thought in a hot flash. You’d seen Dean dance with other girls like this, hands all over, seeking. But tonight they rest on your hips or hook through your belt loops without intention. Dean’s just here, and he wants you here too. For now, you’re his first choice for who he’s spending his time with tonight.

He doesn’t take the out you gave him.

“S’ not all bad,” Dean shrugs under your hands. “...I like this song.”

It’s Elvis’s Love Me, which effectively scrubs the dancefloor of any non-couples. Besides you and Dean, that is. This fact hangs in the air, supercharged, but neither of you mentions it. Dean draws you into him and you slide eagerly into his hold, your head under his chin. A few other pairs skip out onto the floor and take up space beside you. Soon, the molecule of space left between you and Dean disappears. You’re pretty sure if a few atoms went missing from the universe something crazy would happen, like a nuclear explosion, and that’s exactly what occurs in your belly. Dean sways with you like he’s in love with you, like it’s a secret everyone can see. If anyone in the bar glanced over at the two of you now, you know exactly what they’d think.

The best part of this was that Dean doesn’t end it after two dances, three dances, or four. You go all night like that, shittily waltzing to love songs and grooving along to faster ones. He had an opportunity to escape every time you took a trip to throw back your drinks. But if it crosses Dean’s mind at all, he never, ever takes it. One of you starts talking then neither of you can stop. Almost three hours later, you’re halfway through Just What I Needed and a street racing story that never fails to blow Dean’s mind, when your hundredth round of drinks runs dry. Since you’re both past tipsy now, it’s unanimously decided that there’s more work to be done.

“S’ a good night,” Dean tells you, beaming, “we can do another round, right?”

“Hell yeah,” you shrug, and raise your empty glass, “Here’s to alcohol poisoning, baby.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoes, almost slurring. “Baby.”

You take his empty glass, too, and Dean tips back toward your table to bother his brother. Both times you glance back Dean is following you with his eyes. It’s like hearing scratching in your attic and walking through cold spots for months, then suddenly seeing a full apparition right in your living room. Bobby claimed Dean had perfected the art of admiring you from afar, but you’d always figured he was exaggerating. Instead of chasing the ghost of one of his big-eyed stares, you actually see it first-hand—the big-eyed stare. Dean blinks prettily at you over his shoulder, then sways back toward Sam, unembarrassed and flushed a happy drinker’s red. In the flesh. Wow.

You’re so distracted you almost skip into two patrons, so you start watching where you’re going and add a few more drinks to your tab. While you’re waiting on them, you rock on your heels, brimming with buzzing energy. Years and years of buildup and something might finally happen. The prospect is so sweet that you giddily dance in place, bobbing to your own content music. The bartender gives you a funny, amused look and so do the people you squeeze past to reach him, but you ignore them all, scooping up your drinks and floating back to the table. Your grin is so bright that it makes your cheeks ache.

“Alright, gentlemen, I crossed two deserts to get these drinks, so you better—”

It’s just Sam at your table, looking sheepish.

You squint at him. Sheepish. Why is he sheepish? You set down your glass and Sam’s, then awkwardly release Dean’s beer from where it’d been trapped between your elbow and your ribs. The corner where Sam has shoved all your empty drinks has since expanded—there are at least five more new drinks there, completely outside the realm of anything you know Sam or Dean would order.

You stand. “Damn. Who ordered these?”

Sam stiffly brushed the hair from his face. “Um… a table in the corner sent em’ over. As a gift.”

“Free drinks? Really? That rocks,” you brighten.

Sam was avoiding the eyes of someone at said table, so you turn to intercept the stares and instantly feel the cloud nine you’re floating on drop out from under you.

“...Dean’s over there thanking them,” he clarified.

It’s a big group of women. Your reasonable-self could follow the logic: Dean and Sam were pretty, the women had noticed they were pretty, and then bought them drinks for being pretty. Your reasonable self would pull up a chair and toast to those women. The Winchester spell made everyone want to give them stuff for just being gorgeous and alive, and though you weren’t a Winchester, you reaped the rewards just as often. Sam’s puppy look paid the rent, and more than once Dean’s dazzling smile had won your way into concerts and r-rated movies. You should’ve been stoked.

If you were completely sober you’d probably put together that it was a bachelorette party, but all you see is your Dean, center stage among them and putting on a show. Even drunk he does a convincing performance of a “modeling agent” passing out his card. Cards. To all of them. The booth of girls giggle and lean closer, all swaying in the direction of Dean’s sly grin like snakes to a snake-charmer. A swath of mothy bitterness starts to eat holes into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mourns. He says it with so much genuine remorse that you realize how crushed you must look—and wow, isn’t that an embarrassing cherry to top this sundae off. They’re just girls. It’s just talking. Still, Sam tells you, “I tried to stop him.”

“So have I,” you answer, bitterly.

The hours of dancing suddenly burn in your legs. You steady a hand on the table to slide into your seat, but there are so many glasses that it feels too full to occupy, and Sam noisily scuffling them out of your way doesn’t help your raw ears. Resigned, you shove into your side of the booth and tell yourself that you’re overreacting. Thanking people (a group of women) for sending over free drinks (because Dean’s too pretty for his own good) is perfectly normal (to non-jealous people, at least). Because you’re not at all a resentful person, you slide over the closest glass and choke it down.

Sam raises both brows. “Maybe you should slow down a bit. Unless you want one of us to carry you home—?”

You pull your glare away from the other side of the bar and focus it on the table, answering Sam’s question for him.

“Right,” he realizes, “I can go and—”

You’re already shaking your head. “Don’t. Let’s see how long it takes ‘im.”

As it turns out, drunk Dean is an incredibly social butterfly. For the first ten minutes he’s engrossed in his conversation, you aimlessly stir your drink and dodge Sam’s glances. Fifteen and you’re glued to your seat. Twenty and Dean still isn’t back, a handful of songs you know he’d kill to dance to coming and going. Past that you’re spaced out too far to care, and have failed to not let your mood be killed. The neon electricity that’d been pumping through your system all night is cold and lifeless. On top of that, you’re furious with yourself for staking all your hopes and feelings on a premise so stupid, for trusting Dean. Again. You know you’re drunker than you want to admit, but this nasty swirling bitterness burning in your stomach isn’t alcohol. You sigh into your half-finished drink. This was exactly what happened last time.

Since you’re already feeling sorry for yourself, you punish your naivety by stealing glances at Dean’s table. In the half an hour he’s been gone, he’s taken a seat at their booth, cozied up to the woman closest to him, and captivated each of them with a story. You can tell which one from across the bar. With five sets of happy eyes feasting on him, he puts on his best smolder and gestures suavely with his hands—recounting the time he heroically pulled some civilians from a burning building last year. You know he doesn’t tell them it was for a hunt. You wonder if he mentions you being there at all, or leaves out the part about you hauling him from the fire in the end.

Against your better judgment, you lift your eyes from the hole you’d bored into the table and stare at Dean’s profile until your vision blurs. Please, please just look at me again, you pray with all the faith you have left.

…It looks like you’ve misplaced it. Dean stays at their table for another insufferable ten minutes. After all, pushing you away has always come easier to him than dancing.

Ready for Love by Bad Company plays next. Your mind apparently has a bone to pick with you too, because just hearing the song drops you back into the motel room you and Dean had shared in Tulsa years ago. Jim—your father—had passed that summer, speared by the same thing you’d been hunting. Sam was at school. It’d just been Dean and whatever feeble parts of you that’d survived losing your dad. For weeks, you tortured yourself chasing his killer and tortured Dean as stress relief. You were truly rotten to him then. He should’ve left you in Tulsa, but he’d kept you standing and fed til’ the hunt was long over. He endured every fight you picked and every apathetic apology. Nothing could kill his instinct to nurture, not even your grief, and you came out of the ordeal with Dean’s warm hand brushing your hair from your face. You loved Sam, but you missed the days when he was at school sometimes. Only then could Dean open his stitches and let his inner sweetness bleed out. The night you killed the thing that’d taken your dad from you, Dean had carried you home, washed the blood from your hair, and sang that song until you were safe and half-asleep in his arms.

You’re strong, he’d told you. Stronger than me. Stronger than your dad. You’ll get through this, easy.

Paul Rodgers starts to sing. The woman closest to Dean snuggles in to ask him a question, brushing her nails down the back of his neck. He tilts his head toward hers to listen, and whatever she says makes him turn the blatant flirtiness in his grin to 100%. Her shiny dark hair rolls down her back in perfect spirals, and the swish of it around her neck as she stands from her chair, blushing giddily, brands behind your eyes. Dean stands too.

Your stomach drops. She wiggles her fingers for him to take, and Dean, the lottery winner, follows her onto the dancefloor.

That’s about when you should force yourself to stop watching. But you’ve never had the keenest sense of self-preservation, so you keep stealing glances until your stomach is in knots—until this very lucky girl wraps her arms around Dean’s neck and summons enough liquid courage to kiss him.

Dean kisses back.

You sit there until your throat burns with stifled tears. It doesn’t take long for you to notice Sam looking at you, and when you do your whole body instantly flares with dark embarrassment that writhes up your legs like snakes. You barely have to guess what he’ll do next. He stews on the pitiful sight of you alone on the other side of the bench for another beat, then shoves himself to his feet and slams his laptop shut—and it’s nice, having somebody go through all these motions of defending you, but you don’t need it from Sam. You don’t need it from anybody.

“Don’t,” you warn him. “Don’t. ‘Only make it worse.”

“I know what he’s doing,” Sam starts, lip curled in disbelief. He’s disappointed in his brother. “Dean’s—testing you. Seeing if you’ll stick around. But you’ve more than proved you will, even when he pulls this shit, so I don’t see why you’ve gotta—”

“He’s drunk and stupid,” you cut him off. “We both are. I’m gonna let it go, n’ so are you.”

Sam stills, one unsatisfied hand on the tabletop. “...If I just talk to him—”

“Fucking don’t,” you tell him, and wow, you’re a mean drunk all of a sudden, huh? Pressing your fingertips against your eyelids does nothing to make the world stop tilting. Wilting, you pull your hands from your face and try not to burst into tears. “Sorry. Sorry. M’ not upset with you. M’ not upset with anybody.” Pathetically, you beg, “C’n we just go home?”

Sam gives you an uneasy nod. “Sure thing. I’ll grab Dean and pay our tab.”

Well, shit. Miserable as you are, you did promise to pay for drinks. A night of fun celebratory drinks, to be exact, which had gone completely sideways instead. Great. Sam hastily packs up his bag like he can escape before you remember, but you send him off with a wad of your own bills so he doesn’t go broke feeling bad for you.

Since waiting for him and Dean out on the curb sounds stupid, you choke out, “Bathroom,” and go hide there to dust off your pride.

God, does a thin, shitty motel mattress sound gorgeous right now. On shaking fawn legs, you bruise your way out of the booth and through the crowd, silently hoping that a loose elbow from a rowdy passerby knocks you out cold. Unfortunately, you barrel into the women’s restroom still conscious. It’s mostly empty too, so you’re free to meet your reflection without courage.

When Dean had given his yes for your second dance, you’d imagined this moment. After dancing the night away, you’d complain about your aching heels and Dean would scoop you up, all gentleman-like. He’d joke and hum all the way home—and what a funny word that was, since the only thing in your life permanent enough to call home was him. You’d kiss him goodnight and Dean’s gaze would follow you all the way to the bathroom. And there, once the door was shut and you were alone, the magic of the night would glow in your reflection. You’d sink into your happy, exhausted feet. The heat of his fingertips would be all over your waist and neck and chin. Best of all, when you’d slink into bed and pull the covers up to your face, Dean’s stomach would slot against your back and he’d spill it all to you in a whisper. I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight, he’d say. I never could, sweetheart. Didn’t want to.

But the truth was that Dean could take his eyes off you so damn easily. These days it felt like you lost his attention the second you got it. Again and again you gave him these chances, and every time he wasted them. Tonight you had sworn something was going to be different, felt it ringing in your soul like a promise, and the second your back is turned he’s found a better dance partner. Was this a sign? Now, you glared at the mirror you’d chosen, feeling the familiar needles of self-loathing start to creep between your ribs. When was it going to happen? When were things going to change? Every time you’d hit this point in the past, Dean had cut those threads before they could tie. I’m not good for you, he’d say. He’d remind you of what had happened to Jess, which had always scared you straight—but that fear came with a finish line. Hunting wasn’t the end of the road for you. With you and Dean, there’d always been a vague idea of something “after,” something over the horizon too far away to see.

You’d held fast to that “after” for so long. Even on the third, fourth, or fiftieth round of Dean’s eyes landing on someone else, you took in a breath and reassured yourself of that “after.” After everything was over and there were no worlds left to save, Dean would look at you and never stop looking.

But this was the hundredth time you’d saved the world. The road to that horizon was endless, and you’d waited so, so fucking long.

Staring at your puffy eyes and spinning reflection in the low flickering light, a dull realization started to connect inside you. You couldn’t care anymore. You were so tired of waiting. One of these days, Dean was going to glance away and never look back. Maybe…

Maybe it would be better for you to pull away first.

The bathroom door banged inwards, startling you into a moment of sobriety. You were whirling around and palming the pistol handle in your waistband before you could think, only to relax. It was just Dean. In the women’s restroom. Fucking hell.

“Dean! What the hell are you—?”

“M’ savin’ our party,” Dean clarifies, and woah, he cannot hold his liquor like he used to. Without a hint of shyness, he saunters into your bubble and dares—fucking dares—to power on his doe-eyes. “Why’d’ya wanna go?” He pouts. Sam must’ve told him. “S’ not even midnight yet.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky s’ just me in here. Could’ve scared the pants off some poor girl,” you curse.

Everything after that is a tightrope act to keep hold of your restraint. Taking his elbow, you pluck the beer out of his hand and toss it into the nearest bin. Dean, of course, squawks in protest, but doesn’t fight when you push him into the narrow hall outside.

“Why on earth did you just stroll in? Just wait for me next time!”

“Maybe you were the girl whose pants I scared off,” Dean chuckles, sounding dizzy. He’s not steady enough to stand in place for too long.

Any other night you’d happily let him lean on you, but just seeing him makes your chest feel split open. The second he’s propped against one wall of the little hall, you’re on the other side, twisting around him and making a beeline for the exit. But Dean is still the guy you were on the dancefloor with an hour ago, so you’re not a step away before two big arms catch you around the middle. Giggling, Dean lassos you back in, and all at once he’s draped across your back with his cheek smushed into yours from behind. The happy little snickers seeping out of him rumble warmly through your back. You’re cozily squeezed around the middle with all the love in the world, and the worst part is that you revel in it. Dean sways a bit with you in his arms, big warm hands folding across your belly, and every stupid cell in your body melts into the contact. He’s only ever like this when he’s drunk.

“If you even get scared,” he hums into your ear, amused. “You’re s’ tough I dunno if you even can. And y’know what? I think…” he turns his lips into your cheek, his stubble rubbing the skin there just right, “I think you’re tough enough to get back out there with me n’ show em’ how it’s done.”

You should resist. You honestly should. But you’re drunk and hollowed out and lonely, so you compromise with yourself and stand dead still. You don’t touch him or lean into it. Yet you don’t squirm away, either.

At your silence, Dean wuffs out a breath down your neck and pouts into your shoulder. “C’monnn,” he urges, “dance with me more. Party! We’re celebratin’. N’ you’re such a great dancer, I wanna take you out there n’ brag ‘bout you. Everybody was lookin’ at us before. You and me. Didja notice that?”

“I did,” you swallow. “But I think m’ all partied out. I just wanna go home, kay? Sam’s out there waiting for us…”

Dean hears this and shifts his face into your neck, pretending to search for a comfortable place to rest his cheek when really he’s just nuzzling. “Boring. What? Pretty princess too tuckered out?” Dean teases. “I’ll tell the kid t’ walk back without us, he’ll be fine. C’mon. I’ll even say please.”

You remain silent. Anxious, Dean fills it. “Just a lil’ while longer, _____. Y’know I can only flirt with you when m’ like this.”

The ache in your chest hits a searing point, and the breath you’re holding breaks. He always, always has to hide.

You squirm out of Dean’s bubble. He makes a gentle attempt at fishing you back in, whining in the back of his throat, but you rip your hand free and peel around the corner before he can react. The mental picture of Dean left hurt and confused in your wake is satisfying, but you know it’s not a faithful image. Instead, he and his words chase you all the way to the curb outside. C’mon! Don’t be lame, ______! The yelling is embarrassing, but what really stings is how he does this in front of everyone. Sam. The bachelorette party, who make your skin crawl with mixed stares of jealousy and sympathy. The woman he kissed. And worst of all, everyone else in the bar, who only recognize you from the hours of slow-dancing you’d done with Dean.

You burst out into the chilly amber night, scrambling for any sense of backbone. A hot flash of unwelcome tears locks your throat shut. Like the unshakable hunter you’re supposed to be, you grit your teeth despite them and ignore Dean’s shouts.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he calls. The hurt in his voice surprises you. Dean’s voice is thready with genuine, mounting panic, flooding your brainpan with oily pleasure. Good. “Didn’t want this t’ go this way. We wer’ havin’ fun, weren’t we? M’ sorry. Come back inside. Whatever I did—”

You feel your resolve snap next, splitting apart like a guitar string under scissors.

Then you’re whirling toward him at collision speed, a mangled mess of snarling teeth and tear-caked cheeks. Yelling feels fucking great. You bare your fists, flying at him in a rage.

“Come on come on come on—you know what you did! You know! You have to know!”

Dean skids to a stop. By the street lamp light, he’s still golden as ever, looking soft and beaten. His expression crumples. His visible pain feels good for one glorious breath, then it all shatters as you realize what taboo you’ve brushed up against—and why. Over a few girls. Over a little talking. Some dancing. A silly tipsy kiss. You know everything gets heavier when you’re drunk, but god, this burden weighs more than the fucking sky sometimes. You’re so tired of carrying it. You want an out.

He drags a calloused hand down his face. “...I was just messing around, talking to them… dancing with her. Needlin’ you.”

“Well,” your breath rattles unprettily between words. “I’m needled. Are you fucking happy? Are you? Does it—does it—” you have to talk through harsh, sudden sobs, “—do you like playing with my feelings? Hanging that bone over my head, over and over and over again, just to rip it away?”

You don’t get to see how your desperation lands on Dean, since it’s then that Sam comes between you. “It’s okay,” he soothes, “you’re okay—just—” and lays your jacket over your back.

Then, Sam gets his hands on your arms to steer you the opposite way. You thrash away from him and his brother, furious. But you’re coherent enough to know that this is a bad time to wield the contempt you’ve kept stored. Roiling with fresh horror, you stifle your sobs into your sleeve and dart fast out of the parking lot, toward your motel.

“That didn’t involve you, Sam,” Dean barks over your shoulder, but it comes out more feeble than he intends. Your words were so much so suddenly that it sounds like he’s been shocked sober. Hoarsely, Dean pleads, “_____, wait. Hold on a second. Think about this—!”

…And you’re thrown back in. Supercharged with all the ferocity of a whirlwind, you twist around again. Sam’s already intercepting you, hands up and calm, but after years and years of second chances, you’re sick of waiting for something that’s never going to happen. You love Dean. It aches in your chest and bleeds out your ears, chewing away at your survival instincts.

You’d been right. Something was going to change tonight.

“You have no fucking idea how much I’ve thought about it,” you snarl. “Every day I think about it! Every night! So, no, I’m done thinking and—an’ watching and—”

The tank of crazed energy you’re running on immediately saps. Your voice cuts off with it, so you’re forced to gasp for breath and broil in your bone-deep exhaustion. Though this isn’t the first time the boys have seen you this hurt, they stand frozen on coltish legs, wide-eyed. Your effect on them lands hard: Sam’s mouth is drawn into a firm guilty line, and Dean, who usually fills whole continents with his authority, shrinks miserably into his jacket until his hands are lost in the sleeves. Finally, he takes me seriously.

You give Sam a look. Shell-shocked and unsure, Sam shuffles aside to face his back to you both.

With no one between you, it’s clear in Dean’s eyes that there’s another element to this for him. He’d known this was coming. Having his brother as a barrier was just one more way Dean had softened the blow. Between the awful, sinking guilt seeping out of him at the seams, there was resignation too. On one of those slow nights in your motel in Tulsa, he’d told you himself.

Everyone leaves, Dean had shrugged. Sam. My dad. Some day, you’ll leave too. And I won’t even blame you.

Back then, you’d laid your cheek against Dean’s sweat-tacky arm, the two of you trying to stay cool on a boiling Oklahoma night. You’d wondered to yourself how anyone could do that to the man you loved. Dean’s instinct was to give, to point both fans in that boiling room at you instead of him. How could anyone look at all the things he’d sacrificed and not give the same in return?

Well, you’d smiled at him, I’m not moving an inch, cowboy. You’re stuck with me.

Now, after years and years of sacrificing to no end, you knew that Dean’s prediction had come true. He had been waiting for the other boot to drop for so long that he’d already decided what it would sound like. A part of you wanted to cling to him and the promise you’d made him until your nails bled. But that dead limb was the one that’d been killing you, and tonight was the final proof you needed to amputate it.

You had to leave.

“I love you so much, Dean,” you hiccuped. “But I can’t wait for you anymore.”

You knew you were breaking a promise, no matter how good your intentions were. For that, you weren’t going to allow yourself an easy exit. Instead of whipping around and running for it like you wanted to, you let the slow, ugly acceptance in Dean’s silhouette brand your memory.

Statue-still, all Dean could manage was a tight nod.

He just stared and stared at you, gutted and appalled. You waited for him to say something, to fight this even a little, to make any of this easier on you both. Hating him wouldn’t be so impossible if he screamed you off the street or started throwing your stuff in the gutter. Instead Dean just hung there, frozen in that heart-stopping moment where the blade sinks in to the hilt.

Wielding that knife, you turned on your heel and left.

By the time you’ve frozen your ass off getting to your motel room, you’ve lost much of your steam. All the anger has washed out of you in one surging flush of misery. You get to the door almost gagging on your own tears, and pathetically slump down on the curb when you realize Sam has your room key.

Sam, who’s two blocks back helping Dean get home.

The cement stings your legs through your jeans. Betrayal throbs through your whole body, and unable to go anywhere, its barbs turn inward. You try to scrape up any backbone leftover from your tantrum, which is about as easy as splitting atoms. Since that didn’t work, you try to fold in on yourself for some warmth instead, and shiver stupidly on the sidewalk. A pair of late-night road-trippers give you sad stares as they pass. The soft heat of their room as they shuffle inside gushes out onto the stoop, calling your name.

Suddenly, the seething need to be as far from here as possible disappears. You want Sam to get back with Dean. You wish this night could’ve gone any other way, so the three of you could fumble into your room and straight into warm, cozy beds, too lazy to change into pajamas or to kiss goodnight like usual. Sam would check the salt lines and Dean would shuck off his jacket. With the last of your strength, you’d stretch a hand out from under your comforter and Sam would do the same to squeeze yours over the beds’ gap. Goodnight, Sam. G’night. Dean, close enough to kiss in your bed, would tilt you toward him by a gentle hand on your shoulder. He’d smush a kiss into your temple. Night, he’d hum. Together you’d snuggle down into your blankets and crash, content. If this was any other night. Maybe it still could be. Maybe you’d been overthinking this.

You’d had so much to drink. It was you who’d created these imaginary stakes for Dean to follow, and you who wigged out, blew up on him, snarling in his face and breaking a promise in the same breath. No matter how much you wanted it, you had no claim on him. If Dean wanted to dance with more than one person on a night meant to be fun for him… If he… wanted to kiss someone else…

Two tall shadows appear at the end of the parking lot. It’s too late to stand up and look put together, so you pull your knees to your chest and make an attempt at silencing your sobs. You press your lips together, watching Sam help a sniffling Dean across the lot and toward your room. Dean doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t tell you he’s sorry, he doesn’t pick you up off the pavement, and he doesn’t tell you that he loves you even though you both know it. It makes all of your lashing anger bubble up to the surface again, and you sit with it until long after the boys are inside.

These feelings feel petulant at first, then simmer into righteous ones. The hunt had robbed you of so much—your parents, your normalcy, your childhood, and more than once, the love of your life. There was no reason it had to take Dean from you this way, too. Those sticky-sweet nights in boiling Tulsa could be every night for you and him.

You could still taste him, and the syrup of old blues songs on his lip. You’d told him back then, you’re stuck with me, cowboy, and Dean had believed you, really believed you, because he’d rolled sideways in your bed and touched his fingers to your chin. Just the rough tips of them, burning hot. There’d been this irresistible magic in his eyes, like he was learning it was possible to break his own rules as long as he kept them later. His breath was sweet with ice cream when he kissed you. Just one kiss had him shakily sighing through his nose, and with his same trembling hand, he’d cupped your face—in the weird sort of way Dean did affection, the slope of his palm around your jaw and his thumb turning up your chin. It’d felt so special, like a promise to hold out. You’d savored each one with your nails tickling the nape of his neck, your dose of love potion refilled. The two of you had passed out curled nose to nose, Dean’s grin hidden in your pillow.

You could be living every night like you’d lived that one. But there was one barrier in the middle of that road: Dean. I’m not good for you, he’d say, even if you’d never had enough of him to tell.

After years and years of holding out and dosing on your love potion, it occurred to you, pathetically curled up outside a random motel room, that Dean would never be with you. Even if the monsters had been hunted and the world had been saved, he just didn’t have it in him to believe in something so good. Deep down, you’d known this. You were a naive optimist hoping for a different future, but the truth was that Dean hated himself too much to see that future too.

Slowly, you unfurled your hands on your knees, staring at them without taking anything in. All you could feel was the uncomfortable, surging ache in your chest, which choked your throat shut and burned stinging tears around the curves of your nose. The last few hours felt weirdly layered in your memory, like film cells from different strips laid over each other. This had been going on for so long that it’d officially crossed into deja vu. Years and years of moments just like these pressed upon you in the ringing silence of the parking lot. But you could only hold up the sky for so long, and tonight your grip had finally slipped. You were sure of it: if these circular, pathetic dives for an answer were the only thing in your future, it’d kill you. It had been killing you.

What else could you do but leave?

The question itself felt rash, but you were struggling to breathe past your tears and you wanted out—away from the constant want, away from Dean. He could bang whatever girls he stumbled upon, so why couldn’t you do whatever the hell you wanted, too? What the fuck was stopping you? Freedom—from years and years and years of that ugly stirring weight you’d once loved—was only a bus ride and one boosted car away. It’d be easy.

The door creaked open behind you. You held your breath at the sound of footsteps, praying it wasn’t who you wanted to see.

“Come on inside. Don’t like you being out here by yourself,” Sam called.

The breath you let go of didn’t make you any more relieved. It hadn’t felt good to yell at him, either. You opened your mouth to respond, but a thought slammed on top of you with all the malice of a blow to the head. The next words out of your mouth could be some of the last you ever speak to him for a long time. Instead, you scuffed your running tears on your sleeve one last time, then hauled yourself onto your feet.

The plan was to dart past him fast enough to avoid the look you were sure Sam was giving you, but it fell on the whole lot bright as stadium lights. You made the stupid mistake of catching eyes with him, and the intensity there was enough to root you to the spot. You froze. Sam’s face was solemn, but when he finally got a good look at you it shifted into calm, haunted understanding, since you weren’t the only one who’d cried on a curb like this. He knew exactly what leaving looked like.

After a pregnant pause, Sam stole a glance into the safe darkness of your motel room. Whatever he saw inside bolstered his nerve, and before you could argue he’d swiped his coat and stepped out into the cold with you. Here we go, you braced yourself.

“...I need to punch something,” you confessed, just to have something to say.

Sam stopped awkwardly hovering around the sidewalk to spread his arms wide, and how he had the energy to smile, you had no clue. “I’m open,” he offered, only half-joking.

You sputtered out a laugh. It trailed off where you couldn’t follow it, and unfortunately, neither could he, leaving you both shivering side-by-side in silence. You started to stutter out something intelligent, but the open sympathy in his eyes took all the nuance out of you. Renewed tears squeezed down your face. Instantly, he was there, a big warm hand coming down to rub your shivering back.

“I know you already know this, but it’s worth saying,” Sam murmured. “Everybody leaves him. It’s all he’s used to.” (...I know, you breathed between sobs). “Dean doesn’t… hang these other girls in front of you because he’s, y’know. Trying to play with your feelings. He’s scared. It’s wrong, but it’s his messed-up way of testing if you’ll stick around.”

You want to listen. Sam’s tone makes this all sound reasonable and easy, but that bitter crawling thing eating away at your conscience reminds you, Of course it’s his brother out here trying to fix this. Of course he can’t pick up his own mess.

“It sucks. Trust me, I’ve taken a good chunk of it myself,” Sam chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “I dunno what it is that makes em’ think he deserves it, but… he’s so used to everyone leaving that he rushes to push em’ away first.”

Swallowing around the bitter taste in your mouth, you tell him, “Well. I think it worked.”

That weighs on Sam for longer than you expect, strangling the lot with a heavy silence. Compelled to fill it, you wrap your arms around yourself and spit out your confession.

“I-I think I,” you managed. “I think I gotta go, Sammy.”

As soon as you say it, the reality of your decision hits you. This isn’t a light move to make. Leaving wouldn’t just shred things between you and Dean, but your friendship with Sam, too—it would mean turning all of your memories with them into kindling. In all your time on the Winchester family road trip, you’d seen all sorts of people take up the space in the back of the Impala. Psychics. Some angels and some demons. Good, good friends. Alive or dead, they all got off at their own stop eventually. You’d been riding in the backseat for so long, not once had you thought there’d be a stop for you, too. But here it was; Dean had hit the breaks himself, and Sam was readying himself to open the door for you.

You thought of the girl you’d been when you’d first met them. She’d still had room in her for friendship bracelets and brown sugar, for mystery novels that never ended, always chasing the next adventure. At the end of all this, that’s what Dean was: your next grand adventure.

Being hunter-born had put you in the strange middle-ground between sheltered and grotesquely exposed; you’d seen how purple and putrid a corpse could get before you were fifteen, but were more than acquaintances with a sum total of five people at the same age. Dean was your worldly opposite. He’d find the towns you landed in like you were his homing beacon, fresh out of the thick of it with a fantastical story to match. He’d hang half-out of your bedroom window, fierce-eyed, and singing, and you’d roll right out of the monotony of your life and into the magic of his. You’d mention him to friends in high school like a made-up boyfriend—Dean lives out of town, but he swears he’s gonna visit next month—because even you weren’t sure he was real. He was this untethered cowboy you’d somehow lassoed in, swinging into your life with all the colors and life of the wild west. Not so much a knight in shining armor, but. Dean, your Dean.

You would miss that. You would always miss him.

Sam tamped down his panic. “Are—are you sure?” He turned you by your shoulder to look at him, and Jesus, those kicked-puppy eyes should be considered a weapon of war. “You don’t wanna talk to Dean about this…?”

You were already shaking your head. “For the hundredth time?”

Sam pressed his lips together. You knew he thought this was a cowardly, drunken decision, but in the middle of it all, you felt like you’d earned the right to be cowardly and stupid. The last decade of your life had been wasted being reasonable. When Dean kicked you out of your motel room to share it with a stranger, you found another place to crash without complaint. When he’d told you he loved you, you gave him the space he asked for, neither of you sure how to handle something so big so young. You waited. When you sat him down and spilled your guts about the future you wanted him in, you’d respected his answer. I’m not good for you had translated to I’m not ready yet. You waited. When Dean was ready for other girls, though, Julie, Ava, Cassie—you started to press back. Since then, your feelings had become the ugly “it” that lingered in every room you shared with Dean. Every argument you’d ever had orbited around it somehow, along with every relationship. Spats turned into arguments, and arguments became second chances and third chances. It really had been the hundredth time Dean had played with you like this.

And even if he’d had nothing to do with it, it was killing you anyway. Being around him, good or bad, had sapped your adventurer’s spirit.

Sam goes still, conflicted. “This is your life. You know that I of all people understand that. But… but just… please. Please just give it one more shot. A month. Or a few weeks, if you need it. Please.”

“You think I’m overreacting,” you assumed, swallowing against the drying film of alcohol on your teeth.

“No, no, I think you’re drunk,” Sam answered, instead, and as blunt as it was it still came out soft. “And tired. But you’re not overreacting, ______. Dean’s done this and worse a dozen times before,” he sighed. Realizing that wasn’t exactly convincing, Sam scrambled for a foothold. “...He really does love you. Just needs to see reason.”

Reason, he says, like that had anything to do with this. Sam starts to clam up, desperate to glue the situation back together.

You feel the need to explain, “...Me leavin’ would have nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Sam said, thickly. “But I’m pretty sure it’d break my heart if you did, so I can’t imagine what it’d do to him.”

At that, you couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the door to your motel room. It waited over your shoulder with all the gravity of a neutron star, dragging you to face it and wonder at the man on the other side. Knowing Dean, he might’ve managed to kick off his shoes before crashing into bed. Knowing the love of your life, he’d probably roll onto his back and sink like a rock, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep. His was probably puffy from crying. After long nights out, there’d be times when he’d accidentally wake you up by slipping under the covers. Dean would curse and hush apologies, clumsily pawing in next to you, but the intrusion was always welcome. You remembered him always having to pat around for your face in the dark, just so he knew where to place his goodnight kiss. Sometimes he’d miss on purpose and playfully pinch your cheek or lay a gross, sloppy kiss on your eye, which never failed to make you squirm away giggling. Good night, pretty girl. What would it do to him, to watch you go?

Your chest flared with ugly guilt. You weren’t sure. But you knew what would happen if you stayed, and Dean, in the long run, would be proud of you for looking out for yourself for once. He’d always said you put yourself last too often.

You imagined him asleep on the other side of that door, muffling his tears into his pillow, and the last of your hope and optimism just shatters. Swallowing your own cowardice, you steel yourself. “I’m sorry,” you tell Sam.

Sam laid a hand on your back. “Look at me a minute.”

Somehow, you did. Seeing Sam’s devastation hurts even more than you thought it would, but nothing compares to knowing that you’ll be leaving him behind. “C’mon,” he steps off the curb and toward the street, trying and failing to smile. “Let’s walk to the gas station or somethin’.”

You shook your head, heaving for breath, and confessed: “I really gotta go, Sammy. At least for a little while.”

Sam set his jaw. He teetered back toward you, thinking fast, and padded down his pockets for his wallet. “Okay. Okay. I know. But, but make a deal with me—let’s take a walk, get you sober. Then when you have some food in your system, you’ll tell me if—i-if this is still what you want. Kay?”

“Sam,” you grimaced.

“Please,” he begged, full-voiced, then snapped his mouth shut. When Sam was sure he could keep his feelings in check, he held up his wallet. “My treat. C’mon.”

Without hesitating, Sam started walking backward to the nearest corner store. Just the thought of eating made you nauseous, but not only did Sam have the keys to your room, but he’d also taken his stubbornness with him on this walk too. Thawing yourself off the stoop, you took one last look at your door and started after Sam. You knew that he was going to use this time to rally, to convince you, and that it would definitely work—so you steeled yourself. Sam couldn’t win. You had to leave.

It was just one dance. One kiss. You knew that. But you were stupid, drunk, in love, and weighed down by years of Dean’s reminder: I’m not good for you.

You hate that he’d been right.

Dean woke up sometime after dawn, but his body was so thoroughly glued to the mattress that he didn’t physically move for at least another hour. Even his routine where am I panic set in later than usual, and Dean was sluggish to answer it:

He was in a motel. That rarely changed. This time it was in… Springfield? Right? Yeah—they’d had fun little town postcards at the front desk, Dean remembered. _____ had studied them while Sam had got them the room, making that funny little hum sound she did when she thought something was quaint. It’d taken Sam only a minute to get their key, and Dean managed to fill that whole minute with nothing but spiraling. She loves kitschy crap like that. Maybe I should swipe one for her. Start a collection or something, make all this back-and-forth driving fun for her. She’s been so patient with us lately, deserves somethin’ to perk her up. Would she like it? Or was that too weird?

Dean groaned at himself—not only was he dealing with a hangover for the record books, but a heavy dose of embarrassment too. God. That woman. Nobody twisted him up like she could.

He kicked at the blankets, wiggling backward onto her side of the bed where the sheets were nice and cold. Usually the two of them cooked under the covers together, but she must’ve been hanging off the other end of the bed to leave so much cool space between them. He reached around with a foot. Nothing.

Huh. He hoped the gut rush of shittiness seeing her side empty was from whatever he’d been drinking last night, not something serious he was forgetting. Since getting up was so, so much uglier than being smushed comfortably in bed, Dean closed his eyes and thought. Counted back. The three of you had just wrapped up for a hunt… gone out for drinks to celebrate… and past that things start to fuzz. There might’a been a screaming match. Dean really wants to lean toward no, but he distinctly remembers being inside while Sam comforted you outside and sort of hating that. It was definitely Dean’s fault. But still, he remembered bitterly stuffing his face in his pillow hearing the soft lilt of your voice through the door—he should’ve been the one to fix things.

He would. Today. Dean laid in bed for a little while longer, but the guilt clawing around in his gut was making it impossible to do anything but overthink. How’d he fuck things over this time, huh? As sucky as it was, his best shot was to get the story from Sam, then figure out where to go from there. With how patient you’d been with him when he’d snapped his collarbone in Illinois, Dean was willing to grovel for forgiveness. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt your feelings being coarse, but… c’mon. This was you. The only person who knew Dean better was Sam, and his forgiveness was the price of family. Yours was untethered, free, and lovingly given, so Dean tried to cool his mounting panic. You’d talk it out. You’d forgive him, because Dean was stupid lucky to have such a fucking saint in his life.

You loved him, Dean reminded himself, and forced himself to sit up.

The second he’s up and looking at everything, he’s pinched by this sense of wrongness. His duffle’s where he left it at the foot of the bed, the salt lines are clean and uninterrupted, but it’s like everything’s been moved an inch to the left. The pinch turns into a pang. Dean trudges out of bed, suspended in the limbo between his bedside and the open bathroom door. Something is wrong.

Some of your things have been moved, Dean rationalizes. You must be out grabbing breakfast. On stiff legs, Dean moves into the bathroom because, obviously, that’s where your shit would be if he’s not seeing it. Ignoring the bile that rises in him the second he’s moving, Dean purposefully avoids the mirror and hangs in the doorway. All three of you occupied the motels you lived in like you were ready to bolt any second, so there isn’t exactly any toiletries to take note of or clothes to notice… Until Dean circles back to his duffle at the foot of the bed. There’s a set of clothes thrown on top that he hasn’t seen since high school—some ratty sweats, holey winter socks, and two or three tees and shirts lost to time. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they used to belong to him, and just as long to connect them back to you.

These, Dean realized, were your most prized war trophies. Over the years you’d borrowed so many clothes from them that you’d probably modeled the entire Winchester closet. At first just the sleep shirts, but that graduated into tees for casual days and layers to add in wintertime.

By junior year, the half you’d pilfered from Sam was all too big to wear practically. That left Dean’s half, which you essentially lived in. A few of his shirts in particular had become main stays, so Dean had neglected to ask for them back and you’d comfortably forgotten to return them. You had a thing about wearing them around his flings, too, which Dean figured was your cute girl-way of reminding them who’d still be there when they were gone. True to form, they’d always left and you’d always stayed. Dean liked things that way, too.

A real pang of panic rang in his chest. Were you so pissed at him that you’d returned everything you’d borrowed? Or was this something worse?

His panic finds its legs. Not only had your pilfered clothes been returned, but Dean couldn’t find your travel bag. If his duffle is thrown at the end of the bed, and Sam’s is zipped up on the table, then yours had to be in the Impala. It had to be. He picks through the backseat and then graduates to tearing apart the trunk, both of which are void of your things. Your phone isn’t plugged into the wall. Your shoes aren’t by the door. Even the pistol you’d duck-taped under the coffee table was gone, along with the knife behind the headboard. Dean still can’t find your bag. Maybe it’s out in the open and I missed it, he tells himself, but the bathroom and the dressers and under the beds and the front lobby carry no sign of your stuff. Of you ever being there.

His last resort is that you have to be with Sam, who usually goes for a run this early—Sam, who walks in alone, twenty minutes into Dean’s full-body meltdown.

He should assume that you left. Logically, that is what missing keys, phones, toothbrushes and wallets mean, but this is Dean Winchester.

Instead, he assumes: “______’s been taken.”

Right away, Sam deflates. Which is impressive, since he walked in looking pretty wilted already. There are dark smears of purple under his eyes, which are puffy from crying. But that’s not exactly the reaction you want from your brother when you share this kind of thing with him, so the lack of response just spurs Dean into tearing their room apart even more, stone-faced.

“...Dean,” Sam manages.

Dean starts ripping the drawers out of the dresser, like finding one of your socks will be proof that you’re still here.

“She was fucking taken, Sam,” his throat feels tight. “I woke up and all of her shit was packed up and gone—somebody good had to do this, s’mbody who knows what the hell they’re doing, cause’ they knew to make it look like she’d left on her own. May—maybe she went out by herself after we went to sleep? N’ that’s how they took er’?”

His hands are shaking, fighting to get the next drawer off its track. Looking at Sam will just make him fucking implode, so he ignores him, shredding through the room inch by inch. The wheel on the dresser’s track snaps so hard that Sam flinches where Dean can’t see. Somehow, the urge to find expands into something an inch more logical, and he rolls seamlessly into escape mode, tossing his duffle on his bed and shoving the returned clothes inside. In a never-slowing storm, Dean flies around the room and hunts down what isn’t already ready to go in their bags. The adrenaline was starting to cut into his nausea, and the two mixed uncomfortably inside him, each knowing in their own way that something was terribly wrong.

After a long silence, Sam collapses onto the end of his bed and confesses in a small voice, “She left a couple’a hours ago, Dean. On her own.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Dean snorted.

Something patted Dean’s shoulder, and it was a miracle that anything in his bubble didn’t immediately dissolve into molten lava; reining himself in, he turned. Sam was holding a letter.

He shrugged, swallowing thickly. “She said she, uh, needed some time. Not forever, just… time. Wrote you this.”

Dean hung in place. Too quickly, he recovered, and managed the gentleness to take the letter from Sam instead of yanking it away. There was no envelope. Just your tri-fold notebook paper and the bubbly curve of your handwriting on both sides. In the clean white space at the top of the page, you’d written Dean’s name. If he flipped it over and opened it, there would be more bubbly letters strung together in words. Words Dean didn’t have the strength for, right now.

It was easier, much easier, to succumb to the sudden slosh of sickness in him and follow his hangover into the bathroom.

After he empties his stomach and Sam gets some water into him, the crazed packing continues. Your letter goes straight into Dean’s duffle, unread, because Sam asks him what he’s doing, and Dean curtly interrupts him, “What else? We’re gonna go find her.”

Sam avoids his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Reasonably, Dean knew that Sam had helped you. He’d felt it, seeing him walk in late, seeing him pass off the letter. But it only starts to press on him now, with the alcohol sickness becoming a different kind of sickness within him, the full weight of what exactly Sam has done.

“You fucking didn’t,” Dean snarls. “Tell me you didn’t.”

There’s a flicker of rebellion on Sam’s face, but he subdues it for Dean’s sake. He shrugs, “...She wanted to leave.”

The nearest lamp on the bedside table shatters against the wall with a fierce pop. Dean’s close to tears, he’s so upset, sucking down anguished breaths. This is his worst nightmare. It roars off him all at once, and Sam, the nearest target, takes the brunt of it.

“How could you do this to me? How could you do that to her? She—she can’t survive on her own—!” he lies to himself, “—she needs us—and-and I need her! Why would you just let her walk away? What the fuck, Sam?”

“What was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the radiator?!” Sam snaps, spreading his arms wide, “It’s her life!”

“With us!” Dean roars. His throat grates with acid and tears.

“With whoever the hell she wants! You should’ve—” Sam argues. He realizes how fruitless all the yelling is, especially with tears smeared in the creases of Dean’s face. “...I can’t speak for her. Read the damn letter.”

“No,” Dean grates. He gets his duffle over his shoulder, his whole body coiling with betrayal. “Get your shit and get in the fucking car. We’re finding her. Where’d you drop her off?”

Of course, Sam refuses to answer. He gives Dean this quiet, desperate look neither of them is good at processing. Dean’s not exactly in the mood to process much of anything, nevermind this, nevermind the mountain of shit he’s messed up between last night and today.

He snarls. “Where, Sam?”

Sam still doesn’t answer. His stubbornness forces an old ugliness out of Dean that he’ll regret later, but, what’s one more thing for the pile, right?

“What?” Dean whips on his brother. “You give that little of a shit about her? You pick up brunch and a smoothie after you left her to fuckin’ rot?” Baring his teeth, he spits, “She’s not running off to Stanford, kid. This is different and you know it.”

The blow lands so hard that Sam bristles, but if you left a couple of hours ago, then he’s had plenty of time to brace himself for the grave Dean had planned to dig himself. After a long, treacherous silence, Sam finds an answer:

“Train station,” Sam’s lip curls. “But she made sure I drove off before I could see if she even walked in. She’s just like you n’ me, so she’s probably two states over by now—”

Dean slams the front door before he can finish.

It takes Dean four miserable hours to chase the specific bus you’d taken over the border to Connecticut, two days to pinpoint the lousy 83’ Mercury Capri you’d bought, in cash, from a dentist in New Hartford, and another to find it trunk-first in the Connecticut river, stripped entirely of your things. Sam fights him all the way to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a last-ditch distraction tactic. Dean had figured you’d head somewhere busy to shake them, but instead, you’d turned West, to Tulsa.

At the end of the week he finds you waitressing in a little dive just outside town. It’s a long chase, by their standards. As anguished as Dean felt, he couldn’t help nursing a warped sense of pride: his girl was good. Lesser hunters would’ve never caught up with you.

The Impala coasted along the buckling sidewalk framing the lot and stilled, idling on anxious wheels. Dean left sometime after Sam fell asleep. A whole week of non-stop pursuit had almost burned the spirit out of him. Sam’s moral needling never stopped, not until the silence burning up between them was as light as a slab of concrete. Twice now Dean was tempted to cut and leave without him, but the dark swimming part of Dean’s mind knew he deserved the constant backlash. She doesn’t want to see you, Sam had spit once, she needs time.

But the thing was that you’d never needed time before. The only time you’d needed in the past was the minutes it took for you to say, you’ve hurt my feelings, Dean, and the time it took for him to drop into your lap and bemoan his apologies until you were in stitches. He’d clutch your pantleg in his fists and fake-sob, Oh, baby, I’ll never forgive myself fer hurtin’ you! There was a familiar dance to it. At first, you’d stifle your smile and shove at him, all tough n’ girly-like. Dean would hunt down your nearest ticklish spot until your anger was a funny thing you’d both forgotten about, then sink into an apology he really meant. It worked every time and you knew it worked every time, but. Dean would drop his head into your lap and the first thing he’d feel was your hand on his back, keeping him there.

You’d never needed time before. You’d never needed space, because Dean was your space, with no room for anyone else to squirm in between.

It’s been days, man, Sam had said, endlessly. Just read her letter. Just read it.

He’d tried. More than once, he’d steeled himself enough to find it at the bottom of his bag and open it up, but beyond those steps was a whole new hell. He gets three words in and is immediately split open like a deer carcass in the sun. I’m sorry, Dean. Just that is enough to make him carefully re-fold the letter back on its seams.

There, in the parking lot of your bar in Tulsa, Dean finally finds the endurance to shovel past that first line. Originally, his plan isn’t really a plan at all—he’ll swing inside, convince you to come home, get some dinner in you and give “making things right” his best shot. But those are just ideas with no ground to stand on beyond what Sam has told him. And what Sam has told him sounds like, l-like horseshit, something Dean would hunt one of your shitty ex-boyfriends down for. To him, it sounds like something irreparable. That feeling is starting to find its roots.

By the flaxen street light, he spreads the thin notebook paper out on his thigh, careful not to smudge the hurried pen with his fingers. He reads it once and only once, unable to stomach any more.

The Impala pulls out of the lot and slinks back to their motel.

The next day, Dean loads his brother into the Impala, picks a direction, and drives.

His instincts settle back onto their monotonous track, and within a week he and Sam are cutting down vamps in Montana. Only once does Sam ask about what happened, and Dean only shuts him down once for the two of them to return to the Winchester default: not talking about it. Sam clearly wants to, squirming with unspoken questions when they find your spare boots kicked under Baby’s front seat or dodge hunters who’d ask around for you. Dean feels like ripping out his own entrails every time Sam itches to bring you up, but draws blood from his lip instead. When Sam’s out of resolve and Dean’s alone, he presses his face into the shirts you’d borrowed, soaked all the way through with your perfume, choking down tears that don’t do nothin’ for nobody. Especially Dean, who hasn’t cried in front of anyone but you since he was nine.

It’s like he’s lost a limb, left only with the phantom grasping feel of it. Dean definitely copes like a man who’s lost a leg. Sam leaves the issue alone, for the most part, trying to trick himself into being content with you being where you want to be. Meanwhile, Dean’s flask graduates from his duffle to his jacket. Hunting stops being a distraction and gradually opens up into a dangerous sinkhole.

The following weeks reek with deja vu. Silences stretched, gaps in their routine yawned wider, every inch of their never-ending road trip scrubbed raw with impressions of you. Dean must’ve checked the rear-view a thousand times, running on that same old instinct to steal looks at you in the backseat. The whole universe had been kicked off its axis by the aftermath, causing a run of bad luck worthy of a horror movie. Dean’s gun started jamming inexplicably; they’re caught by cops in Indiana and have to circle back two weeks later for the car, which is stripped of everything they’ve got; he almost loses Sam getting their arsenal back from an evidence lockup in Fort Wayne. Scrubbing his brother’s caked blood out of the steering wheel one afternoon, Dean knows that it’s more than luck he’s lost.

When you were stressed or feeling stuck, you’d lay out all their weapons on the bedspread—reminding Dean not to plop his ass down without looking first—and clean them each meticulously. The way you did it sort of reminded him of sewing. You’d count under your breath, so versed in the steps you’d created that you didn’t even have to watch your hands. Sometimes this ritual collided with the nights you polished up your poker skills together, and if Dean listened between hands, there was your counting. Four. Take off the slide. Five. Scrub the frame. If Dean’s pistol landed in the pile, you’d forget you were winning altogether and sink into deeper focus, pretty brows furrowed and your lips in a soft line. Dean’s gun never jammed if you’d been the one to clean it.

You were stealthier, more unassuming, with the kind of easy smile that policemen looking for fugitives glossed over. The cops in Indiana would’ve glossed over you, too. You were the third support beam that kept them sturdy—with you at Dean’s six, he and Sam would’ve smuggled back the arsenal with no problem. And even if there’d been trouble… well. This was you. Lose-a-car-in-the-river-on-purpose you, who Dean could always rely on to back his play.

When Sam has to drive him home from the bar one night, Dean slurs, Everythin’. Everythin’ goes to shit without ‘er.

Those thoughts crept up on him again and again, preying on him in low moments. He buried them under everything close enough to grab, keep the salt lines clean, call Jody, fix the car, but everything thrown on top of his memories of you swayed and shuddered, demanding to be dug up. Dean knew that he’d betrayed you. Already that was unforgivable, but by hurting you he’d broken a blood oath as old as your friendship. At fifteen Dean had sworn to protect you, only to turn around now and wound you so viciously that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say goodbye to him. Not in person. Not in the letter.

It was the one detail his heart couldn’t stop fixating on, no matter how deep Dean buried you. He knew you better than anyone, and you never said goodbye unless things were truly over.

He’d heard you sob it into Sam’s shoulder before he left for school. When the hellhounds came for him in New Harmony, you’d resisted, clutching Dean’s jacket in both hands and weeping instead, “I’ll see you.”

You’d never said goodbye to him.

This turns into a notion, then a stupid idea, then a plan that Dean rolls around in the bottom of his glass, considering. He could get that goodbye from you. He could knock on your window like he’d done when you were kids, say his piece, and then let the grass eat his boots as he waits for you to truly finish this.

He could get that goodbye from you. It’d kill him, but Dean wasn’t sure he could go on without it.

Five minutes into his drive to DeLancey’s Pub and Bar, the slimy dive you waitressed in around the dicier ends of Tulsa, Dean realizes that he’s not even sure if you’re working tonight.

The drive was long—long enough to swerve Dean’s confidence in every single direction possible, until the revving toughness he’d gathered had swan-dived into gut-clenching fear. Two hours ago he’d been combing through articles for a case. Something had compelled him into the car, something bone-deep and inescapable, and if Dean was being truthful with himself it had everything to do with the strange adrenaline he got just being in the same state as you. Twice, he swore he’d seen your face among the officers at the station and blending into the diner crowd at breakfast. He knew that you were a whole town away and intent on not seeing him, but. Dean could sense the divide between you like the childhood home he’d never known. It was a distance he could close and map in his sleep, and after another night jolting out of a nightmare and into a bed empty of you, Dean was exhausted. He missed you so much he was sick, choking back mouthfuls of guilt just thinking of you. He missed you so much that the drive to you could’ve been measured in inches, and the walk to the Impala was even smaller, calling to him.

Waking up, he’d sensed it. Tonight was gonna be different.

Things had started off strong. The second Dean had turned the key and pointed the Impala toward Tulsa, his hands on the wheel were sure as all hell. I’m gonna tell her all my cruddy fuckin’ feelings and get all this cruddy fuckin’ honesty out of the way, then either we make up or she gives me the boot. Simple as that. Nothin’ to it. That was as far as his planning went, since that’s as far as Dean could handle thinking into your future. By the time Dean was off the highway his plan had started eating itself, circling constantly back to your letter to him. But he was already halfway there, then over halfway, and giving up became an increasingly spineless option.

Along the way, I’m gonna give it to her straight, slowly, bloodily evolved into, I’m bringing her the fuck home.

Dean’s propelled himself forward so hard just to get here, so the Impala’s still rolling into park when he clambers out and onto the gravel. His heart is pounding like thunder in his ears but it’s nothing compares to the screaming silence that stands between where the Impala’s sitting and where you must be. DeLancey’s is the only kind of place Dean could picture you working; somewhere low and unglamorous, like any other bar you and Dean had skulked around in your twenties. You lived for skeevy places like this, the shabbier the better, and privately Dean had always thought you were too pretty to exist in places like those. But he’d seen you under neon beer lights so often that you’d sort of claimed it for yourself, this strange brand of cigar-smoke beauty that made Dean’s ears warm.

He thinks of that image and can’t help but need himself to be there, to be with you like he always has, and that’s what gets him across the gravel and through the door.

Either this is a hunter’s bar or the place is packed full of demons, because the second Dean bangs inside, making a few heads jerk up with the noise of it, those heads immediately swivel to whisper to each other. What’s that Winchester boy doing here? Anyone who knows you knows there’s only one answer. The bartender looks up from the drink he was making. The host awkwardly shrinks behind her podium, freezing like everyone else in the room. For just an instant he has the whole saloon itching toward their pistols, and Dean lives off the warped satisfaction he gets from that until the kitchen door swings open for a huge tray of drinks.

Hefting it over one shoulder, you slip easily out from behind the bar and pass the drinks over to a table of hunters. There’s a resonating shock that sizzles through Dean’s system, seeing you. It’s the strange pleasure of confirmation, of knowing that you’re real, that you’re someone he can lay eyes on instead of a slow-fading memory. In your element, you’re… Dean swallows. You’re still you. One of the hunters says something to you, and you snap back in a way that has them all roaring with laughter. All doubt left Dean’s body, and standing there, he’s winded by the single-minded purpose that got him there in the first place. He’s getting you home.

At full tilt, Dean bee-lines for you.

The harsh sound of boot steps makes you glance up, and with it the chatter of the hunters dies away. Your expression doesn’t shift from your usual calm, arrow-eyed look, empty of anger or loneliness or happiness. Just calm, like you knew he’d find you, you’re just surprised it took him this long. You take a cool step away from the table to stand at your full height, and an old shivery warmth flutters down his spine. Yeah. There was his girl, tough as a fuckin’ tank.

“Dean,” you murmured, a greeting.

He wants to murmur your name with the same sweetness. He wants to scoop his arm around your waist like he used to and shove his face in your neck like he used to, spilling his guts in ways he’d only spilled to you. He wants to do this the easy way, but that’s not exactly his default.

Dean swings in, snapping, “Get outside. I’m telling you something whether you like it or not, n’ don’t think I won’t drag you if I have to.”

Your brows fly up your forehead. “Wow.”

Right along with you, the hunters with the front-row seats to the scene Dean’s making bristle in tandem. Some of the guys at the bar twist around on their stools to throw Dean barbed looks, and really, he shouldn’t have underestimated your ability to assemble so many minions like this, since he and Sam had been your minions from day one. The guy closest to Dean makes a big show of scraping his chair back and growling, which Dean pities him for. Get in line, pal.

“That’s my friend you’re talkin’ to, chisel chest. If you know what’s good for you, I’d get the fuck outta’ here,” says Asshole #1 of 4, and the threat hasn’t even landed before you’re neatly cutting through him, “—mind your damn business, Tommy, he has just as much a right to be here as anyone else.”

At your request the other hunters simmer down, and, ignoring Dean, you scoop up your empty tray and deliver it to the bar. All the energy he’d rationed in the car starts to seep out of him, since. Well. Still, after all this time, you didn’t hesitate to bare your teeth for him. With the wind successfully taken out of Dean’s sails, he tries not to twitch in place as you round’ the bar, brush past him and gesture for him to follow you out a side exit.

Your silence terrifies the hell out of him, so adding the hanging quiet of the parking lot to the equation makes Dean’s nerves crawl. He hadn’t realized how loud it’d been in there until you were isolated outside, the rowdy Friday night chatter softened behind the door. Swaying next to you on legs he’s forgotten how to use, a dart of something mean and cold hits Dean in the chest. On the other side of the door, where the lights are dim but warm and the air sings with the tang of alcohol, Don Henley floats into the first lyrics of One of These Nights.

Even now, your magic sways over him. Across from him on the gravel, you stuff your hands under your arms and huff a strand of hair out of your face, glowing gold by the creamy moonlight. If this was any other night of the year that the two of you had fallen out of a bar together, Dean would ask you to dance with him right here by the dumpsters. You’d say yes. He knew you would’ve said yes, then.

“You worried me sick,” is the first thing Dean manages to say. “Wakin’ up, finding you gone—I thought someone had fuckin’ took you, y’know that?”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the coolness in your expression coasts straight into bitterness. Regardless, Dean rolls right past it and right into nervous, emotional ranting.

“I know what I did. I know I don’t deserve shit for it,” he chokes out, “but you could’ve at least said goodbye t’ me! I deserved to know you’d be safe! If you couldn’t… If I was hurtin’ you too much, and if I wasn’t listenin’, you had every right to get the fuck out of there and make your own life somewhere else. But after—after bein’ with me for so, so damn long, so long I don’t even remember how we met, you couldn’t even say goodbye? Nothing? I just have to live with the fact that I don’t even ‘member the last time we fuckin’ talked to each other? Don’t even get to see my best fuckin’ friend one last time?”

“No,” you scowled. “No, you fuckin’ don’t. Because we’ve never been just friends, Dean, and even if you knew that you still played with my feelings. Why the hell would I even want to look at you again? Why do you deserve that?”

Dean flinched. He sputtered on his answer, of course, because he’d never been able to keep his head straight around you. Not now, not ever. “...I guess I don’t. But, um… I know this doesn’t mean much anymore, but…” He closed his hand into a fist, like it was possible to draw in raw courage from the air. “You’re right. We’ve never really been… just plain friends, and—”

“We’ve said I love you,” you scoffed, “We’ve kissed! We’ve spent four whole years on the road together, with nobody but each other, and even years after that you still can’t even admit it to my face! Can’t even say it!”

Dean’s hands are shaking, and in a rush he says, “Yeah? And you wanna know why? Cause’ the second I do, the second it’s out of my mouth, you’re dead. You hear me? A target drops on your back so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Honest to God, you start laughing, the scary hunter’s laugh that only bled out of you in the thick of a chase. “I’m already dead!” You budge him with your fists, almost pushing him back a foot, “We’re both already dead! None of that bullshit matters! Wouldn’t you rather we use the fucking time we’ve got instead of sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? Dean, come on!”

“Of course I do!” He roars. You’re close enough to grab, so he does, ripping you toward him by the wrists, “That’s all I’ve wanted!” He sucks down the cool night air and the little breaths puffing out of you, panting, “You’re all I’ve fucking wanted. Since the last time we were here. Since way before then. But the minute—the second they know that, Hell or—o-or whoever’s after us now, they’re gonna take advantage of that.”

The look on your face is frozen still with mute shock. Choking down another dose of guilt, Dean drops your wrists and suppresses the urge to pull you back in, to squeeze you against him, to kiss you stupid like he’d done years ago.

“Don’t think for one second that I don’t want you,” Dean rasped. “But I’d rather have you livin’ than be with you dead, you get me?”

You closed your eyes. Tears squeezed down your face, rolling around the curve of your cheeks. You grit, “I’m sick of having this argument, Dean.”

Then, the pull to reach out for you grew too great, and Dean couldn’t help but cup one side of your neck. He swallowed, thickly. “I know, baby girl.”

Starved for contact, you dug your nails into the material of his sleeve and did your best to speak. “If I go back with you,” you rattled out. “If I go back w’ you, sittin’ with this is gonna kill me. Can’t wait anymore. Can’t sit in the damn car while you run off with other people. I have t’ go. I love you, but I gotta go.”

Dean was sick of having this argument too. After years and years of it weighing on the two of you like a black hole, of this same old story returning every so often to throw a fresh gap between you both, Dean had hit his limit. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do to keep you living and happy. But this pressure on his heart was heavier than the damn sky, and now more than ever he wanted to let it go. Find another way. Choose you.

He overspills.

“I love you too,” Dean gushed, and from there, poured the rest of his heart out onto the wet asphalt. “Love you so much it makes me damn sick. Makes me all stupid and mushy on the inside, which is probably half the reason I’ve made it this far. Having you gone has just made it worse—the road’s too quiet and the backseat’s always cold, like everything else’s sick too. S’ made me realize that I—I-I can’t do this without you. Everythin’. Livin’ like this. I tried for your sake, I honestly did, but god, baby, I need you home. I need you to come home.”

“Dean—”

“Let me finish!” Dean barked, and the sloping misery on your face paused. “I know why you left. Shit, I’d leave too if the one person I… if that one person kept treating me the way I was treatin’ you. Fuck, _____, if this was some other guy? Doing this to you? I’d kill him. Acid bath, hit him with my car, something. I’d kill him. And I’d—”

Dean stops himself, realizing the spiral he’s throwing himself down. “You’re everything t’ me,” he gasped. “So get in the damn car and just come home.”

In the thousand-foot-drop-silence that follows, the only sound capable of puncturing the space between the two of you is, as always, One of These Nights. Inside DeLancey’s, there are a few couples swinging along to the beat, but all of the real fever is out here, thundering in Dean’s chest. There’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over his feelings out in the open: here, as the Eagles sing your signature song. Dean’s eyes are only on you.

“C’mon, _____,” he pleads, one last time. Again, he’s compelled by something beyond himself, and with nothing left to lose he starts to sing, smiling without feeling. “Oooh,” Dean croons, “loneliness will blind you, in between th’ wrong and th’ right…”

Here it is. You drag in a breath with all the weight of the world on it, and Dean knows what will follow. The goodbye.

Despite yourself, an amused little smile presses through the seams of your composure. You sober yourself. “... Things are gonna have to change, Dean.”

He’s not sure what that means. But it sounds good, and there’s still an optimist swirling around in him somewhere. “Yeah. Of-of course, anything. We can talk about it more, but… I’m willing to put you before anything. I should’ve put you before anything, before.”

You nod. “...Okay. Lemme go tell the other girls on shift.”

That’s good. That’s good, Dean realizes, and without meaning to he beams, blinking hard. You’re coming back with him. That’s what that means, right? Relief rushes through him so fast that he almost faints. Not so prepared to trust it, Dean’s eyes roam across your face for hesitation or displeasure or anger—and some of it’s there. There are still things to fix, still changes to be made, but. On top of all that is beautiful, sweet-tasting relief that Dean feels like collapsing under. You’re coming home.

“Just like that?” Dean asks, and he really shouldn’t be grinning, not until he’s sure and you’ve said it, but he can’t help it.

The tears still beading in your eyes slip into the pressed line of your lips, where a guarded smile is growing. You start nodding and then you don’t stop nodding, sobbing in earnest, and since it hasn’t screwed him over yet Dean follows his instinct to scoop you into a deep hug. You’re a little chilly and you smell a bit like pub food, making Dean’s heart squeeze with nostalgia. God, he fucking missed his girl. You grope around his back for something to cling to and fist both hands in his jacket til’ your fingers ache, and Dean explodes with gratefulness so pure he sways in place with you, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You’re here and you’re alive and you don’t fucking hate him. Dean would take that and this stilted happiness over anything.

“This is all I wanted, D,” you hiccup. “You never say it, n’ I-I just need to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” Dean soothes, but you interrupt him.

“I was too much of an idiot to say goodbye,” you shook your head, smooshing your face into his jacket. “Too scared,” you confessed, and your voice was even scratchy from crying. “I didn’t want it to be over for real. Didn’t wanna close that door forever.”

Dean sloped his palm down your hair, your back, your arm, soaking you in every way he could. “M’ glad you didn’t. I’m sorry I pushed you to any of this, darlin’. I’m sorry too.”

You peel yourself off him just far enough to flash him a wolfish, tear-streaked grin. “Oh, I know you are. Are you ready to be makin’ it up to me for the rest of your life, Winchester?”

Dean makes the mistake of indulging your taunts with a chuckle, which puts this light in your eyes that he never wants to let go of. You swish in real close to his face, threatening with a big, 1000-watt smile, “Pucker up, cowboy, because you’ve got a lot of ass-kissing to do.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, wetting his lips. His belly warmed at the nickname. “So come here, ass.”

It’s not often that Dean has the pleasure of making you so flustered your face steams. He never gets to see it this close, either, so he leans further in to put it all to memory, which just makes your cheeks hotter. Your eyes dart across his face, wild and nervous. Dean’s smile sinks into a nasty smirk because, there you are, tough as nails and melting into your shoes at the thought of kissing him. It’s a lucky thing you’re so distracted. Maybe if you weren’t you’d notice how Dean’s hands are trembling, how his mouth’s watering. His whole nervous system flips when you reign him in by a fist in his collar, and he’s pretty sure his soul levitates out of his body when you kiss him.

One kiss turns into two, then three. Your lips are smooth with vanilla chapstick, and it only takes a minute for it to be all over Dean’s face—his mouth most of all, but the corners of his lips and his chin, too. You’ve always been the sweet one, but something about finally being subject to it melts the iron ball of anxiety in his gut. He kisses back like it’s his damn job, pouring his confession, his apologies into you, cupping your face, dimpling your cheeks with his thumbs. You’re softer than he remembers, and the fact that he could be forgetting anything at all about the last night you spent in Tulsa together makes him starved to remember this.

By some twist of fate, Bad Company’s Ready For Love plays next on the cue inside. With you cozy in his arms, his body works on muscle memory, and soon you’re swaying back and forth as you kiss, dipping in close for sweet pecks of each other.

“I love you,” he thinks he hears you say.

Playfully, Dean budges your nose with his and sing-songs, “Can’t hear you!”

“I said,” you took in a big breath, “I LOVE YOU TOO, asshole.”

Dean dissolves into chuckles, which are happily interrupted by more insistent kisses. You’re almost ten whole feet from where you started, and scooping up your hand, Dean starts the trek backward to where the Impala is parked. It’s your home as much as it’s his, so you barely need him to take the lead to find it among the other cars.

“Hm,” you say, “Maybe the girls will just figure out for themselves why I’m gone, yeah?”

“They’ll survive without you,” Dean shrugs. “You got other people who need you.”

“Need me,” you say, just rolling the unfamiliar words around in your mouth. Dean feels another pang of guilt; he could’ve sworn he’d told you that more, could’ve sworn he showed his love to you every day. Another thing to change.

“Yeah, need you,” Dean mutters, and he doesn’t mean to expose the desire rolling around in his belly, but there it is. He wants to take it back as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the second you get a taste of it, you’re hooked. A beat later he’s being pushed up against the driver’s door of the car and kissed stupid, warm and wet and so much of what he remembers. Fantasizes about.

In the next kiss a gentle hand grabs at the clasp to his belt buckle. Instantly, Dean pulls back to speak.

“Sweet pea,” he manages, trying so hard to be reasonable and good and everything that you deserve. You laugh at the nickname, which eases his mind a bit. “...You sure you don’t wanna wait? I think I got other things to prove t’ you, first.”

You draw him into a deep, lingering siren’s kiss that leaves his knees threatening to lock and his common sense threatening to bend.

“Can’t wait any longer,” your eyes burn like cigarettes, all heat. Quietly, you ask him, “Prove to me I’m your favorite. That m’ the only girl you’re looking at.”

There’s the underlying desperation to your voice that goes beyond just wanting to have sex with him. This is confirmation of something to you, something you need to hear, to feel. So Dean guides you into the backseat and proves it to you.

This is not at all where he expected this night to go, and he’s grateful that he’d lost the opportunity to overthink himself into his grave. There’s no room for Dean to worry if he was really good enough for you, if he deserved this, because these things are proven to him too. You slot so perfectly into his lap that he knows the moment you’re out of it he’ll be battered with homesickness. For long breaths there’s no kissing at all, just Dean nuzzling his face into your neck and committing each second to memory. When you do kiss him it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, this grand, surging happiness that ripples through him head-to-toe. Each kiss has a new kind of gentleness, and before either one of you starts to strip Dean knows that you want more than what he’s about to give you—you want him, and that feeling is an old comfort.

Knowing your famous attitude, Dean would’ve bet money on you taking control, but for whatever reason you step back and let him make the first move. Again, it tells him that this is his chance to tell you something, to make it clear that he wants you and he’s going to show it. So he does. Your fingers in his hair are all the invitation he needs.

Dean scrapes his palms up your back as you kiss, soaking up every naked inch of skin he’s allowed. You’re making all these soft little noises that make the pressure in his jeans unbearable, so with the next drag of his hands he’s intent on seeing what you’ll feel like naked in his lap. When your uniform is nothing but a memory and your throat’s slick with hickeys, you try out a new way of teasing him, murmuring in that caramel voice how long you’ve wanted to feel him inside you. After that he doesn’t even care about being fully naked—but you clearly do. He puts your roaming hands on his belt. I want you to do this part, I want it to be you who opens me up. You kiss him so intensely that Dean doesn’t even remember when or how his belt comes off. Or his shirt, or his jeans, or his boots, gulping down your love potion by the gallon.

All he knows is pretty girl, his pretty girl, and swaths of hot sweat-tacky skin on top of him. You hesitate to close that final gap between you once the condom’s on, so Dean whispers whiskey-warm assurances in your ear as he cups the curve of your ass and slides you onto him. The moan that presses out of you pours right into your next kiss, then the next, and the next. It takes everything in him to start slow; Dean gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds across his lap. The rippling squeeze of you around him is too good to be real. You press your lips into his, then his nosebridge, his forehead, urging him on, and that’s all Dean needs to let go. He cups the dip of your back, shoves his face in your neck and just loses it.

Dean rocks you across his lap at a vicious, pounding tempo, giving you his all. The whole time his head bumps against the height of the seat, craning to watch the perfect little shifts in your expression. You’ve got your eyes squeezed shut and your lips parted. His lap is slick with you, making the grind, the chase, the rush to the finish come faster and faster. He could’ve gotten off on the sounds you were making alone. They turn into full-on squeals when Dean slides his fingers between your legs, and a flush of I love you I love you I love you bursts out of him when the hot silk wrapped around him clamps even tighter. You cum almost sobbing his name, and Dean coos you through it, his thighs cramping with effort. But it’s all worth it—you’ve always been worth it.

He finishes with your hands combing through his sweat-damp hair, echoing back to him the three words he’d been chanting the entire time.

It’s a few hours before dawn when you land in Sam and Dean’s motel a town over. Dean had wanted to get back earlier, intent on having you back as soon as possible, but it’d taken a bit to pack your stuff into the Impala and drive home. You’d commented on being hungry on the way back too, which ended with Dean pouring an entire gas station’s worth of snacks into your lap at three in the morning.

By then it’d gotten too cold out to be comfortable, so it was tempting to succumb to sleep in front of the Impala’s heaters. But robbing yourself of any time with Dean wasn’t an option, so you pushed through, feet aching after an eight-hour shift and body glowing with Dean’s affection. You nibbled on twinkies in the passenger’s seat, happy that he was happy. He kept the radio off to hear you, but hummed when the conversation peacefully faded. I can hear the train a’ comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend…

Sam was waiting for you on the stoop outside the room when you pulled up, and did an impressively poor job at containing himself. He’d gotten his arms around you before your door was fully shut, and when you were back on your feet his brother took up your other side. Together, you herded each other into the cozy darkness of the motel. Someone said something about unpacking your things; but all three of you were tired, so that thought was saved for tomorrow.

Dean tossed his jacket on the back of a chair. Sam rearranged the salt lines on the window sills with a careful hand. You fumbled into the first pajamas you could find (aka, the hoodies in Dean’s duffle that rightfully belonged to you), and crash straight into bed, too lazy to kiss goodnight like usual. When the lights were off and the boys were down too, you stretched a hand out from under your comforter and reached across the bed’s gap.

“Goodnight, Sam,” you told him, wiggling your fingers.

His whole hand engulfed yours in a warm, I missed you squeeze, and then he was rolling onto his stomach and sinking like a rock into sleep.

When you twisted onto your other side, Dean was already there, propped up on an elbow. His broad hand on your shoulder smoothed across your belly to pull you into him. Once you were close enough to kiss, he disregarded your cheek and your forehead entirely, dipping in for a real kiss that tingled all the way down to your toes.

“G’night,” Dean whispered.

Welling with too much emotion to put into words, you willed it all into a simple and loving, “Goodnight, cowboy.”

Together, you snuggled down into your blankets and crashed, content.

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss

#dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #user uncouth #uncouthspn #supernatural #spn #Spotify

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strayflowersstarsandlove · 5 months

Text

Peaches and cream (leefelix)

"Oh come on! You cheated, you must have cheated!", "I did not!", "you threw turtle shells at me at the finish line!". Felix fake cries and whines, shaking the wii controller in his hands as he pouts and purses out his lips and you laugh full chested but also almost feel bad for him. Almost. It's not your fault he sucks at Mario Kart but still is so seriously competitive about it! You can let him win and gaslight him into thinking it was all his own doing for only so much time! You playfully pat his shoulder with fake sympathy and bat your eyelashes at him, "I'm sorry Fefi, you have to accept that you're just not that good", you snicker and he sticks his tongue out at you before taking a sip from his long forgotten iced peaches and cream tea, which he flinches at, squinting his eyes as he makes a disgusted face:"yikes, it turned into room temperature melted whipped cream and sugar, ewl", he comments, sliding the plastic cup away from him, even pushing it on the side with his foot as you guys both sit on the floor, your backs resting against the edge of the couch behind you. You chuckle and offer him some of your water but he refuses politely so you just take a sip and then sigh contently.

Mild spring afternoons were your favourite, spring break was nearing and your free afternoons were either spent quietly studying at Felix's place or going on walks and shopping sprees with him or just laying on his floor just talking and talking, enjoying each other's company. Your friendship was almost a decade long, you were so comfortable and close many thought you two were dating even though it never crossed either of your guys' mind. Or so you thought.

Something subtle and quiet had been bubbling up inside you lately. Maybe it was the way his presence was always so peaceful and warm, his support stable and reassuring throughout your most recent years struggling through college, maybe it was the calmness and positivity he radiated through your hardest, most uncertain times of your early adulthood that had been making you thinking about him differently.

You weren't too sure about your feelings, you just knew you sometimes found yourself staring at the way his platinum blonde hair caught the sunlight, giving him the ethereal look of an angel, and the way his deep brown eyes just always looked so kind and somehow melancholic, the way he would smile and his entire face would lit up. It was the tiny details, really. It's not like you never counted the freckles on his face or stared in awe at the twinkle in his eyes or never melted a little at the sound of his morning baritone voice. You were always well aware of all that, it was just that lately everything had started to seep a little further into your thoughts and you felt some sort of yearning, a languor for him that wasn't there before.

"So, are you excited about your date next week?". Oh yeah. There was the infamous date. You were actually so nervous about it but for all the wrong reasons. You turn to Felix with a frown, shrugging your shoulders, "I wouldn't use the term excited, to be honest", "how come?", he asks, tucking his legs beneath him as he fully turns to you, resting his elbow against the couch, one hand sifting through his hair as he intently listens to you, giving you his full attention, "well… Three reasons. First of all I only agreed to it because he was being so persistent, second of all it's actually Rebecca's idea, this whole thing, she set it up cause he's her boyfriend best friend and I guess she got tired of me complaining about her never introducing me to her other friends so she thought the double date she initially planned would fix it. But I did not enjoy it one bit. She was all over her boyfriend and this guy would not stop talking about himself not even for a second. He barely asked my name and was a bit rude to our server at the restaurant… ", you trail off and Felix nods as a way of gently prodding you on, he frowns at the mention of your friend's friend mannerism and knits his eyebrows together when he sees you're now avoiding his gaze and have stopped talking altogether:" what's the third reason?",he asks and you nervously pull at your fingers, trying to gather the courage to reveal something even your other best friend Rebecca doesn't know, much less Felix, "I never been kissed. I never had my first kiss. Ever".

You should've known Felix really isn't the type of guy who judges and talks down to anyone so it doesn't come as a surprise when he keeps a straight face, he's almost unphased, you could say, if not for the slight single eyebrow raise, "okay? And I guess you don't want this guy to try and make any move on you? You don't want him to be your first kiss, which is understandable", he says calmly and you nod your agreement, "y-yeah. And I know I sound so pretentious and it is my fault I never had my first kiss and I know it's stupid cause really it is just a freaking kiss-", you pause your rambling, smiling bittersweetly at your own worked up self, "but it's just… I know it's meaningless in the grand scheme of things but I don't want to waste something I will only get to experience once for the first time with someone I don't really care about. Who's also really not my type. I should've gotten it over and done years and years ago but I guess I'm a super later bloomer", you chuckle, and again, it's that bittersweet kind of regretful chuckle that escapes your lips.

Felix smiles sweetly at you and shakes his head lightly, "there is no set time for anything, y/n. You are in your twenties and you never been kissed, so what? Plenty of people haven't either. It doesn't matter", he runs his hand through the front of his hair, pushing it back in that usual way that exposes his forehead and you catch a glimpse of his freckles up there, the faded dark roots at the base of his hair line, you blink a few times, trying not to get too mesmerized at how even the simplest, most normal things about him make him look so beautiful,"I like that you said you only get it to really experience it once, cause it is true. Things are only new until you get to try them and you must cherish that. You must make them feel precious to you. Just don't let them also get you stuck in super set ways",you nod at his wise words as he pauses, thinking about how much you like hearing about his perspective on things.

"I had my first kiss when I was 17 and everyone in my class already had it by the time they were 14 and I did not like it, but that's okay", he chuckles at the memory and you tilt your head to the side, smiling at him, "you never told me about it. How was it? Was the girl not nice to you?", you ask, resting your arms on top of your knees as you pull your legs closer to your chest, "oh no, she was nice. She was lovely. I think it happened at prom or something",he pauses again, the look on his eyes a bit dreamy, a bit distant as he reminisces of those times long gone, and he giggles softly and you notice the slight blush on the top of his cheeks as if he's feeling a bit embarrassed at the memory, "I think we were dancing to a slow song or something and I believe she was expecting me to make the first move so I kind of did, not knowing she had just had some of the garlic pizza they had for us from the food catering".

Your eyes go wide in anticipation and your jaw drops which makes Felix giggle even more, "oh my god", you manage, stifling a giggle yourself, "hahaha yeah it was tragic. You know how I sometimes also don't really think before I say things? Well, I told her. I saw she was leaning in again and I stopped her and told her she smelled of garlic and I really couldn't, I really wanted to make her happy and kiss her again but I couldn't and it was so awkward. She kind of understood and didn't go for it again but as soon as the song ended she left with her friends".

As much as it pains you to laugh at him you just cannot contain the full chested giggle that erupts from you but your glad to see him laughing with you, just as much. "Sometimes things just don't go our way", Felix says once you've both calmed down, "stuff like this happens when it's supposed to happen and you just have to kind of go with it. Don't put so much pressure on yourself and the hypothetical person who's going to kiss you first, it'll be okay. I survived, I survived a full on garlic clove", he assures you and you both giggle again.

A comfortable silence settles in for a moment, you rest your cheek on top of your arm and sigh, reflecting on his words: you know damn well he's right through and through, you just wish you could help the blooming nervousness tugging at your insides. Because you know, realistically speaking, that no other guy will be as understanding and caring as Felix is, you've avoided dates and guys in general cause you subconsciously knew they would've made fun of you for being so unexperienced. Either that or they'd taken advantage of you.

"Do you think I should give this guy a chance?", you ask after a little while, lifting your head up and tucking your hair behind your ears, "you could. He might have been just trying to impress you when you went on that double date. If you end up not liking him even a little bit, you walk away, especially if he tries to do something you don't want him to do", he replies, smiling reassuringly at you. Maybe you should just follow his advice. Maybe finally going out with someone else will get rid of that blooming languor you feel for Felix. "You look like there's still a lot troubling your pretty little head", he adds then, studying your face, searching your eyes for something that you can't quite pin point, you laugh nervously and shrug, "I guess I'm just nervous. That's all. I won't force anything to happen between us, if I do end up going on that date, but part of me is still a little scared I guess", "what scares you?", he asks quietly, scooting closer to you, "messing up. Not knowing what do to and making a fool of myself cause I just never dated anyone, cause my ninth grade boyfriend doesn't count", you confess, laughing half heartedly at the silly little memory of what were basically ice cream play dates with that kid from your chemistry class that only lasted a few weeks.

Felix playfully nudges your shoulders and smiles that radiant smile at you, the one that could melt ice on the spot, "you won't mess up. Kisses have no particular technicalities, it'll come natural to you in the moment", he says giggling fondly at you, but when he sees that genuine worry and unease on your face he stops and just looks at you for a moment, kind eyes taking in your features one by one, "I can be your first kiss", he suggests, his voice low and firm but still sweet. Your heart skips more than a beat then, and you try your best not to let it show, "wha-what?, he shrugs and smiles cheekily," I'll kiss you if it means it'll make you feel a little less scared, I can see this is weighting down on your heart quite heavily and I hate seeing you so sad and nervous. I'd rather not take this away from you, not take the surprise element away from it but I'd also rather you experience it with someone you can trust and that cares about you so you can be be done with it than have you living with the highest expectations only to have them destroyed by someone who you're not so keen on".

You have to subtly pinch the skin on your forearm to make sure you're actually awake. You stare at him with eyes so wide you're afraid they're gonna pop off, you swallow down the sheer nervousness in your tone before daring to speak up again, "you-you would do that for me? Where's the catch? ", you try to sound light hearted and cheerful, not at all like your heart literally just stopped functioning for a second, you put on your best smile and he laughs cheerfully as well, "there is no catch. You get to over come your fear and be done with this once and for all and I get to kiss a pretty girl. That's it."

The way he slipped that compliment in there makes your heart rate pick up again but you don't have time to dwell on it because Felix is already leaning in. Oh god. Oh god this is happening. You psyche yourself into firmly convince your heart you're not going to pass out but as soon as you see Felix close his eyes and barely parting his lips you freak out and bend your head down cowardly, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I - sorry", you mumble, feeling your cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as you breathe out loudly, shaking your head in frustration, but he only smiles patiently at you, "that's okay, take your time", he instructs calmly, his voice so warm and low and soft all at once. He waits for you to lift up your head again slightly and squints his eyes at you, and there's that twinkle in them, there's that softness you wish you had the words to describe, "can I touch your face?", he asks quietly, barely brushing your cheek with his fingertips, "I'll just hold you gently, like this", he continues, cupping your chin and then your cheek again, thumb brushing the blush on your skin, "mmmh, y-yeah", you nod briefly, appreciating the way he's trying to make you feel more comfortable while still giving you a little space to breathe and regain your composure, which you do. Finally forcing down the knot in your throat and looking up into his eyes: "you wanna… Uhm.. - you wanna try that again? ", you offer, your heart beating so fast It drowns out the sound of your own breathing.

Pillowy soft. Like impalpable cotton. Felix's lips are on yours in the most delicate kiss. And then they're on top of yours, his top lip gently tapping your bottom one until your tongue meets his. The tip of his nose presses into yours until he angles his chin slightly to the side and his tongue flicks on your palate as he inhales deeply. He tastes faintly like peaches and whipped cream from his tea earlier and he smells like soap and like his expensive cologne, a hint of the brownies you had baked that morning.

You feel his hand still warm on your cheek he caresses it once, his lips full and sweet on yours once more. And then it's all over in what both feels the quickest and the most eternal second ever. You are flabbergastated and breathless from the adrenaline but you barely catch the stupor that flashes so fast in his eyes before they turn to their former melancholic selves as he lets go of you.

"Wasn't so scary now, was it?". Felix shrugs like nothing happened and looks as unphased as ever. He smiles briefly at you but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes. You nod and look down at your hands, the pictures of the moment you and him just shared burning deep in your head.

When you get back home that night you feel like crying for no reason at all.

Part 2, anyone?

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copperbadge · 2 years

Text

When I was ten, I was an absolute nightmare for one single, specific school year.

I was fine with my parents and friends, but in class I was disruptive and low-achieving, I cheated constantly, and I was generally a pain in the ass. I was in a progressive school where I’d been for two years without any issues, so everyone was bewildered by this, understandably so.

I hadn’t thought about it for decades until recently, with the ADHD diagnosis. Not that I’m blaming my behavior on ADHD; I did what I did deliberately, consciously, and it set a pattern for later acting out as a teen -- self-sabotage as a method of getting attention. If I’d had different family or different teachers later on it might have worked and I’d still be doing it, but in high school it never got me an ounce more attention, good or bad, so eventually I stopped. And I got through high school and got two college degrees, so I guess in a screwed-up way, ignoring me worked.

When I was ten I was a genuinely smart and good-natured kid. I was doing fine in most subjects, but I began to fail in math. And when I began to be told I must be doing it on purpose because it wasn’t like it was hard math (multiplication), I thought, if you want to see failure, let’s go.

I bombed on everything from biology to music appreciation. That’s how bad it got. Because fuck you, that’s why! I couldn’t verbalize that yet but that’s what it was. You want me to do one thing I’m not capable of doing and you won’t believe me when I say I can’t? Fine. I won’t do anything you want me to do. What a little shit! I'm kind of proud of him, even as fucked up as it was.

I keep thinking about it now because above and beyond anyone else, that teacher is the one who should have seen it, who should have comprehended that this was not just a behavioral problem. I don't know if anyone was truly capable of catching my learning disability but if anyone was going to, it was going to be her. That teacher should have seen this bright, friendly little kid throwing himself at a brick wall -- and then throwing himself off a cliff -- and said, “There’s something truly wrong here. He can’t do this. Let’s find out why.”

Instead she gave me a poster with a fucked up poem on it.

She told my parents I was at a difficult age, and they also had a kid with autism and not a lot of emotional resources to spare for me, who had never needed it before. So it was easy to believe her, send me to my room (which was full of books, so I went quite happily) and beg the school to move me up a grade with my cohort so I wouldn’t continue to be poorly socialized. They said I was smart, I’d catch up, and the school agreed. And I did. Mostly. Still can’t do multiplication, but it’s remarkable how infrequently I need to. Partly I caught up because the next teacher looked at my record and said, “It seems like you’re not very into math. Just do what you can,” never gave me a math test, and graded me on my own personal curve when it came to numbers. Crisis averted for the moment.

I’m not angry with my parents or the therapists they sent me to or the educational system. But I’m still a little mad at that one teacher who told me I was too smart to fail unless I was doing it deliberately. She might not even deserve it; she had 20 kids to manage and I’m sure she was angry with me and thought I was a liar. In her place I might not have worked it out either, though I think I would have been less of a sanctimonious dickhead about it.

But that’s the thing about this kind of journey. You don’t really get to choose who you’re mad at or why. You only ever get to choose what to do about it.

She has since passed, and the school combined with another school a few years ago so it doesn’t exist. I could reach out to one of my other early teachers, who I think would remember me, and ask him about it, but I don’t know what the point would be. I’ve dealt with the habit I had of fucking up my own life worse than anyone else could fuck it up for me, I don’t do that and haven’t in a long time, so there’s nothing...lingering, I suppose. I’m not traumatized by it. I think the word is annoyed. I’m annoyed by it.

So I guess I just think about it until I come up with something to do or until I've thought about it enough.

#sam has adhd

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bluef00t · 6 months

Text

Finally collecting these in a post—Atomic Robo robotswap ideas. This was more of a character design challenge than a real AU, but the concept kind of got away from me.

Rambling design notes + a couple panel redraws + some ideas I had for Helsingard and ALAN 1.0 under the cut:

This idea spiraled out of an old sketch by Wegner of real-boy Robo as a genetics experiment. I'm interpreting that as basically Wolverine minus the animal motifs (and generally much more well-adjusted).

I tried to mimic more elements of his bot design; for example the hair silhouette and the thick blue-tinted glasses, swapped for goggles as his lifestyle got more active. I guess sensitive eyes are a side effect of his mutations. (The classic superhero forehead curl on babyrobo has no design justification, I just couldn't resist.) His appearance would make the public of the '20s a little uncomfortable with seeing him as Tesla's son. Which feels very thematically appropriate.

I'm still calling him "Robo" because it feels weird not to, though it would be a nickname. Appropriate for a guy who never sleeps; plausibly derived from Robert/Ratko. (The American name would be how he's introduced to the public; the Serbian one used casually by Tesla.*) Honestly, it seems in-character for him to put down Robo as his actual legal name when he finally got that chance.

*Things I found out after picking these names for their superficial resemblance to "Robo": Robert means "famous, shining" and Ratomir means "defender of peace"; literally "war for peace". Definitely an affectionately ironic moniker for a son so determined to be an action hero. Though dear monolingual Robo probably wouldn't catch on until decades after Tesla's death... Well, now I've gone and made myself sad.

The action scientists are mostly an excuse to still draw robots. Let's say they're Robo's big midlife crisis project after realizing he was going to outlive his entire first team and not think about it too hard.

Vik (inspired by Robby the Robot) is the oldest of the models. He's optimized for processing power, which is how you get a robot that will try to suggest purely hypothetical (but mathematically sound!) solutions to urgent real-world problems. And enjoys TTRPGs of Turing-complete levels of complexity.

Lang (inspired by Robo) came shortly after, more optimized for the "action" part of action science. Being made of metal does wonders for your recoil management. (I know she hasn't had the hair buns in 10+ years, but that's what I was trying to do with the "antennae".)

Foley (inspired by Alan) is the newest model, optimized for human-robot interaction. Getting wifi installed in her head early on had the unexpected side effect of making her really good at understanding networks of all kinds.

BRN-3 wasn't built to be sentient. He's just a lab geological survey bot that began showing signs of sapience one day and attributes his own "enlightenment" to the "crystals" he'd been studying. This is obviously bullshit but nobody can give a better explanation, so...

Jenkins is literally just the Terminator, except his evil future is vampires instead of AI. He was sent back to kill Robo, which clearly didn't work, so they talked it out and now he just hangs around Tesladyne on high alert for anything that might kick off the apocalypse.

(I have no idea where Ada, Ben, and Koa fit in here, but I might come back to them later. Using their Agents of CHANGE power suits as android designs felt like cheating.)

Not included in these drawings are Helsingard and ALAN, but I'm considering switching around parts of their premises, too.

Helsingard was a Nazi supercomputer meant to calculate the perfect world-conquering strategy. Instead, it realized that Germany's loss was imminent and hid copies of itself around the planet. Every once in a while, someone accidentally boots up a copy and it tries to take over. In the modern age it's a total dice roll as to whether this will be horrifying (what major infrastructure isn't computerized these days?) or just kind of pathetic (it's too old to understand the internet and can easily get itself trapped in an office printer spitting toner and stacks of paper that read BEHOLD HELSINGARD).

ALAN (potential rename pending; the Turing connection is rather lost in the version I'm going with for now) is the world's second successful "unkillable" genetic experiment, a govt project during the Cold War to ensure that the last man alive in a nuclear winter scenario would be British. But it turns out telling a guy he's the next stage in human evolution and sealing him in a bunker for decades to await a chance to inherit the earth which doesn't come isn't great for his sense of compassion or morality. Eventually, ALAN decides to hurry things along before we inferior humans end the world in a less convenient way, and Robo has to... well, you know this part.

It turns out there was a secret phase 2 to this plan, which would have been to populate the solar system with perfect immortal mind-networked clones of himself. The single under-baked clone that it does manage to spit out before being shut down is our Alan :] He needs someone to look after him while his crazy healing powers fill in the missing chunks of his body and brain, and he didn't get a full memory upload from ALAN, so it's free son boy!

No changes were made to Dr. Dinosaur. He's already perfect.

#atomic robo #robotswap #bluef00t art #the part under the cut is pretty long I've been turning this over in my head for a while #there's definitely bits of continuity that don't quite work (even Wolverine would have trouble with the head-in-a-box-for-130-years thing)#but this isn't really about rewriting something coherent. this is about how fun it is to do panel redraws as warm-ups #000

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bellofthemeadow · 8 months

Text

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Country Singer!Joel Miller x Female Reader

This is my entry for the 1k event found on @pedrostories

Trope: Forced Proximity

Masterlist

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 12.7K (T.T Sorry )

Story Summary: Amidst a raging storm, an unexpected meeting thrusts you into forced proximity with former country sensation, Joel Miller, in the midst of an isolated nowhere. As the evening unfolds, filled with tension and vulnerability, both of you unveil the depths of your grief and heartaches. Through this shared journey of sorrow, an unanticipated bond forms, and maybe some light at the end of the storm.

Warning: Mentioned of death, TLOU canonical character death, mentioned of attempted suicide, depression, mental health struggle, referenced to cheating, angst, hurt and comfort, allusion of alcoholism, self hatred, smut, sexual intercourse, P in V, oral (female receiving), no protection, one night stand, age gap (late 20s/early 30s Reader with mid 40s Joel(No Minors Allowed! Thank you)

Notes: Hey everyone, I am taking a short break from my regular story to enter the 1K event on @pedrostories. What was supposed to be a short one shot, became an almost 13k word Behemoth! Although this is intended as a standalone, I found myself really liking the universe and the characters. If any of you would be interested to see more of the universe, I would be super open to making a second and a third part 😀 🤞 😀

Let me know what you all think and if you'd like to see more of it and if you enjoy the story. I always love to hear what you all think!

Again, thank you to everybody, I love you all so much xxx Sending you all the love and support wherever you are ❤️

(SMUT BETWEEN **** SKIP IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT****)

Joel Miller sat hunched next to the large stone hearth, He carved a solemn figure in the corner of his secluded cabin. Far into the woods and away from the rest of the world, he had called this place his home for the past decade. Clutched in his hands was a photograph —a young girl, her long curly hair and dusky complexion frozen in a smile that still reached into his very soul and threaten to rip it out everything he looked at it. That smile, oh, how he longed to see it again, it had been his only wish for so long. Even for just minute, a mere second; he would gladly give his soul to have his life lighted by the smile of his babygirl just one last time.

With a gentle touch, Joel traced the delicate outline of his daughter, the girl whose absence had dug a profound whole in his heart. One that could never be mended again. It was ten years today, Joel thought bitterly. But still, he clung to her memory fiercely, fearing the gradual fading that time brings to everything. He dreaded the thought of losing the vividness with which he saw her now, a fear that gripped him tighter as the years moved forward. The details that once were clear as the early morning dew now seemed to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. The echo of her laughter, the title of the last book she held in her hands, the subtle nuances that made her unique—he struggled to grasp them, and this realization filled him with fear and hatred. What kind of father forgot about his babygirl?

Was her sneeze loud as his own, or was it a delicate sound, more like a sweet whisper? The uncertainty gnawed at him, a relentless reminder of the gaps in his mind. Why couldn't he rememeber? What if a day came when he could no longer conjure the contours of her sweet face or the mischievous curve of her teasing smile? The thought was unbearable, the guilt consuming him more each days.

Joel’d never considered himself an exemplary father, he grappled with the weight of regret for being too engrossed in his career to give his daughter a normal childhood. The rhythm of their lives was not marked by little league games and playdates with neighbours; instead, it was deafining with the roar of tour buses and the pungent scent of roadies, accompanied by the loud cheering of fans all over the country. Sarah’s life had always been unorthodox and it had been his fault—home tutoring replaced high school classrooms, the lessons fitting in the gaps between Nashville and Austin, where he recorded albums to give entertainment to the world. Something that, looking back, seemed futile and completely stupid. He would give all of his money, awards and recognition away just to hold his Sarah one more time.

When she died, he was stripped bare, nothing left inside the whole where his heart had once been. And Joel found himself adrift, the passion for his craft evaporating. How could he make music without the sound of a heart that once beat in harmony with his daughter's laughter? The will to create, the desire that once fueled his artistry, had lost its pulse. The prospect of touring, once thrilling and freeing, now seemed like an empty road stretching into oblivion. What purpose did it serve if Sarah was no longer there to illuminate the stage of his life? The exhilaration of performance, the applause that once gave him purpose—these fragments of success had become hollow, devoid of meaning.

It was not all bleak though, amidst the darkness of his existence, there were moments where the good outweighed the bad. Nights brought dreams of Sarah, where her presence was vibrant and tangible. In those dreams, she would look at him with that familiar smile, and for a fleeting instant, the chasm between what was dead and alive seemed to bridged together. Joel would see her as clear as day, sitting together in their old house, the echoes of their conversations resonating through is sleeping form. It seemed like hours would melt away as Joel and Sarah would delve into discussions about music and school sharing stories that held a fragile thread between past and present. But in the end, dawn would inevitably break, and reality would reassert its grip. Joel would inevitably wake up, the cabin steeped in an unsettling silence, his heart laden with the guilt and grief of her absence. Those dreams were his sanctuary, a bittersweet realm where he could briefly hold onto the warmth of what once was. But he couldn't live in dreams, and now even those moments that seemed to make life bearable were starting to wade in their appeal; they appear more cruel than kind as every mornings killed him a little more.

A resounding clap of thunder reverberated through the confines of the cabin. In its wake, a brilliant flash of lightning pierced the darkness. Joel sighed heavily and the raindrops began their relentless descent upon the cabin's roof and walls. It seems like the world outside mirrored his internal turmoil, the tempestuous weather a reflection of the storm within. 3652 days had slipped by a relentless procession of time. 87,648 hours of unbearable absence. Each passing moment stretched into an eternity, a cruel reminder of how long he had been without his cherished little girl.

Immersed in this ceaseless torrent of sorrow, he existed in a realm of suspended animation. Every action felt like a monumental effort, and the concept of simply being felt like an insurmountable challenge. The world around him had dimmed, muted by the overwhelming weight of his emotions. In this somber existence, even the simple act of drawing breath carried the weight of an arduous task. The colors had faded from his world, leaving behind a landscape of gray and desolation, mirroring the emptiness within.

His hand reached out, fingers closing around the cool neck of the whiskey bottle resting on the low table before him. A pang of bitter guilt tightened within him—he could almost hear his little Sarah's admonishment, disapproving of the choice he was about to make. She always hated the strong smell of liquor that would linger on his old leather jacket when they would go on tour. His eyes drifted toward the shotgun that rested next to the door, his heart seized tightly within his chest. Maybe tonight he would do it, he thought. Maybe tonight he would free himself from the pain and the guilt of an existence without Sarah.

In the stillness of the cabin, Joel's voice trembled with pain and longing as he whispered, "To you, babygirl, I miss you so much."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Loud knocks echoed through the quiet cabin, making Joel freeze in his tracks. Raindrops kept beating in a frenzied rhythm on the roof, their clamour joining forces with the unexpected raps. Joel couldn’t remember the last time someone had knocked on his door. With how remote cabin the cabin was, there was hardly any visitors, ever. Only his brother Tommy and his old manager Tess knew about this place. Tess used to drop by every now and then, hoping he'd start working on a new album (which would never happened). But now she knew better than that.

With slow and deliberate movements, Joel set the bottle onto the table's worn surface, his movement unhurried as if not to disturb the tension that now hung in the air. His gaze swept the room, his gaze landing again on the shotgun near the entrance. He grabbed it and made his way to the entrance. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a zealous fan who had somehow found his address. He really wasn’t in the mood tonight to re-enact Misery.

He swung the door open, his irritation peaking, prepared to confront whoever was bothering him on this day above all others.

"I don't know if ya capable of reading,", his voice dripping like venom, seeping with annoyance, "but in case ya missed it, there's a 'Private Property' sign right on the..."

You sat on the large leather couch, trying to make yourself as small as possible while your body shivered involuntarily as the chill from your drenched clothes seemed to seep into your very bones. You didn't want to be here. The man who opened the door for you certainly didn't want you here. But the violent storm outside had other ideas. The dirt paths of the forest had turned muddy and slippery and the force of the wind and rain had completely obscured your vision, there was no way you could have made it back to your car in those conditions. So when you had spotted the cabin as you were looking for shelter, you had almost cried in happiness. Now you weren't so sure as anxiety gripped you. You replayed the moments after the door swung open, revealing a stern looking man who eyed you with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. The hint of a shotgun nearby had done nothing but intensify your fear. For a second you had wanted to bolt from the place, but you had no other choice. In the end the man had let you in, simply introducing himself as Joel.

Clutching your arms around yourself in a futile attempt to generate warmth, you look around yourself at the interior of the cabin. Surveying your surroundings, the rustic charm of the living room did little to alleviate your anxious mind. The ambiance should have felt cozy, even romantic in any other circumstances, with the warm wooden decor and the crackling fireplace. But under the weight of your current predicaments, thoughts of roasting marshmellows and teasing kisses were at the back of your mind.

You were alone, drenched to the bone, in the company of a man you knew nothing about. Shit that was exactly how people died in horror movies. I am totally going to get myself killed, you despair frantically. They’ll find my body dismembered in a bunch of little pieces all over the forest, your mind supplied unhelpfully.

You tried to calm yourself as best as you could, taking deep breath in an attempt to settle your mind. Frustated, you pulled out your phone. The meager 8% battery life and lack of data coverage was a sobering reminder of the shit you were in. If anything were to go awry, if this Joel turned out to be less than accommodating, you'd be stranded with no means of communication.

You had shared your plans for the day with your friend Chrissy mentionning how you were going to take the Broken Bow trails to. But even then, you two had been texting sporadically since you left DC so you were fully expecting her not to worry until several days had passed. Not ideals if you were to disapear without a trace. So, if Joel shifted from hospitable to hostile, no one would be none the wiser. And you would become forest fertilizer.

At this point, you were hoping that Joel would be more the flower and wine type instead of rope and chainsaws. Speak of the devil, the man appeared in the doorway, his large frame illuminated by a flash of lightning. In his arms, he was holding what you believed to be clothes "Got these for ya," he stated curtly, his gaze holding yours for a fleeting moment before he gestured vaguely toward the stairs. "Shower’s up those stairs. Go change and I’ll get some coffee on the stove. It'll warm ya up"

Your initial instinct was to decline, you began to stammer, only to be met with Joel stern gaze "I ain’t letting ya freeze to death in my livin’ room," He stated firmly his tone a command that quashed any protests. His words were spoken clearly, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. "Now go," he added, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Under the weight of his stern order, nervousness bubbled within you, mingling with a touch of gratitude. The contrast between his gruff demeanour and the kind gesture of care left you momentarily speechless. All you could do was nod, your voice silenced by his unspoken authority.

With a whispered "thank you," you accepted the bundle of clothes from his hands, your fingers brushing against his in a fleeting spark of connection. Without further words, you turned and hastened toward the staircase, his gaze lingering on your retreating form for a moment before he turned his attention to the kitchen where the coffee was. The stairs creaked under your hurried ascent, each step carrying you further away from the enigmatic man who had offered you shelter in this storm.

Twenty minutes slipped past quickly, after the hell of a day you'd just had, you felt like you were in heaven. The sensation of being washed clean, wrapped in warmth, and clad in what you swear were the coziest clothes you’d ever felt on your skin. A pair of well-worn gray sweatpants and a faded band shirt clung to you like a reassuring hug. You sighed contendly before meeting your own gaze in the bathroom mirror.

Looking back at yourself, you started to contemplate that you would soon have to venture downstairs to thank Joel. At the thought, a flutter of nervousness twirled in your stomach. The bathroom, with its locked door, felt safe, shielding you from the uncertainties of the rest of the night. Staying here, was tempting, at least until morning. Even if Joel had been nice so far, you didn’t know the guy from Adam. But in the end, you knew that you couldn’t just hold the guy’s bathroom hostage. Plus, practical needs called—you had to charge your phone, and the promise of warm coffee was hard to resist. Pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear, you started to quietly make your way downstair. Praying to every Gods you knew that Joel was the good samaritan he seemed to be.

Returning to the living room, your gaze settled on Joel, perched on the same leather couch where you had sat earlier before he directed you to the shower. On the floor nearby lay some old rags, sopping wet with the water that had seeped in along with your drenched clothes.

Joel sat with a tensed back; his focus consumed by something he held in his hands. Tentative steps carried you closer, each one a whisper of uncertainty. Yet, despite your movements, the man remained oblivious, lost in whatever held his attention.

You approached with trepidation, your heartbeat quickening in the otherwise silent room. Your eyes flicked to the object in his hands, curiosity mingling with your apprehension. Peering over his shoulder, your breath caught as your gaze locked onto the image, he was engrossed in. A young girl, staring back at you with a bright, innocent smile that seemed to transcend even the still image of the photograph.

The room seemed to hold its breath, a moment suspended between your gaze and the photograph. "She's really pretty," you ventured softly, your voice a hesitant thread. Joel's response was sharp, almost as if you had slapped him. "... she was," his words carried a weight that hung between you both, heavy with a bittersweet melancholy. As your heart clenched at his words, understanding washing over you like a cold shower.

An awkwardness settled in the air, thickening the silence. You felt the pulse of your heart, its rhythm echoing the sense of disquiet that now swirled around you. Meeting his gaze, you found yourself lost in the depths of his sad brown eyes.

Summoning your courage, you utter "Thank you again for saving my skin out there," your words wavered slightly, betraying your uneasy timidity. "I put my wet clothes on the rack in the bathroom to dry. Hopefully, they'll be alright by morning, and I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible." The words tumbled out in a rush.

Joel's gaze remained on you, as if he was studying you intently, trying to unravel something beneath the surface. His response was measured, his voice carrying a southern twang "... 'tis no problem," he conceded after a beat. "Coffee should be ready," he added.

You nodded and followed in the wake of Joel's towering form. Along one wall, your eyes landed on an acoustic guitar that with the dust covering it, seemed to have remained untouched for a while. Intrigued, you couldn't help but point at it as Joel poured the rich black liquid into your mug. "You play?"

The response was understated, but you could tell there was more to say to this story. "... used to."

You took the hint, choosing not to pry further. At the very least, Joel didn't strike you as the stuff of horror movies; in fact, there was something about him that felt invitingly genuine. A warm and gentle gruffness that seemed lost in this day and age. As he poured coffee into your mug, your gaze wandered over him, observing the details that your earlier unease had masked.

Joel, in his rugged masculinity, demanded attention by his very presence. His size and broadness were emphasized by the worn flannel he wore, his biceps and shoulders hinting at strength beneath. Shaggy brown hair carried threads of white, suggesting a long life lived. You guessed he must be in his mid-40s. As he extended the cup toward you, his face once again came into view, and you couldn't help but acknowledge the magnetic allure he commanded.

But there was a sadness etched into those handsome features, an undertone that tugged at your curious nature. Your earlier observation seemed validated by his demeanour—tired and burdened. His reaction to the photograph had been a cryptic puzzle piece that hinted at a story you could only begin to piece together. Silently, you returned to the living room, the space that now felt familiar in its strangeness. As you both settled back down on the couch, Joel offered a comfortable-looking blanket, a gesture that warmed you in more ways than one. "Here, it's cold."

His soft gaze met yours, accompanied by a tentative smile. You felt yourself burned under his gaze, a response to the genuine kindness he radiated. Accepting the blanket, you cocooned yourself within its folds, savouring the moment with this stranger with a larger heart than most of your old friends.

A comfortable silence enveloped the room, your shared presence settling into a serene rhythm as you both sip your coffee. Then, Joel's voice cut through the quiet, breaking the spell. "I put your phone on the charge. I hoped it's okay."

The unexpected statement jolted you slightly, and you responded quickly, "Yeah, it's alright. Thank you so much." Your gratitude was met with silence from Joel.

His hand reached for a bottle of whiskey positioned beside the photograph you had noticed earlier "You mind?" he inquired, and without words, you extended your mug, a silent affirmation that brought a warm laugh from Joel. The sound resonated in the room, carrying a hint of teasing as he added a splash of whiskey to your coffee before topping his own. You found yourself loving the way he sounded when he laughed.

Your lips curved into a wry smile as you voiced the irony that hovered between you. "I know I shouldn't, a girl all alone in a cabin with a strange man who gets drunk on whiskey, its literally the beginning of a horror movie." Your words carried a touch of dry self-awareness. "But at this point, I guess that if you wanted to cut me up and dump me in your backyard, you would've done it already."

Joel's response was immediate, his words laced with dry amusement. "Not really my style. Too messy."

You met his words with a dry look, "That's good to know," the exchange drew the first genuine smile from Joel.

"So, what's your story? Why're ya in the woods in the middle of the night?" Your reaction was a scoff, a playfulness smirk edging on your face.

"I mean, it's 9 pm. Hardly the middle of the night." However, your attempt to downplay the situation was met with an unimpressed eyebrow raise from Joel. He kept on looking at you, as he sipped his spiced coffee, a silent challenge written in his eyes. You wiggled under his stare feeling bare and open, your most secret parts expose for Joel's eyes to explore.

One part of your brain insisted that you shut up, keep the conversation brief, feign a headache, and retire for the night. However, another part of your mind encouraged you to confide in him, to share the minutiae of pain and heartache that you had carefully concealed since leaving DC. It urged you to unseal the chest you had locked away and pour out its contents – the essence of your soul – at his feet.The thought crossed your mind that Joel likely didn't receive many visitors in this cabin in the middle of nowhere, if any at all.

Leaning into the quiet intimacy of the moment, you found yourself opening up to him, allowing the words to flow from you like the torrential rain falling outside. "Well, I was a project manager back in DC, worked that job for about four years after college," you began. Memories of your time in the office flitted through your mind, remembering the long hours that stretched long into the night and the thankless faces you would see everyday.

You continued, "There had been some layoffs happening, but my boss told me I'd be fine." Your voice carried a tinge of bitterness, a lingering taste of disappointment. "Turns out I wasn't fine. She called me into the office last month, told me to pack my things, and said security would escort me off the premises." The raw frustration in your words was still palpable, "Like I was a fucking criminal!"

The expletive slipped from your lips, your emotions laid bare, you met Joel's gaze but he simply shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Like he was feeling the same emotions as you, like he was angry on your behalf. He then opened his mouth in a low whistle steeped in your shared indignation. "What a bitch," he declared emphatically.

A wry smile touched your lips as you continued, recounting the details of that shitty day that had changed everything for you. "And that's not all," you added, "So, I'm hysterical, you know? I just lost my job and all." You took a deep breath, "I call my boyfriend, but no answer. I figure he's busy. It's the middle of the day, so I think nothing of it. So, I get to our apartment. I open the door, and there's clothes all over the place, like a goddam hurricane happened. And then, I hear that bastard going at it in the bedroom." A groan escaped you, still pained at what you had found that day.

Joel said nothing but extended the bottle to you, an unspoken gesture. You grabbed the bottle, the whiskey warmed your throat as you took a hearty sip, to settle your nerves and your heart.

All the while, Joel remained silent, his presence a steady anchor, "So yeah, he was screaming, she was screaming, and I was screaming," memory seemed distant, a scene from another life, like you were watching a movie "I was so angry. I could have throttled them." The bitterness was palpable in your words, "But in the end, the apartment was under his name, because I had moved into his place, and we hadn't renewed the lease yet."

So that was it, loss layered upon loss until even the space you had called home was stripped away. "So, he basically told me to pack up my shit and leave. Which mind you, I was more than happy to." you added.

But then, you got quiet, That night, I found myself in a McDonald's drive-through, and it struck me that within a single day, I had lost my job, my boyfriend, and my apartment," your voice softened as you recollected everything that had gone wrong so quickly. "So, I made the choice to leave DC, to escape the city," you went on, "I suppose I was hoping to discover what direction I truly wanted my life to take."

"And now you're here," Joel supplied.

"And now I am here," you echoed.

Joel's hand reached out, his touch a silent comfort on your arm, skin raising under his touch as if he was setting it on fire. His voice was gentle as he spoke, his empathy evident. "'M sorry 'tis happened to ya sweetheart, it ain't right."

You felt yourself clench at the endearing word, a small timid smile tugged at your lips, "Yeah, that's life though," you replied, "Sometimes it hits you, and there's nothing you can do about it, My mom told me once that it's not about how many times you fall down, it's about how many times you can get back up. And even though all that's happened hurt like hell, I won't let that define who I am."

Joel's gaze bore into you, “You ‘ma seems like a smart woman.”

You smile a bit at his words, “She is, you'd like her. She isn’t the type to appear on people’s porches in the middle of the night.” You joke.

“Thought it was jus’ 9 pm?” Now you let out a loud guffaw, “Joel are you teasing me?” Your only answer was a sign of Joel’s hand motioning toward the bottle that you still held in your hands. You handed it over, watching as he took a hearty sip himself, copying your earlier movement.

"Her name was Sarah," Joel's voice was heavy as he uttered those simple words.

You watched him closely as he gestured towards the photograph with the smiling girl "She was my little girl," his voice trembled. "And I loved her more than anything in the world."

You let him continued at his pace, not wanting to spook the man "Raised her m'self, her mom didn't want nothin' to do with us," his words held a touch of resignation and a whole lot of bitterness. "She was the only light in my life." The pain in his voice was palpable.

His voice faltered, moved by the vulnerability he was showing you, you shifted closer, a gesture of comfort that mirrored the earlier touch he had offered you. Placing your hand on his knee, you offered a gentle squeeze, to reassure him of your presence and understanding.

Joel took a deep breath, "When she 'as just a baby, I was workin' construction, but it didn't pay much," he began, "So in the evenin', I would go to the bar and sing and play guitar. There I met Tess; she loved my sound and soon enough she became my agent. Next thing ya kno', Sarah and I 're in Nashville, and I'm recordin' music full time." you interjected raising your eyebrow with curiosity. "So, the guitar..."

He nodded, his expression softening as he continued. "Yeah, from when I was makin' music. Was a pretty big deal for a while."

"So, I would have heard of you?" you asked, your tone light earning a light scoff from Joel as he shook his head, a rueful smile gracing his lips. "Unless ya into country, I don’t think so."

You offered an apologetic smile, "Can’t say I’ve listened to much.”

His response was warm, reassuring. "It's okay." Joel continued, " Sarah and I did it for a while. The lifestyle. I would make music, tour, but she was always there with me. It was a lot of hours, and she was homeschooled so she could stay with me." His voice wavered, his gaze distant as he spoke, lost in the memories. "But we were happy. For a while anyway."

At his words, you tightened your grip on his knee, "One night, we had a big fight," Joel's voice carried a heavy ton. “Sarah, she was upset. Wanted a normal high school life, friends her age. But I was gearing up for a tour and we’d be on the road for at least six months. She wasn't having it. Said she'd rather stay with my brother, Tommy than go on another tour with me."

"I tried to make her feel better, promised her we’d have fun, that she could meet people her age at the hotels we’d be staying at" he continued, his voice filled with regret. "Told her this tour would be the last, that we'd settle down after that, somewhere quiet in the middle of nowhere.” His breath itched as he struggled to keep his voice steady, “And I promised I'd stop making music. But she didn't want to hear none of it." His voice quivered, "She told me she hated me." You winced at his words.

"I got angry and said things I shouldn't have," Joel's voice cracked, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Called her a brat." He sounded haunted by those words, like he wished he could take them back even after all those years.

His hands covered his face as he let his emotions and his tears flow freely for what seemed like the first time in a long while. Without thinking, you reached out, holding his hands to offer comfort and support as Joel continued, “So, I told one of my tech guys to take her back to the hotel, needed to get focused for the show. Next thing I know, I'm halfway through my set and I get a call. Sarah's in the hospital, the car got smashed by some drunk driver. I bailed the second I heard, but when I got to the hospital, she was already gone. My little girl died alone, and she thought I hated her. The last words I said to her was how much of a brat she was." Seeing him crumble before your eyes was heartbreaking. Tears flowed down his face as he clutched his head in his hands. Instinctively, you reached for him, gripping him firmly, pulling him close to you. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, holding him to convey that he wasn't alone, at least not tonight. "Let it out," your voice was a gentle murmur, encouraging him to release the pain and the sadness that had been locked inside for so long. "You're safe, Joel. It's alright, I'm here.”

And he did let go. Sobs racked his body as his emotions poured out like rain from the storm-clouds outside. You held onto him, providing a safe place for him to pour his grief into. Time seemed to blur as you clung to each other, your touch offering kindness in the face of his pain. Your fingers traced soothing patterns on his back, your whispered words a soothing lullaby, as you tried to ease his sorrow, even if just for this fleeting moment.

After what seemed like an eternity, Joel's sobs began to fade into quiet sniffles, and then, gradually, into the gentle rhythm of sleep. His exhausted body had finally surrendered to the emotional storm he had weathered. You held him tightly, letting him fall asleep in your arms, so he could rest.

Your gaze shifted to the photograph on the table, Sarah's smiling face looking back at you. With a soft tone, you whispered to the sleeping man before you, your words a tender balm to the wounds of his heart. "I might not have known her," your voice barely more than a breath, "but I can see the love between you two. In her eyes, in that smile." Your voice carried a quiet conviction as if you were reassuring both him and her. Leaning in, you placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Rest now, Joel. You're not alone."

Unbeknownst to you, as sleep began to claim him, Joel was in that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep. Your words, like a soothing melody, reached him in his half-conscious state. His heart ached at your kindness, the unexpected solace you had brought him. His emotions swirled, a mix of sadness and gratitude, as your presence provided a momentary respite from the perpetual pain. For the first time since Sarah’s death, Joel fell asleep warm and comforted.

The harsh sound of rain pounding on the cabin's roof roused you from your uneasy sleep. Your neck and back protested, bearing the marks of an uncomfortable night spent on the small couch you had shared with Joel. You shifted, trying to find relief from the awkward position you had contorted yourself into. The darkness of the cabin wrapped around you, the only sound apart from the rain was the rhythm of your own breath.

You felt Joel’s absence from beside you, his warmth now gone. He had managed to slip away without disturbing your slumber, a feat that puzzled you considering his imposing presence. The darkness outside the windows hinted at the early hours, perhaps around 2 or 3 in the morning. You peered around the room, but the limited light prevented you from seeing much beyond vague shapes and shadows. The night seemed to have its own weight, as if time itself held its breath in the midst of the storm.

"Are y’awake?" Joel's voice cut through the darkness, startling you into a sudden yelp.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle ya," his voice held an apologetic note as he stepped into view, a flashlight casting a soft, warm glow around the room. "Lost power sometime in the night, didn't wanna wake ya. Seemed like you needed the rest." He settled at the far end of the couch, a few inches from your feet.

"Joel…" your voice was hushed, a mixture of emotions swirling within you.

"It was ten years last night," he continued, his voice carrying the weight of years of grief. "Ten years ssince my babygirl died." His words hung in the air, heavy and poignant.

"I've always felt so alone," his voice trembled, "like there was no way out, like I was as good as gone. For so long, I've told myself that I should've been the one to go instead of her." His words struck a deep chord, and tears welled in your eyes.

"Still think I should've, it ain't right for kids to die before their folks" he whispered angrily, the pain evident in his voice. "But Sarah… she was like an angel, always takin’ care of me. And on the night when I'm considerin’ takin’ that shotgun and finally goin’ to see her… you show up." His gaze met yours, his expression confused. You saw pain, sadness, anger but there was tenderness and hope etched deep wihtin in his eyes. Joel ran a hand through his hair frantically.

"It's like my Sarah is still lookin’ out for me," he continued, "Like she knew what I was plannin’, and she sent me another angel to be with me."

A warmth spread within you, blooming deep inside of you at his words. With a slow motion, you pushed the covers aside, the cold air prickling your skin as you cautiously maneuvered over the short expanse of the couch until you were close to Joel. The room was dimly illuminated by the soft golden glow of the flashlight, casting shadows that danced around you both.

In the velvety cocoon of the hushed darkness, an unspoken desire bloomed between you. You moved with a subtle grace, straddling his wide hips, your gazes locking in the dim, intimate light. The air seemed to crackle with a newfound tension as you whispered his name, a gentle invitation laden with longing.

Joel's hands moved instinctively to your hips, his touch both gentle and possessive, grounding you in him. "Yes, my angel?" his voice held a soft edge of anticipation, a promise hanging in the air.

****You leaned in, your lips finding his in a dance that transcended words. The kiss was a slow, intoxicating melding of souls, a harmony of sensations and emotions that seemed to surge through every nerve in your bodies. Joel's lips were warm and inviting, their touch conveying a mix of urgency and tenderness that ignited a spark within you.

Your fingers cradled the back of his head, tangling in the strands of his hair as you deepened the kiss. A low, throaty moan escaped him as he yielded to the sensation, his response igniting a fire of desire within you. The taste of his lips, the press of his body against yours, it all felt like a perfect symphony of your two body.

As the kiss broke, Joel's whispered words mingled with the soft hum of the storm outside. "Are you sure?" he asked a thread of concern woven into his tone.

A smile touched your lips, a mix of assurance and desire. "Never been surer in my life, cowboy."

His smile in response was like a sunrise, warmth and light flooding the room. Rising from the couch, he held you in his strong arms, your laughter echoing as he started to ascend the stairs with you in his embrace. The world outside was forgotten, eclipsed by this moment. Eclipsed by Joel holding you close.

As you reached what you assumed was Joel's bedroom, a surge of anticipation and desire compelled you to draw him into another fervent kiss. The soft laughter that escaped him was a melody that danced against your lips, and you responded with a mixture of eagerness and playfulness.

Joel's touch was both electrifying and gentle, he swatted your bottom teasingly, his voice a breathless whisper against your lips, "Patience, angel."

His words sent shivers down your spine, mingling with the electric tension that enveloped you both. The room seemed to shrink around you as desire flared, intertwining your fates in a web of longing and need. With a mixture of restraint and yearning, you allowed the dance between you to continue, each moment a step closer to surrendering to the consuming passion that had ignited between you.

With a gentleness that belied his strength, Joel guided you onto the large bed. Your senses were alight, every detail heightened as if the world had shifted into sharper focus. The bedding beneath you cradled your form, its softness embracing you like a lover's touch. The air around you carried a faint chill, a stark contrast to the heat that seemed to radiate from the space between you and Joel.

But it was his gaze that held you captive, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that set your heart racing. In his gaze, you saw a constellation of emotions, desire mingling with a hint of vulnerability, each flicker a testament to the depth of connection you shared. Time seemed to slow, the storm outside merely a distant echo as you were immersed in this moment, this charged space where nothing else mattered except the unspoken language of longing that passed between you. The room felt small, a universe confined to the expanse of the bed where you lay,

And the dance began—a sensual rhythm that both of you instinctively understood. Joel's hands, firm and determined, reached for the fabric of your shirt, his fingers curling around the material before he tugged it away from your body. The garment was discarded to the side of the room, forgotten. A smirk graced his lips, his eyes alight with a mixture of desire and amusement.

"That was an old shirt from my '01 tour in California," he confessed playfully. "Seeing you wear something of mine stirs up all sorts of feelings, angel."

A breathless laugh escaped you, a mix of nerves and excitement intertwining in the sound. Joel's mouth descended with practiced skill, capturing your right nipple in a delicate play of sensations. His lips and tongue orchestrated a dance, alternating between gentle kisses and teasing tugs, coaxing your body to respond. Your nipple responded to his attentions, standing taut against the flicker of his tongue. His warm breath brushed against your skin, sending a shiver of anticipation coursing through you, a stark contrast to the cool air that surrounded you.

The torturous symphony of sensations migrated to your other nipple, the alternating rhythm of pleasure and tease sending shockwaves of need radiating from your core. Unable to contain your yearning, you whispered a plea, your voice a hushed prayer. "Please, Joel..."

His response was a gentle murmur, a tantalizing question. "Tell me what you want, angel."

A rush of arousal and aching need surged through you, and you implored him with a breathless urgency, your words carrying a plea for more. "More, please..."

Amusement danced in his eyes as he pushed you further, his own desire and anticipation evident in the way he held you, in the way he looked at you. "You're gonna have to be more precise than that, angel," he coaxed, his voice a seductive melody that echoed between you.

You suddenly grabbed Joel’s head and directed him towards your aching core, “Touch me here please Joel, I can't.”

“Whatever my angel desires.” And he bends his head down wrenching a scream of delight from your lips as he started lapping at your core with enthusiastic desire. You had never felt anything like this before, previous lovers have always been less than enthusiastic at performing this particular act, but it seemed like Joel reveled in making you squirm and he was trying his best to elicit as many breathless moans from you. And you were more than happy to oblige him. He started alternating between lapping at your clit teasingly and rubbing his fingers alongside your slit, all the while murmuring cooing words into your core “my beautiful angels, you are so good to me.”

With a surge of boldness, your hand darted out to grasp Joel's head, your fingers threading through his hair as you guided him to the source of your aching desire. A plea tumbled from your lips, raw and unrestrained, "Touch me here, please, Joel. I can't wait any longer."

A playful smirk danced across his lips, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of fulfilling your desires. "Whatever my angel desires," he responded, his voice a seductive promise. Bending his head with deliberate intent, he set forth on a way that was sure to send you in a primal surge of ecstasy.

A passionate cry of delight erupted from your lips as Joel's skilled tongue found its mark, dancing across your sensitive core with an enthusiasm that set your senses ablaze. This was an experience like no other, a stark departure from previous lovers where enthusiasm had been scarce. With Joel, it was different—he revelled in your pleasure, his fervent devotion evident in every movement.

His lips and tongue worked in tandem, alternating between tender lapping and teasingly rhythmic motions that sent electric jolts of pleasure coursing through you. His fingers joined in the sensual symphony, tracing delicate patterns alongside your slick folds, igniting fires of sensation wherever they ventured.

Amidst the heady sensations, Joel's voice reached your ears, a sweet and enticing serenade that whispered cooing words directly to your core. "My beautiful angel, you are so good to me," he murmured, his words like molten honey, dripping with adoration and lust.

Your moans and gasps crescendoed into a symphony of pleasure, each sounds a testament to the waves of ecstasy coursing through your body. As if guided by the melody of your desire, Joel responded with a calculated touch, slipping a finger inside you. A powerful scream of pleasure erupted from your lips, the sensation of his digit plunging deep within you electrifying your senses and igniting a fierce yearning.

"Oh my God, Joel, please!" Your words tumbled out in a jumble of incoherence, driven by an insatiable need that clouded your thoughts. The urgency in your voice spoke volumes, even if the words themselves were fragmented. You needed more, you craved more, but your mind was too consumed by the sensations to formulate coherent sentences.

Joel pressed on with his skilled ministrations. He gauged your need, asking, "You want more? You think you can take one more?" Your head bobbed in a fervent affirmation, your eyes filled with a mixture of longing and anticipation. Without hesitation, he introduced a second finger, and your body reacted with a surge of pleasure mixed with a hint of discomfort—a delicious sensation that heightened your desire.

Closing your eyes to savor the pleasure coursing through you, you felt Joel's fingers expertly moving within you. The sensation of them crossing and spreading you wide sent intoxicating shivers down your spine, a tantalizing preview of what was to come. His mouth remained devoted to your neglected clit, lavishing it with attentions that drove you wild.

"I've got to prepare you real good, angel," Joel breathed, his voice husky with need. "You've got to be spread wide to take all of me. I ain't like one of those DC boys you’re used to." His words, a potent mix of promise and possession, sent a thrill through you. "Yes, yes, yes, Joel," you pleaded, your voice aching with desire. "Spread me, make me ready for you."

A knowing smirk curved Joel's lips as he introduced a third finger, a hint of pain deliciously mingling with the intense pleasure, intensifying the sensations that rocked your body. "So good, angel," he moaned breathlessly. “Joel, I’m gonna…” “Yes, come for me, angel. Please come for me right now!" His encouragement was all it took, and you shattered into euphoria like never before. Explosions of white dusted your vision as you felt yourself gush around Joel’s fingers, which continued their relentless rhythm inside you. Your body tensed and then went limp, as if weightless.

When you opened your eyes again, Joel's gaze met yours. He was lapping at his fingers with an obscenely indulgent expression, making your body tingle with renewed desire. "You taste delicious, like the sweetest honey," he purred. A groan of need escaped your lips as you reached for him, your hands eager to explore. "Please, Joel."

"Do you want me, Angel? Do you want me to take care of you?" he asked, his voice a seductive blend of desire and tenderness. You nodded, and as Joel started to take off his shirt he suddenly stopped in his track “Fuck, I don’t have condoms.” He brought his hands to his face in a movement of frustration.

A soft smile graced your lips as you moved closer to him, your face now level with his taunt stomach. With gentle reverence, you pressed a soft kiss against his skin, just above his waistband.

"If you trust me, Joel," you began softly, “I got tested after I found out Bryan was cheating, and everything came back clear." Your words hung between the two of you as Joel realized what you were offering.

Joel's reaction was swift and intense. His hand gripped your jaw firmly, his eyes ablaze with a mixture of protectiveness and possessiveness. "Don’t say that piece of shit's name when you're in my bed, angel," he growled, his voice laced with a raw edge. The shiver that ran down your spine was both a thrill and a reminder of his complex emotions.

"Come here," Joel commanded his voice a blend of authority and strength. Eager to comply, you shifted closer to him, a fire of anticipation burning in your veins. Slowly, Joel started to guide you back down onto the bed, his hands moving with a purpose that matched the intensity of his desire.

"I want to look at your face when you come on my cock," he murmured, his words sending a shiver of longing down your spine. Anticipation pooled in the pit of your stomach as you locked eyes with him, feeling the weight of his gaze on you.

With deliberate movements, Joel began to undo his jeans, freeing his long and thick cock from its confines. The sight of him left you audibly gulping, a mixture of want and anticipation coursing through your veins. You couldn't help but wonder about the sensations, the weight, the pleasure that his size would bring.

"Can I put it in my mouth?" you asked, your eagerness apparent in your voice. Joel chuckled, his laughter a low and intimate sound that sent another wave of desire crashing over you. "Not tonight, angel," he responded, his tone both playful and commanding. "Tonight, I want to come in your pretty little pussy."

Joel's hands and lips explored your body with a relentless hunger, each touch igniting sparks of pleasure that coursed through your veins. Lost in the dance of passion, you found yourself swept away in a symphony of sensations, the symphony building to a crescendo of ecstasy that left you breathless and yearning for more.

In one swift, delicious motion, you felt Joel's firm length slip inside you. The sensation was both intense and electrifying, and you couldn't help but close your eyes and let out a loud moan of pleasure as he stretched you open in the most pleasurable way.

"Oh shit, angel, you're so damn tight," Joel groaned, his voice laced with desire and amazement at the sensation. You couldn't hold back your response, your own voice a mixture of bliss and disbelief. "Oh my god, Joel, that's because you're so fucking big!"

With deliberate slowness, Joel began to move his hips, creating a rhythm that was both torturously slow and exquisitely pleasurable. His gaze remained fixed on your face, his eyes locking onto yours with a passionate intensity that sent shivers down your spine. The intimacy of the moment, the raw connection between your bodies, fueled the flames of desire that burned between you.

"Please, Joel, you have to move faster, please, I'm begging you," you implored.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Joel's lips as he teased, "If I go faster, you're gonna make this old man come way too quick, angel."

"I don't care," you gasped, your need overpowering any sense of patience, "you have to move, please!"

"As you wish," Joel responded with a sly grin, and in the blink of an eye, the slow and deliberate rhythm transformed into a furious, unrelenting pace. His hips met yours fiercely, each movement driving you to the edge of your senses. Your heart raced, pounding in your chest like a wild drumbeat, and for this moment, nothing else mattered except the intense connection between you and Joel. The world outside faded away as you were consumed by the sensations of pleasure and desire, lost in the intoxicating dance of your bodies moving as one.

The tight coil of tension within you wound tighter and tighter with each fervent movement, aching to be released. The desperate need for release surged through your veins until you couldn't hold it any longer.

"OH MY GOD, JOEL, I'M GONNA COME AGAIN!" you cried out, your voice a mixture of ecstasy and urgency.

"Fuck, me too, angel, I'm gonna cum," Joel groaned, his voice heavy with need. "Please, you have to come with me, please, Angel!"

"Oohh my goddd, I'm cum..." Your sentence was left unfinished as the intense wave of pleasure crashed over you, shattering the tight coil and setting your senses on fire. Simultaneously, Joel's hips stuttered against yours, and you felt the warmth of his release inside you.

"Fuckkk," Joel whispered against your throat, his breath hot and ragged, as both of you rode out the waves of bliss, your sweaty bodies entwined and sated.

"That was..." you began, your voice trailing off as you searched for words to capture the intensity of what you had just shared.

"It sure was," Joel finished, his voice carrying a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. ****

You let out a hearty laugh, the tension of the moment dissolving into light giggles, as Joel momentarily left the room. While you lay there, still basking in the aftermath of your pleasure, he returned with a warm towel and a glass of water. He handed you the glass, and then, with gentle care, he began to clean you up. Your body was still sensitive from the climax, and you instinctively squirmed under his touch, but Joel held you in place.

"None of that, angel," he chided softly, his eyes warm and reassuring. "Gotta make sure you're all cleaned up. Lemme take care of ya."

His words and the softness of his touch melted away any remaining tension, and you found yourself yielding to his gentle care. You let go, allowing him to attend to you in this tender and intimate way. Once he was finished, he guided you back onto the bed and gathered you into his broad arms. A smile played on his lips as he pressed a gentle kiss against the nape of your neck. You closed your eyes, feeling a sense of serenity wash over you.

"Sleep now, my angel," he whispered, his voice a soothing murmur in your ear. "We'll talk in the morning."

With his strong arms wrapped around you, you nestled into his embrace, finding comfort and warmth in his presence. Your eyes closed naturally, the weight of the day's events and the embrace of his body lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

The morning greeted you with the cheerful chirping of birds, their song gently coaxing you awake. Blinking your eyes open, you realized Joel's form wasn't beside you in the bed. You reached for his discarded shirt on the floor, wrapping it around yourself before quietly slipping out of the room. As you stood before the bathroom mirror, your reflection showed the aftermath of a passionate night: tousled hair, eyes still bearing traces of desire, and lips that bore the marks of fervent kisses. A satisfied smile tugged at your lips as you grabbed the toothpaste, relishing the refreshing feeling as you brushed your teeth.

After tidying up a bit, you descended the stairs, your senses greeted by the delicious scent of cooking. Following the aroma, you entered the cozy kitchen where a rustic-looking pan held sizzling bacon and eggs. The scene was comforting, but there was no sign of Joel. As you scanned the room, the soft strains of a melody drifted in from outside, drawing your attention.

Curious, you made your way toward the source of the music, stepping outside to find Joel sitting on the porch swing. He held the acoustic guitar you had spied last night on the wall, his fingers moving deftly across the strings to produce a gentle tune that seemed to blend harmoniously with the morning breeze. You leaned against the railing beside him, listening intently to the music.

Joel paused his melody and turned his gaze toward you, his lips curling into a soft smile. "That was beautiful," you offered gently, "What were you playing?"

Joel's smile widened as he motioned for you to join him. "You inspired me last night," he confessed. "I had these melodies in my head, and I just had to play them." Your lips curved into a smile as you leaned in for a kiss. "That's unexpectedly romantic," you teased, causing Joel to chuckle. "Romantic, huh? Never been accused of that before," he playfully responded. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "Starving," you replied, a rumble of hunger confirming your words.

Joel's laughter filled the air as he gently set the guitar aside and guided you back indoors. He motioned for you to take a seat at the spacious wooden table, his warm smile inviting. He playfully swatted your hands away as you attempted to help, his touch grounding and reassuring. "Let me serve you, angel," Joel whispered softly as he settled you into a chair.

As Joel expertly portioned out the eggs onto your plate, you admired the beautiful table before you. "This table is stunning," you remarked, inspecting the grain of the hard oaken wood "I've always dreamed of having a big wooden table. Somewhere to have all my family and friends and have big dinners." Joel's smile held a touch of nostalgia. "Yeah, me too. That's why I built it."

"Wait, you built this?" you exclaimed, surprised. "Is there anything you can't do?" His laughter was infectious, and he shook his head playfully. “Just eat ya eggs." You smile happily in response before digging in.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you happily munched on your meal. "This is really good, thank you, Joel," you said with genuine gratitude. Joel's smile was warm, yet his gaze seemed to drift elsewhere, lost in thought. You observed him from the corner of your eye, curious about what was going on in his mind.

After a moment, Joel pushed his half-eaten plate of eggs aside and made his way over to you. Without a word, he grasped the back of your chair and turned it toward him, causing you to let out a surprised "Joel!" as you were suddenly lifted from the chair. He settled down, pulling you onto his lap, holding you close.

You chuckled softly, noting, "Breakfast's gonna get cold..." But Joel's response was immediate, his voice a whisper against your collarbone, "I don't care. Need to be close to ya, angel." You felt yourself melting into his embrace, content and cherished.

You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation of being enveloped by Joel's arms. Inhaling his masculine scent deeply, you wanted to imprint it in your memory, wanting to hold onto every detail of this moment. You never wanted to forget the way he made you feel. As Joel's hand gently traced patterns on your back, his lips pressed soft, feathery kisses along your neck, causing a contented sigh to escape your lips.

In that instant, you realized that in just one day, Joel had managed to make you feel safer and happier than your four-year relationship with Bryan ever did. "Joel," you timidly began, your voice a fragile thread. "Hmmm, what is it, angel?" Joel's response was gentle, encouraging you to continue. "About what you told me last night… About Sarah…" His sigh against your neck was heavy, and you gathered your courage for what you wanted to say next. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for what happened to her. It wasn't fair."

"Angel…" You guided Joel's face up from its hiding place in your bosom, holding it between your hands to meet his eyes. "Sarah loved you, Joel. And she knew you loved her. She wouldn't want to see her father suffer alone like this."

Joel's eyes bore into yours, a mix of frustration and protectiveness. "Angel, please stop." But you couldn't hold back; not after last night, not after seeing him this morning with the guitar, not after he pried open and emptied the chest of feelings that you had buried deep in your heart. "Joel, I don't want to argue. I know we've only just met, but I can see the kind of person you are. And I might not know a lot about you, but I know that you don't deserve to keep punishing yourself. You deserve to be happy."

Your fingers brushed against his face tenderly as your eyes glistened with tears, your plea carrying all the sincerity you could muster. However, Joel only gently lifted you from his lap and set you down on the chair. He turned to walk away from the kitchen, but before leaving the doorway, he paused. "Finish your eggs, and when you're done, it might be best if you leave." His words were heavy and definitive.

The atmosphere grew icy as your eyes welled up with tears. "Better for you, you mean," you muttered bitterly, pushing the plate of eggs aside and standing up. "I'll get out of your way right now, Joel. I'm sorry for overstaying my welcome." Without waiting for a response, you swiftly moved past him, your heart aching as the tears streamed down your face, not wanting him to see how vulnerable you felt. How much his words had hurt you deep within your bones. Not even your ex-boyfriend cheating had hurt as much as Joel’s words.

Hastily, you ascended the stairs, feeling a mixture of confusion, hurt, and urgency. Joel's shirt clung to your skin as you moved, a reminder of the passionate night you had shared. With hurried hands, you peeled the shirt off, folding it and placing it on the bed with a mix of sadness and longing. Slipping into your clothes, you realised how they were dry and carried a faint, comforting clean scent. It dawned on you that Joel must have taken the time to wash and dry them while you were still asleep. The small act of care spoke volumes, tugging at your heartstrings even harder as your emotions threatened to overwhelm you.

A soft sob escaped your lips as you quickly pulled on your leggings and t-shirt. The pain within you intensified, a heavy weight on your chest that made it hard to breathe. Your fingers trembled as you fumbled to button up your shirt, your mind racing with a mix of regret and confusion. Every touch, every moment, seemed to replay in your mind like a whirlwind of emotions that you couldn't make sense of. Your breath came in ragged gasps, and the room felt stifling as you imagined Joel's hands, his lips, all over you.

Each second that passed felt like an eternity, the need to escape growing more urgent by the second. You couldn't bear the idea of staying in this place any longer, not when your heart and mind were in such turmoil. Your head spun as you gathered your belongings, your thoughts a jumble of conflicting feelings. With shaky hands, you grabbed your bag and moved toward the bedroom door, your heart racing and your vision blurred by unshed tears. It was as if the walls themselves were closing in on you, suffocating you with memories and emotions that you couldn't yet fully process.

You quickly made your way down the stairs and you quickly reached the entrance of the cabin, your hand gripped the doorknob, the exit just a twist away. But then, like a lifeline thrown to your drowning form, Joel's voice cut through the tension-laden air. "Wait," he implored. For a moment, you could have pulled the door open and walked away, sparing yourself the pain that seemed inevitable. But something in his voice, something in the way he had said it, made you hesitate, your fingers tensing on the handle.

"Please wait," Joel's voice, gentle and soft, reached your ears, halting your movement. His words were like a fragile confession, tinged with regret and vulnerability. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It's just... it still hurts so much, and I can’t do anything about it. I don't even know if I wanna do anythin' 'bout it! If I stop hurtin, it ain't fair to her, it's like 'm forgettin' her. My babygirl. I can't... I can't be the man you need me to be. You're young, and you'll find something much better than a washed-up singer, a father that’s always gonna be haunted by the ghost of his daughter. I'm carrying too much baggage, And I ain’t worth the pain I know I’ll cause ya angel.” Frozen in place, you listened to his words, his admission of hurt and fear, his belief in his own unworthiness all washed over you, leaving you empty and oh so sad for the man in front of you.

With your back still turned toward him, your grip on the doorknob loosened. You could feel your heart aching for him. You closed your eyes, attempting to blink away the tears that threatened to fall, your breathing ragged and unsteady.

You took a steadying breath, turning slightly toward him, though you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze. In a voice that was stronger than you felt, you spoke your truth "Joel, it's not about what baggage you have or don’t have. It's everything that’s happened since yesterday, how we make each other feel. And last night... it meant something to me. I don't need you to be something you're not. I just want you to be who you are, because that person is worth something to me."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion. "I can't pretend to understand everything you've been through, Joel. But I can see the person you are, the one who's been through pain but is still standing here. You deserve happiness too, Joel. You're not defined by your past, and you're not just a has-been singer or whatever it is you impose on yourself. You're Joel, and you're worth more than you realize."

A tear escaped your closed eyes, tracing a path down your cheek. With a determined step forward, you pulled the door open, your voice steady despite the vulnerability you felt. "Take care of yourself, Joel," you whispered. With that, you stepped out onto the threshold, the cool breeze against your skin offering a stark contrast to the warmth of the cabin. The door clicked shut behind you, a gentle sound that marked the end of a moment that had touched your heart so deeply. And as you walked away, you didn't look back, hoping that Joel's own journey would guide him to a place of healing and acceptance.

Three months had drifted by since the night when Joel's presence swept into your life, like a gentle breeze altering the course of a quiet stream. The echo of his words still lingered in your mind, painting the canvas of your memories with vivid strokes of vulnerability and tenderness. As you slid into the cocoon of your car that night, the world outside felt different, as if reality itself had taken on a new hue.

Driving away from the cabin nestled in the heart of the woods, you found your plans melting away, leaving behind a blank slate that you were now eager to fill with Joel's presence. But you knew he had his own journey to embark upon – a journey toward reconciliation with his past, a voyage of healing that no one else could undertake for him. You couldn't help but hope, perhaps even naively, that the currents of life would someday guide him back to you. It was an uncertain prospect, but then again, your whole life had become a cascade of the unexpected.

After first leaving behind the familiar landscape of DC, and wandering the country for some time, you found yourself meandering down unfamiliar roads that led you to the vibrant city of Austin. Amid the soulful melodies and friendly faces, you decided to step into a music store, compelled by the yearning to connect with Joel on some level, even if he wasn’t physically there with you.

Inside, the air was stuffy as if the shop had been forgotten by the residents of Austin. Rows of albums beckoned to you, as you look around for the country section. Descriptions were exchanged with a middle-aged cashier, who turned out to be a rather passionate fan of Joel and who guided you to the shelves where most of Joel Miller's discography was. For you, it was like hearing the life of the man you think you might very well love. As you left the store, the weight of those albums in your arms was more than just a collection; it was a tangible piece of the bond you shared with a stranger who had become so much more.

With Joel's music filling the airwaves of your trusty Honda Civic, you embarked on the next leg of your journey, leaving Austin behind and setting your sights on the vibrant landscape of Los Angeles. The roads stretched out before you, winding through varied terrains like the unwritten chapters of a story waiting to unfold. Each curve and bend felt like a step toward a new beginning, guided by the soulful tunes that had become the backdrop of your life.

As you navigated LA's bustling streets, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation. The sprawling landscapes seemed to mirror the vast possibilities that awaited you in this city of dreams. The skyline glittered with promise, like a tapestry woven from the aspirations of countless dreamers who had walked these streets before you. With each passing mile, you allowed yourself to be swept away by the energy of the city, ready to embrace whatever adventures lay ahead.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, you found your place in a small yet energetic communication company. It was a far cry from the monotonous work you had left behind in DC. Here, you were tasked with crafting communication campaigns for non-profit organizations across California. The challenges were real and the work was hard, but the rewards were immeasurable. Your days were now filled with purpose and creativity, and you felt a genuine connection to the causes you were championing. It was as if you had finally found the missing piece that had been absent from your previous life. Like you had found your drive back.

2 months into the job, your coworker Amanda's loud shrilly voice pulled your attention away from your work, her words cutting through the office buzz. "Hey, you're the one who's into Country music, right?" She grinned, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. You chuckled softly, not exactly an expert on the genre but you supposed you did listen to more Country then you used to these days.

"Yep, that's me," you replied, offering a small nod.

Amanda leaned in a little closer, her voice lowered as if sharing a secret, "I've noticed you play Joel Miller's older albums. Is he your favourite or something?"

You smiled softly, realizing your tradition hadn't gone unnoticed. "Yeah, I have a soft spot for his music," you admitted with a shrug.

Her grin turned into a mischievous smile, "Well, guess what? He just dropped a new song. Have you heard?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "A new song?!" you echoed, genuine surprise lacing your words, heartbeat treatening to send you into a heart attack.

Amanda pulled out her phone, her fingers dancing across the screen before she handed it to you. The screen was illuminated by what you deciphered as some tweets and posts, all buzzing with excitement about Joel's latest EP release. Your eyes widened as you scrolled through the tweets, feeling a mixture of excitement washed over you.

With a grin, you glance at Amanda, appreciating her tip, before returning to your workstation. Settling in, you tried your best to steady your breath as you open the article on TMZ and locate the link that directs you to Joel Miller's freshly released track on his SoundCloud. Your cursor hovers over the link, anticipation rising making you feel buzzed. Clicking the link, you're instantly engulfed in a cascade of harmonies. The initial notes carried on the wings of a soft guitar, weave a delicate tapestry of sound that threads its way through your senses. It's like stepping into a forgotten memory, the strums of the guitar bringing you back inside the cabin and into Joel’s arms.

And then, Joel's voice joins the strumming of the guitar. A tender baritone, it carries the weight of longing and sadness, each note reverberating with the depth of his life. The rawness of it tugs at your heartstrings, and you can’t help the tears forming in your eyes. With each note, it's as though Joel is speaking directly to you, his presence palpable despite the distance. You close your eyes, allowing the music to sweep you away, the gentle strumming and resonant vocals painting a vivid scene in your mind;

I can’t stop thinking about you

I can't escape your memory's grasp,

My angel, you're etched within my soul so fast.

I yearn to become the man you envision,

Unveiling depths within, a heartfelt mission.

For you, for you alone,

This version of me, yet to be known.

As the soothing timbre of Joel's voice envelops you, he navigates the tapestry of emotions with his lyrics. His soft voice carries the weight of promises and aspirations, mingling with the bittersweet tinge of guilt and the fervent pull of desire. It's a symphony of feelings entwined in each note, a raw portrayal of the battles raging within him. He sings of uncertainty, a man grappling with the enigma of his own identity. Yet, amidst the chaos, there's a constant, an unwavering North Star – the presence of his angel. The lyrics paint a portrait of yearning and unspoken desires, his admission that even amid the turmoil, your memory is an anchor he can't escape. His voice, like a gentle hand, guides you through the labyrinth of his feelings, allowing you to glimpse the depths of his soul. And as the final note fades, it's as if his heart has been laid bare, an intimate portrait of a man searching for solace and finding it in the memory of his angel – you.

Tears gather in your eyes as the song reaches its poignant conclusion. Joel's heartfelt words resonate with the depths of your emotions, and the floodgates of your own feelings burst open. Each note, each lyric, is a testament to his pain, his struggles, and the love that has bloomed during the short encounter you had.

As the music fades, your tears flow freely, a river for the man who has touched your heart so profoundly. You could feel your coworkers casting puzzled glances your way, but in this moment, their opinions mean nothing. You wept for the unfairness of his life, you wept for the loss of his little Sarah, and you wept for the years he's spent punishing himself. You weep because you love Joel Miller. Your heart aches for the man who entered your life on that stormy night and left a mark deep within your soul. Etching his name into the very essence of your being.

Your mom had always said, "The future holds its secrets close" and now you couldn't help but agree. A year ago, you would have never imagined that you would find yourself in LA, away from old friends and family. Yet you couldn't remember a time when you had been more content. Except maybe when you had been in Joel's arms in the warmth of his cabin. But now, as you restart the song Joel had written and as you lose yourself in the warm timber of his voice, you feel happy. Joel's baritone promising that he would love his angel as best as the damaged man he was could love. As you let yourself be carried by the softness of his voice, you know that whatever happens, you'll never part ways with Joel again. You know that wherever he is, he will find you, and you’ll be able to take him in your arms and hold him close to you.

You smile; after all, Joel had just delcared his love for you to the world, his declaration intended for all to hear. And as Joel's voice serenaded you with vows of love and protection, soothing you to your core, you made a promise of your own to Sarah. You promised her that you would care for her father, that you'd stand by him and that you would love him until their eventual reunion, following what you hope would be a beautiful life richly lived.

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aizawasbrattyprincess · 2 years

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g i l d e d s t r i n g s o f f a t e

amara (self-insert) x yandere!donquixote doflamingo (op)

tw: yandere (obviously) + cheating + manipulation + nsfw + dub-con + breeding 18+ MINORS DNI

word count: 3.4k

a/n: Doflamingo is a mean bastard, but I’d let him do anything to me. So here’s this year’s birthday present from me to me x (As usual, don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with this)

Read the previous birthday fic: here

buy me a ko-fi?

゜。+。゜゜。*。゜゜。＋。゜*゜。゜。+。゜゜。*。゜゜。＋

“You look absolutely stunning tonight, darling. Red is really your colour.”

Tearing her eyes from her brightly-lit phone screen, Amara realised that the tall man dressed in a custom-tailored three-piece suit was addressing her. She quickly tucked her phone back into her purse, clasping it shut before smoothing her evening dress out of habit.

“Thank you, Mr Donquixote. You’re too kind,” Amara said as a blush crept to her cheeks.

If she was being truthful, Donquixote Doflamingo looked handsome and sleek as he always did. The company director had an air of confidence and the charisma of a natural-born king. After all, he had a reputation to maintain and uphold. She, and many others, she was sure, were also drawn to his mysteriousness. He was always hiding his eyes behind his signature red-tinted sunglasses he would wear everywhere he went. It made her wonder what colour his eyes were and if anyone had seen them before. Were they brown like decadent chocolate, so devilishly taunting and tempting? Or perhaps as green as emeralds, magnificent and alluring?

“Please call me Doflamingo or Doffy if you wish. I’m not your boss,” Doflamingo chuckled. “I assume you’re waiting for Law?”

“Yes, he told me to wait outside the restaurant,” she replied, trying not to look dejected, but the older man caught the change in her tone.

“He’s late, isn’t he?” he frowned, a bulging vein appearing on his forehead. “How long have you been waiting for him?”

“Um... about twenty minutes- but it’s not a big deal! I know how busy he always is, and I’m just glad to be able to spend some time with him.”

Poor girl. How dare he make her wait. Doflamingo shook his head disapprovingly, seeing the smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes. He had seen through her blatant lie, not that she was ever good at lying in the first place.

“That won’t do. How about this — why don’t we head in first? It appears that I arrived a little too early for my business dinner, and I’d love it if you could accompany me for the time being. I’m sure Law wouldn’t mind.”

Amara was hesitant, but the pain in her ankles from standing too long in her brand new 5-inch heels was begging her to accept his offer. It had been more than an hour since she stood by herself, and she had contemplated leaving after seeing happy couples walking hand-in-hand. To her knowledge, Law would’ve ended his shift in the early evening, allowing plenty of time for him to make his way to the restaurant that wasn't too far from the hospital. She tried to convince herself that perhaps he was caught up with work like he usually was. Law was a very detailed and hardworking man, a perfectionist to the core, and Doflamingo knew it too, having named him his best doctor. Amara felt terrible for lying to Doflamingo, but she didn’t want to make Law look bad in front of his boss. She eventually nodded, accepting his gracious invitation, making his usual grin return to his face.

“Fantastic! Shall we?”

Like a gentleman he was, Doflamingo placed his hand at the small of her back as they walked up to the reception desk. The waiter greeted Doflamingo, immediately bowing down to him at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

“Welcome, Mr Donquixote. Your usual table is ready. Please follow me, sir.”

“After you, my lady.”

Amara giggled when Doflamingo offered his outstretched hand for her to take, treating her like a princess as he led her inside the restaurant. She remembered how Law would frequently remind her not to hang around Doflamingo for too long, preferably not at all if possible. However, she didn’t see anything wrong with it. If nothing, Doflamingo was a responsible man who knew not to stand up his date. Amara couldn’t help but be slightly annoyed at Law, wondering if he had seen any of her texts or missed calls. He had a bad habit of not checking his phone while working, but surely he hadn’t forgotten their anniversary that she had been planning for weeks? It couldn’t be that she was the only one excited about the dinner. She had even taken a lot of time and effort to doll up for him, hoping he would compliment her or, at the very least, take notice. Was she asking for too much?

“Here we are, sir, miss.”

Doflamingo stopped the waiter and pulled the chair out for her instead. Amara thanked him as she sat down, instantly distracted by the gorgeous view of the city beneath her, illuminated by street lights dancing in the dark. She saw Doflamingo watching her through the window reflection and realised that she had rudely spaced out for quite some time. Unaware of the dark desires swimming in his eyes, Amara apologised with haste, but Doflamingo reassured her not to worry. She exhaled in relief that she hadn’t made a fool of herself yet. The waiter soon returned with two glasses and a bottle of expensive, aged wine that Amara had herself thinking if she should’ve pushed his offer, but Doflamingo had raised his filled glass and nodded at her to do the same.

“Cheers.”

“To what?”

“To us,” he smiled. “And a beautiful evening ahead.”

Clinking their glasses, she took a sip of the delicious red wine that matched the colour of her dress. The restaurant faded into the background as she continued chatting with Doflamingo as if they had known each other for years. It was so easy and comfortable to talk to him that Amara didn’t notice she had lost track of time. She only diverted her attention away from Doflamingo when she spotted a familiar someone at a nearby table. At first, she couldn’t comprehend what was happening until Doflamingo tried to block her view. Amara ignored and pushed past him, lips quivering as anger quickly overwhelmed her.

“So, this is work?” she spat as tears coursed down her cheeks faster than her heartbeat.

Her fiancé of three years abruptly stopped, as if snapping out of a trance, then pushed away the woman he had just been kissing on their anniversary night. Well, ex-fiancé now. She was foolish for placing her faith and trust in him. All those nights she spent patiently waiting for him to return from work? He was probably going out with another woman, or women, and having the time of his life instead of entertaining boring old her. Amara only had herself to blame; she should’ve seen the signs of how he was losing interest in her. Unable to stop the nauseousness, Amara turned to leave, but Law had grabbed her arm and pleaded for her to hear him out, stating that she had got it all wrong. However, Amara’s only response was to slap him across the face before heading out of the restaurant, saving what little dignity she had left, if any. Stepping out onto the cold street, Amara broke down and choked on her sobs uncontrollably, feeling betrayed and humiliated beyond repair. Her night, possibly her entire life too, was ruined, and she couldn't do anything about it. Not a minute later, a jacket was draped around her shoulders, the warmth temporarily making her forget her disastrous situation as she looked up at the blonde man.

“I’m sorry, I had no idea Law was like that,” Doflamingo spoke solemnly.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” Amara mumbled, her voice strained and broken, embarrassed that he had to see a pathetic lovers’ breakup.

“Can I offer to take you home?”

She shook her head. “No, no, it’s okay. I wouldn’t want you to miss your business dinner.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You don’t have to worry about me,” he assured, lightly wiping her tears away with his thumb. “I can always reschedule it. You’re far more important to me than some corporate meeting.”

She didn’t have to think twice before taking up his offer, wanting to get out of there as fast and far away as possible. She couldn’t return home to their apartment, knowing that would be the first place Law would go to find her. She didn’t know where else she could go, but the one thing Amara knew for sure was that she didn’t want to see or hear from Law ever again.

“Take me anywhere but here. Please.”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

A limousine rolled into view as soon as Doflamingo finished tapping on his phone screen. He opened the door for her, and she entered without another word. Law, panting and panicking, came rushing out of the restaurant, trying to find her, but she was long gone. He was too late to change their fates, now twisted and sealed.

The ride remained silent, and she was thankful that Doflamingo respected her boundaries. He only called her name when the limousine had stopped in the driveway of a tall building in the middle of town. Taking the lift to the uppermost floor, Doflamingo welcomed her to his penthouse suite and invited her to take a seat. She watched him take a few bottles from his bar, expertly mixing and pouring the drink into a cocktail glass, then finishing it with a lemon slice at the top.

“Here you go, darling. Only the best for you.”

Thanking him, Amara took a sip of the cocktail, tasting the sweetness and sourness all at once. One drink turned into three, then seven and counting. At this point, the alcohol was burning the back of her throat, but Amara was too drunk to care. Overwhelmed with emotions, she shared everything with Doflamingo, who sat next to her, patiently listening to her complaints and worries. He even comforted her, which Law would never do, instead telling her to “get over it” and “be mature”. And unlike Law, Doflamingo had been gentle and caring, always staying by her side, prioritising her above anything else. Why couldn’t Law be like him?

“Dofla- hic- Doffy, am I really that worthless?”

“Nonsense. You’re perfect, Amara,” he answered, carefully taking the empty glass from her hand and placing it on the table.

“Then why didn’t Law love me back? Am I not perfect enough for him?”

She was coming closer to him now, staring up at him with her doe eyes, needing an answer, an assurance of some sort. Doflamingo didn’t move away, allowing her to climb into his lap. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him, their faces just inches away from each other.

“Forget him, Amara. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Her gaze slowly lowered to his lips, then back up again. “Then, do I deserve you?”

“More than you know.”

Amara leaned in abruptly and kissed Doflamingo, breathing in his musk. As he kissed her back with equal hunger and passion, all she could think about was how right it felt. Amara couldn’t stop kissing him, and she didn’t want to stop. However, when her consciousness kicked in, she pulled away out of guilt or shame she didn’t know.

“Shit- I- I can’t,” she muttered, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

She tried to move away, but Doflamingo held her tight in his arms. He tilted her chin with his fingers before brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Why not, baby? He cheated first. He didn’t care about you, but me? I will give the whole world to you,” Doflamingo promised, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you, Amara. I won’t ever let you go.”

“Y-you love me?” she repeated, unsure if she had heard him right or if the alcohol was still messing with her mind.

He smiled warmly and nodded. “I love you, Amara. And I’ll show you just how much I love you.”

Doflamingo’s lips crushed against hers, tongue slipping in her mouth and finally claiming what belonged to him. Amara gave in and melted into his embrace, feeling safe and loved for the first time. Doflamingo was right; he wasn’t Law. He was better than him, and she wanted him to take her in every way he could imagine. Her fingers reached upwards and knotted through his short hair, earning a low groan from him. Sensing they were both getting impatient, Doflamingo carried her effortlessly into his bedroom, placing her at the edge of his bed. She kicked her shoes off, watching him remove his jacket and loosening tie before reaching to unzip the back of her dress, slowly undressing her. He kissed her again and unclasped her bra, eagerly squeezing her plump breasts that fit perfectly in his hands. She fell back onto the bed, gasping for more, to which he responded by sucking her hard nipples. He hooked his finger in her underwear, pulling them down her legs and then tossing them onto the floor.

“You’re so beautiful. Have I told you that?” Doflamingo sighed, taking in the gorgeous sight of her completely naked in front of him. “And so wet for me, fuck.”

He wasted no time propping her legs onto his shoulders before delving his tongue into her wet heat. Amara's whines grew increasingly needier by the second as he pushed her to the edge. Then her legs shook as she came all over his mouth, but Doflamingo didn’t stop there. He inserted two fingers inside her, scissoring her open while continuing to lick up all her juices. After she came again, he moved to kiss her, making her taste herself on his lips and fingers, even more so his insatiable hunger.

Despite the pleasure, it was unfair that he was still somewhat fully dressed. Amara didn’t like to be teased too much; it almost felt like a punishment. She pushed him away and practically ripped open his dress shirt, needing to feel his hot skin against hers. He chuckled at this but peeled away all other clothing, except his sunglasses and boxers.

“Are you going to remove your sunglasses? I- I want to see your eyes.”

Doflamingo paused, and Amara panicked, thinking she had asked a sensitive question. She tried to tell him that he didn’t need to, but he interrupted her, “Promise me you won’t hate me.”

“I promise.”

His hands were shaking as he touched his sunglasses, but he managed to compose himself before removing them. Under the dim light, Amara could see a gorgeous pair of reddish-brown eyes staring back at her. There was a nasty scar across his left eye, but she wasn’t bothered by it in the slightest. He was beautiful, just like how she had imagined him to be.

“I could never hate you,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss below his scar. “You’re perfect to me too.”

At this, Doflamingo got off the bed and pulled down his boxers, revealing his huge, twitching cock. She didn’t realise she was staring at it unblinking with her mouth wide open in surprise. Never had she taken something so huge, and Amara didn’t think she could handle it. Doflamingo noticed the change in her expression but paid no mind to it, knowing she was more than ready for him.

“Such a sweetheart you are. Let me give you a present to express my thanks.”

Doflamingo flipped her over, positioning her on all fours. Amara held her breath, anxiously waiting as she felt the tip graze her entrance. She didn’t even get the chance to tell him to wear a condom. When he penetrated her from behind, she cursed, desperately gripping the sheets in her fists.

“Too big! Doffy- Oh God!”

A smirk crossed his face. “That’s right, darling. I’m your God now.”

He began moving rhythmically and skilfully, driving her mad that she was coming again. She could barely hear the praises leaving his mouth, the sounds of heavy breathing and skin slapping against each other echoing louder through the room. Tears pricked her eyes when he eventually bottomed out, a visible bulge appearing on her stomach. It seemed like they had been going at it for hours, and her knees were beginning to give in, but Doflamingo firmly held onto her hips, steadying her.

“So tight. I’m gonna come soon, make you full.”

There was panic in her voice when she turned around, pleading with him, “Don’t- Don’t come inside!”

“It’s okay, darling. It’ll feel good, so take it all like my good girl, okay?”

With a few final thrusts, Doflamingo spilt his seed inside her womb, filling her up. He could go all night if he wanted to with his stamina, but Amara was starting to doze off, and he much preferred to fuck her when she was awake and screaming his name. So he pulled out from her and cleaned her up thoroughly before pulling the covers over her body. He then picked up her cell phone left at the side of the bed, where he had been recording the entire time without her knowledge. Doflamingo clicked his tongue at the dozens of missed calls and unopened messages from Law flooding her inbox. Ignoring everything else, he attached the video and sent it to Law. It didn’t take long before Law texted back, demanding to know the truth before uselessly persuading her to come back to him. She’s mine. Also, you’re fired. Doflamingo texted, then blocked and deleted his contact permanently.

Amara told him that she could never hate him, but if she knew what he had been planning from the start, she would despise him. Law never cheated on her. Doflamingo only made it look like he did, paying a woman to kiss him in the restaurant so that they would break up and he would finally have what rightfully belonged to him. Doflamingo didn’t care if she was never going to forgive him; she wasn’t going to find out anyway. Once he destroyed her phone, he would’ve erased the evidence and cut off all contact from the outside world. There was no need for her to interact with anyone else but him. He was all she needed. Looking back at her sleeping form, he switched off her phone and kept it inside his drawer. He would deal with it later. Slipping underneath the covers, he kissed the top of her forehead as he cuddled her before falling asleep.

The morning after, Amara woke up alone in bed with the worst hangover she’d ever had. She wished she hadn’t had too much to drink, but then again, Amara was recovering from a broken heart, and she couldn’t refuse Doflamingo. A sudden realisation hit her, and she looked down at her naked body. Shit. She couldn’t remember much of what happened last night, but with her body sore and marked with love bites, she knew she had slept with her ex’s boss. Amara liked Doflamingo, but she didn’t think it was right to move on so fast.

“How are you feeling?”

Her head shot up to where Doflamingo was leaning against the door frame in a bathrobe, no sunglasses in sight. She could see his eyes better now in the morning light. They were still beautiful, if not more.

She let out a half chuckle, shaking her head as she pulled the covers up her breasts. “Terrible.”

“I’ve been there. You’ll feel better after some breakfast and taking an aspirin.”

“Doffy, I…” she began but fumbled over her words.

Doflamingo walked over to her and sat on the bed, gently caressing the side of her face.

“I’m sorry, Doffy.”

“What for? If anything, I should be apologising for taking advantage of you while you were drunk,” he admitted.

“No, you didn’t take advantage. I remember making the first move, and I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was only with you to get back at Law. But I wasn’t!”

“Don’t worry. I know you’re telling the truth.”

A brief moment of silence passed before she spoke up again. “This sounds selfish, but can I stay with you a little longer? I don’t know where to go, but I want to be with you.”

“You can be selfish all you want, darling. You’re right where you are. My home is your home, so stay.”

Amara wanted to thank him, but her body reacted quicker than her brain and pulled him into a deep kiss. Eliminating the space between their bodies, Doflamingo returned her kisses, making her giddy in the haze of euphoria once more. She glided her hands up to his neck, tugging his bathrobe away, and he grunted in satisfaction, ready for round two.

Doflamingo was never planning on letting her leave. For he was a master puppeteer, and she was his precious doll, tied up in gilded strings belonging to him and only him.

゜。+。゜゜。*。゜゜。＋。゜*゜。゜。+。゜゜。*。゜゜。＋

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fiercynn · 7 months

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was in bed all day so i watched the entirety of the fall of the house of usher. i'm mixed about it overall, but i think it may have actually been the best plot-wise of the mike flanagan shows i've seen?

spoilers for all the mike flanagan tv shows except the midnight club (which i started and was intrigued by, but fizzled out on when i found out it had been cancelled) beneath the cut

my problem with both hill house and bly manor is that i think that plot-wise, they set up interesting stories and then can't stick the landing and go out with a whimper out at the end. they do an okay job with emotional arcs, but you can't entirely divorce the emotional journey from the bones of the story - at least, not in these kinds of stories - so the plot still matters, i think.

(imo midnight mass does not do that, it tells exactly the story it wants to tell and constructs it decently; i just found that story really boring lol.)

so while i think bly manor was still the most enjoyable of the shows to watch, the fall of the house of usher might be the best in my book at plot, and i enjoyed the way it used poe stories amd poetry with its own twists on them. and i think with a few changes could have been really good overall! here's what i would have changed:

less racism. i mean it was probably average amount of racist for both a flanagan show and, generally, a majority-white cast & crew american show, and i know the whole thing was about how horrible rich people are, but there was still so much casual racism, sigh

like 40% less monologuing. i know, i know, that's flanagan's whole deal, but it's still too much even when it's performed by actors as enjoyable as bruce greenwood and carla gugino, and isn't all about catholicism (sorry midnight mass fans)

pretty early on i thought that the reveal about what happened on new year's 1980 would be madeline and roderick killing rufus griswold. but then after roderick betrayed auguste at the deposition i was like "wait no that's too obvious, they must have killed annabel to keep her quiet about roderick's perjury" and honestly i think that would have been a better twist??? like even the bells they were hearing behind the wall made sense to me because her name was annabel! and it would have been a murder roderick felt guilty about on a personal level, and it might have made sense that he would take the deal from verna if her pitch was "you already sacrificed your wife who you loved. don't you want to make it worth it by having some certainty for you and your children for at least a number of decades?" so i was bored when my original predictable guess was right. i guess it fit better with the cask of amontillado to have it be rufus but still, less compelling

the scene with arthur showing pictures of verna throughout history was SO silly and hamfisted, i'm sorry. also the lemons speech, the worst kind of example of a flanagan monologue which thinks it's brilliant and is just...goofy

i thought maybe there was going to be a twist where lenore didn't die because her mom had actually cheated on freddie and i was upset that didn't happen :( i know it was meant to be a lesson, that roderick and madeline's deal had to apply even to the not-horrible members of the family, but i still hated it! sigh

i thought that both lulu wilson (child madeline) and willa fitzgerald (mid-20s madeline) did a much better job with the character than mary mcdonnell (senior madeline). idk something about her just didn't seem as ruthless and collected and cold?

also not a change exactly but why did no one comment on the fact that roderick and madeline usher, who are twins, one of whom was married at the time, decided to do a couples' costume as jay gatsby and daisy buchanan for new year's 1980. why

#the fall of the house of usher #mike flanagan #original

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thestobingirlie · 1 year

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can you share more of your hcs about steve's parents?

oh, i would love to!

you are not prepared for the amount of thought i have put into steve’s non-existent parents lmao

(just for the sake of not having to type it out, steve’s dad will be mr h, his mum will be mrs h.)

so first, i know everyone loves when all the parents were in school together, but I think that the harrington’s are older. like, mr h was in his early 30s and mrs h was late 20s when they had steve.

i also think that mr h was originally from hawkins, but not mrs h, and i think he moved away to grow his families business. so at most the other parents would’ve known the harrington name, but mr h was like a decade older than them.

i think mr h has a brother, that lives in new york or something. he’s younger, but he also had kids younger, so steve’s the youngest cousin in the family. (i just love the idea of steve only having older cousins, then suddenly he’s surrounded by little brothers and sisters.)

now i love italian mrs h, but i also love jewish mrs h (it is tragic there aren’t more fics of that hc). with jewish mrs h, i think her family came to america in the second world war. with italian mrs h, i think she moved to america in the early 1960s. either way, i think she wanted to be a model, which is how she met mr h. and they fell wildly in love. my mrs h family hc’s are super different depending on her being italian/jewish, so i won’t get into that rn.

now, mr h. the name harrington is an irish last name, but mr h never lived in ireland or anything. that being said. i think mr h uses the irish famine against steve, like, he talks about it like he lived through it whenever steve misbehaves. until steve was 13, he wholeheartedly believed the famine happened in like, 1960. just a boy being gaslit by his father.

i think that mrs h suffered with post partum depression, but she was expected to be the perfect wife, and kind of shoved it all down, and as such ended up not being the most attentive when steve was younger, which is how he ended up falling down the stairs as a baby.

mrs h always wanted more kids. but then she struggled after steve was born, and mr h only wanted one. so they only ever had steve. and she’s just a little bit resentful because she really wanted a daughter.

steve is the one that discovered his father cheating, when he was around 6/7. mr h tried to get him to lie about it, called it a ‘guy secret’ but as steve was a huge mommy’s boy, he immediately told his mother. mrs h wanted to get them out of whatever city they lived in, and moved them back to hawkins, mr h’s hometown. she figured that he wouldn’t be able to get up to as much trouble there. but he still had to travel for work, and would cheat when he was in the city. eventually mrs h caught on, and started following him on his trips.

mrs h is like, a ‘boy mom’ and has a weird emotional incest relationship with steve.

like, i think she’s told steve all about the affairs and would emotionally dump on him. like, you see in a lot of relationships with cheating, the child is kinda expected to step up as the ‘husband figure’ and be someone the mother can emotionally rely on. and i think that happened with steve and mrs h. like, she told him all about the cheating, and details of her bad relationship with mr h that steve really shouldn’t know.

oh! i think mrs h goes a little crazy when mr h cheats (which is why steve reacted the way he did in s1. like mother like son). like, when it first happened, she chucked all his shit outside and smashed his favourite watch, and i think she would rile steve up too. you know, get him involved, and make him as hurt and angry as she is. but obviously mr h gives her flowers and it’s all forgiven. steve, however, isn’t as easily won over, and i think that was the beginning of steve’s terrible relationship with his dad.

i think mr h and steve were pretty close when steve was young, and mr h got him into sports and everything, but then steve told his mum about the cheating, and i think mr h held that against steve, and then steve started resenting mr h for cheating in the first place, and it just really soured the relationship.

i think the relationships between all the harrington’s are just kinda eroded. like, they do all love each other, just not in a good way, and they aren’t great at showing it.

like, i think the harrington’s are worried when steve just turns up covered in bruises, but instead of caring for him, they just kinda yell at him about it.

anyway!! i have loads more, but i don’t want to go into too much detail, i figure this is enough for now lmao.

#steve harrington #steve harrington’s parents #stranger things #asks #anon

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pinkskunksleepy · 7 months

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I finished Umineko no Naku Koro ni for the first time today. Going to write my thoughts about it below. Expect what comes of having reached the end and judge for yourself whether or not it's the right time for you to proceed.

I'm a little surprised at how early R07 spills this when it's basically the entire core of the story. I understand Van Dine's 1st, but this isn't a clue, this is just stating the point. Which makes the whole thing really interesting to me, someone who finished the story for the first time in 2023, looking back on how things were a decade ago(and what remains of then today).

I'll say it unambiguously: that Sayo is one yet many, to me, feels like it should have been obvious as early as when Shannon breaks the mirror in Turn. That in the past(fortunately this seems to be less the case nowadays), there were people who got through Requiem without putting it together is just... I can't understand it. I can understand not getting it as early as the mirror, but getting that far and then feeling cheated by what Beato is? Not trying to understand the whole, feeling as though something was taken from you because Beato wasn't a person as you wanted her to be? I can't understand it.

In general, I feel this way about a lot of the complaints about Requiem and Twilight. Were people of that time not paying attention? Did they just not care? That people complained when the solution was not only gone through by Will and Clair, forced into the light of day by Bernkastel, confirmed by Ange, and then put aside by Ange... Unironically kind of a bigger mystery than any of the Game Masters put forward.

I feel this way about the endings, too. To be honest, I thought the choice Ange would have to make would be reading the Book of Single Truth or not reading it, and I'm kind of bothered that she had to read it. Not that that isn't the point, but... I didn't want to know if that was necessarily the truth. I can understand wanting to solve the games. I didn't need to know what the truth was supposed to be, the truth with not one but two clearly decoy killers sacrificing themselves to keep out of sight.

But that being said, I don't think I could have made the choice Ange does in the Magic ending. I didn't and probably won't read the Trick ending, but that said, I also don't think I'm capable of creating new happiness in that way. When I read Higurashi, the fantasy I could relate to having was Satoko being saved and saving herself before she had to grow up under even more abuse. In Umineko, the best I can manage is to become an illusion like Beato(pre-chick Beato), to disappear with nothing but my own internal world to hold onto as I fade into oblivion. If I were Ange, I would have jumped, and while I couldn't and can't let myself steer the story in that direction after so much, that's where I'm at.

I guess it's partly because I think the illusions are really interesting. An "illusion," even outside the context of Umineko, retains its identity through a lack of information. Illusions, unlike pretty much anything else, cannot be solidified through filling in gaps. Even lies can become strengthened with more information. So Umineko's illusions, people-but-not-quite, literary-devices-but-not-quite, are really interesting to me as emergent phenomena.

So Beato, as an illusion, as something which is essentially just a collection of largely unrelated phenomena(Kinzo's memory of Castiglioni, the Witch of the Wood, the Second Master, Kuwadorian Beatrice), stands out. Her whole existence is based on a lack of information about what she is, and yet she uses it to try to reveal herself. "Kill me in my legend" could just as well be understood as "know me in my story, and let the illusion return to illusions."

Erika and(to a lesser extent) Bernkastel are so effective because they offer a resolution which allows for the illusion to be dispelled without knowing the heart. Bernkastel is also just mean for its own sake, which makes it a bit different for her. I have a feeling that if the groundwork were different, she would have tried to use fantasy as the grounds to hurt Ange instead of mystery. But Erika is just Like That(TM). It's "truth" or nothin, baby.

Umineko's truth concept is really interesting, too. Future truths supersede past ones. Truth only exists as such if it's agreed upon by relevant parties. But then... without love, the truth cannot be seen? It's an interesting, murky dichotomy between truths and the truth. I'm not fully sure it's even dichotomous. But there is some kind of distinction between the truth of October fifth and sixth, 1986 being "Kyrie and Rudolf shot everyone except Eva, Battler, and maybe Beato, who survived(again maybe except Beato) to leave the island" and the truth of those days being "the Ushiromiyas had their faults(they really, really had them) but they were also people capable of wanting a future where Ange could live a worthwhile life." Is the difference just love? I'm not sure.

That said, I have plenty of other thoughts about Umineko. I don't like when R07 repurposes my past life events for Maria's life but files off the serial numbers, for example(I get it's relevant to his prior work experience, but have mercy). Eva is the character of all time. But I guess I just want to keep this to larger concepts. I read for most of today, so I'm tired and don't really want to write more. But I'm really glad I finished Umineko. I want to try to be like Ange in the Magic ending. I don't want to promise that to myself though, because I think it would hurt too much if I failed.

#umineko no naku koro ni #umineko #umitober2023 #skoonk takes

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board-local · 6 months

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A Conversation on the Chairlift:

Last year, I was chatting with one of my good friends on the chairlift at who asked me, “if you could do anything you wanted for a job, what would it be?” After thinking about it, I told him I’d love to go snowboarding at a bunch of different resorts and showcase them to the snowboarding community. Then I thought to myself, what am I waiting for? I don’t have to be doing it as my full-time job to start doing it as a hobby. Ever since 2nd grade when I received my first snowboard, I’ve been hooked. It's always been a passion of mine, and I want to share this snowboarding journey with anyone and everyone who wants to tune in.

My goal with this project is to snowboard every resort in Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana. I also have resorts in other states I’d like to sprinkle in occasionally, but the Mountain West is my main focus. This will definitely be a multi-year project, but I’m excited to get started! I hope to show the snowboarding community that there are tons of fun alternatives to shelling out $250 for a day pass at Park City (but hey, if that’s what you’re after, it’s an amazing resort).

I plan to create a short video and an accompanying blog for each resort I visit. The blog will focus on my favorite runs, details of the mountain, and provide some personal recommendations of things I would want to know about each resort if I were a reader. The video will provide an insider look at the resort, facilities, and various types of terrain and give the viewer an idea of how the mountain rides. Although the video will almost exclusively be self-filmed by me, my goal is to showcase the mountain, not myself.

I intend these resources to be kind of like a cheat-sheet for people to know what resorts they should give a shot, plus what to do once they get there. I also want to focus on the ROI (Return on Investment). In other words - how much you get out of the resort compared to the amount you spend on a lift ticket. I want to highlight the best deals in the Mountain West.

Who am I? Are you sure you want to know? My story is not for the faint of heart… 🕷️ My name is Matt Holyoak. I’m a husband and father in my late 20s. My career has primarily been focused on supply chain management, government affairs, economic development, and non-profit work. I currently help run the Corporate Affairs department for a privately-owned consumer goods company. My wife and I also founded a non-profit called ‘Sunrise After Suicide’ where we help families in the aftermath of a suicide. I’ve got too many hobbies to list, but paramount to them all is my love for being outdoors where I love nothing more than snowboarding.

I’ve been snowboarding for over two decades now, and it’s been a passion of mine throughout my whole life. Some of the best moments of my young life were on the mountain with my childhood friends. In high school, we successfully petitioned our school administrators to bring back the ski club after it was cut. We helped plan and organize multiple snowboard trips with some amazing adult volunteers. I worked my way through college as a snowboard instructor at a small resort where I taught hundreds of people the basics of snowboarding. I was also the student T.A. for my college ski club which is where I started dating my wife. I’m going on 3 years of being a mentor for the Chill Foundation which is an amazing youth development program Burton put together in the form of a non-profit foundation. In my teenage years and early 20s my friends and I enjoyed competing in local snowboard competitions. Although I’m a little more of a snowboard nut than most people, I’m mostly just a guy who loves to snowboard and wants to find the best places to go!

I felt like it was necessary for my readers to understand who I am as a person, but that’s more than enough about me! The last thing I’d like to say in this introductory article is that I’d love to hear from my readers! If you have a strong opinion about a resort, please share it with me.

#snowboarding #snowboard #mountains #ski resorts

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atruththatyoudeny · 2 years

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Happy 28th! Thank you to all fandom authors who make my days brighter with their works ♥ Here are all the wonderful fics I read this month:

love is a word, you gave it a name | CuckooTrooke | age difference - famous/not famous - slow burn - starngers to friends to lovers - mutual pining - anxiety disorder - internalized homophobia - implied/referenced homophbia - closet - panic attacks - angst - hurt/comfort - gender dysphoria - gender euphoria - daddy kink - feminiziation - 158k After two decades in brutal show business, Louis Tomlinson is trying to restore his tranquility of mind in the peace of Northern Europe where the sun barely sets, Maria's bar is always open, and young Harry has an irresistible spark in his eyes.

You Only Fall In Love Twice | Beanno28 | polyamory - Zourry - famous/not famous - body insecurities - recreational drug use - threesome - lingerie - 57k Louis meets popstar Harry Styles while he is working at a festival and they hit it off right away. When he is introduced to Harry’s boyfriend, Zayn, Louis is invited to learn about their world of Polyamory. Will he decide it’s not for him or will he embrace the new lifestyle? This could be the start of something new…

Mind of Stone | amomentoflove | greek mythology - inspired by Medusa - Percy Jackson references - half-bloods - Styles triplets - magic - slow burn - kidnapping - curses - 42k Louis gingerly moves around the statues, trying not to look at their faces. The room is quiet, probably a basement from the low ceiling. He mentally curses when he doesn’t see a door leading outside. He checks his phone and gawks that it’s no longer early into Saturday night, but well into Sunday morning. He’s lost almost twelve hours, and he really doesn’t know how that’s possible. He needs to find a way back home, and then figure out what the fuck happened at the bar tonight.

All Out of Love | SunTomato | Cupid - falling in love - developing friendships - financial issues - angst - no smut - 33k Harry is a Cupid, who work their magic on a different plane, invisible to humans. Harry is good at love. Harry loves love. Unfortunately, Harry can be a bit clumsy, and sometimes he gets a little distracted. While on a mission to match Liam and Zayn, the distraction comes in the shape of Louis Tomlinson – an overworked and underloved man trying way too hard to do everything himself. Everywhere Harry turns, he sees Louis. That wouldn’t really be a problem except that Harry’s fairly sure Louis sees him, too.

something brand new you've never seen | LiveLaughLoveLarry | psychic abilities - visions - flirting - first dates - falling in love - 7k Louis has an unusual ability: the ability to find what someone is Seeking -- or at least, the ability to draw it. He has a small business as Laurence de la Cherche, Psychic Seeker, where he helps people to find what they're looking for -- lost items, pets, even people. And then one day, in walks a man Louis didn't realize he'd been looking for all his life.

So familiar a gleam | softfonds | fantasy - fairy tale - royalty - Beauty and the Beast elements - Sleeping Beauty elements - fluff - mild angst - 19k Harry has spent all his life moving from village to village with his aunts, never really feeling like he belonged in one place. But when he ends up stuck in an enchanted castle with a mysterious owner, he doesn't expect to find out secrets of his own past and just what home means.

The Lost Art of Breeding and (Mis)Behaviour | indiaalphawhiskey | PWP - Captive Prince inspired - BDSM - master/slave - breeding kink - breeding slave - bondage - virginity kink - light humiliation - edging - teasing - light manipulation - rough sex - 13k “Strip, slave.” His voice was rough – stern, as a proper Master’s voice should be. Harry couldn’t help but feel pleased. “I could have had five of your kind for your price. Best make sure I’ve not been cheated.” -- Or, Harry learns a thing or two about fate and faith.

Late Night Talking | germericangirl | PWP- phone sex - established relationship - canon compliant - 2k Louis breaks his elbow, Harry is upset he can’t be there to take care of him. All he can do is take care of him through the phone, the best he can…

The light is coming | ishiplouis | a/b/o - mpreg - feral behaviour - scenting - nesting - hurt/comfort - fluff - angst - 10k Louis was cold. So fucking cold. He was hungry too. He hadn’t eaten a real meal in a long time. He’d lost count of how many days he hadn’t eaten correctly or, rather, he didn’t want to remember. He wanted to forget. Forget that he was now alone. Well, mostly. He cursed his faith. He wasn’t supposed to end up like this. He was supposed to go to college, find a mate, and graduate with honours. Maybe he would have to apply right after graduation to some job offers but thankfully his father would intervene and would find him a job in no time at one of his friends’ companies. Then he would get married and be finally mated by his Alpha. In this dream of his, Louis would end up with three beautiful pups, a huge house with a white fence and a wonderful mate always caring for him until his last breath. That was how it was supposed to happen. Louis put a hand on his slowly hardening belly, a single tear rolling down his cheek. It wasn’t fair. Or the one where Louis is lost but Harry is there to save him.

Like How I Pictured It | parmahamlarrie | blind character - childhood friends to lovers - hurt/comfort - majoc character injury - 17k Louis Tomlinson hasn’t always been blind. As a child, his vision was impaired, but he had hopes that there would be years before he lost his sight completely. Before the darkness, he had a normal childhood running around alongside his best friend, Harry Styles. When Harry moved away as a teenager, Louis was lost in more ways than one. What will happen when a chance encounter brings the two together again? What will happen when he finally asks for his something great?

butterflies, the beautiful kind | softloubabie | a/b/o - fluff - smut - 18k Louis is a single parent with a child who is terrified of doctors. However, one day, the kid gets sick. Thankfully the new pediatrician, doctor Styles, has wild curly hair and green eyes and a soothing deep voice that the kid immediately grows attached to.

I Still Crave It | germericangirl | a/b/o - strangers to lovers - scent marking - fluff - smut - mpreg - 16k “Are you okay?” He asked concerned. Louis glanced at him “Everything hurts, is all.” He explained. Harry nodded and cleared his throat before speaking up “You know, there might be a way to make you feel better, help you recover faster.” The alpha cleared his throat again as he glanced anywhere but at Louis. Louis looked at him with narrowed eyes “Are you suggesting to scent me?” he asked incredulously. Harry shrugged “It’s been proven to help. There are studies.” He said quietly. And usually Louis would protest, would tell the alpha to fuck off, to get the hell out of his flat. That he wasn’t some weak omega who needed some alpha’s help. But as it was, he was tired and exhausted and in pain. Being scented actually sounded kind of nice right now. “Fine but don’t make it weird.” Louis said as he turned on his right side, silently asking Harry to lie behind him. . Or: Louis is an independent omega, who doesn't need or want an alpha. When he becomes ill and meets alpha Harry, he agrees to let him take care of him and quickly gets addicted to his scent. Once he feels better though, he keeps making up lies so that the alpha continues scenting him.

Among Lavender Fields | homosociallyyours | 1980s - girl direction - first love - famous/not famous - internalized homophobia - slow burn - angst - fluff - miscommunication - 70k At twenty-one, Louis Tomlinson is more than ready to shed the girl next door image that's been with her since her entry into film in her childhood, but with a mother and father steeped in Hollywood tradition it's felt impossible. Meanwhile, Harry Styles is a young, struggling musician new to London, friendless yet eager for the next phase of her life to begin. When French director Marie Coutard casts the two of them in her film, it's a chance for both to break away from the people they've been. Together, they struggle through an acting process that's new and unfamiliar for both of them, learning more than they could've imagined about themselves along the way. As they spend long days picking lavender and long nights sharing the things they've never been able to tell anyone else, their love blooms. Will the flower fade, or will the love they make among lavender fields be one they carry with them to the end?

#28th appreciation #fic rec #my reads #monthly reads #monthly fic rec #my fic rec #completed fics #larry fics

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notasimpleslater · 9 months

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If you're asking me, here's how I think it went down (as always, not trying to stir shit up, I just can't help but get the feeling that this is all what happened with the evidence we're seeing): Ethan and Lily have been together for ten years, he never got to have those wild twenties experiences of having a girl every night like lots of guys do. Maybe he didn't want that, but even if he didn't social pressure from other men/media can be enough to make someone think about it. (1)

(2) Cut to his mid-twenties, they're engaged and he is quite literally the toast of New York and the theatre scene in general, with basically the entire city handing him awards and attention left and right (not to mention a heavy flock of fangirls telling him how hot and amazing he is). Then all of a sudden the Tonys disappoint, Spongebob closes, and he marries Lily. (3) He sees some marginal success in the following years, moves to LA (obviously we don't know but I feel he may have wanted to try his hand at the acting scene there), and does some more shows, all the while having this gaggle of fans hyping him up and being seen as this perfect, wholesome wonderful guy who can do no wrong, with his partner of a decade by his side and an impressive reputation both in the industry and in the court of public opinion. (4) Ariana and Cynthia were cast in Wicked in mid-2021, so I have to assume that he was at least having auditions for the role by then He moves back East, does a movie and Assassins and a few other things, and by the end of 2021 his wife is pregnant. I noticed him doing a lot of traveling in spring/summer of 21, so I feel like perhaps they planned to try for a baby at the end of that year and were 'sowing their oats' as it were, and maybe that made Ethan realize some stuff about himself by the - (5) - time Lily was pregnant. It's not clear when he was actually GIVEN the role of Boq, but we know that he and his family were certainly in London by November of 22, so he'd probably met Ariana by then. She's unhappy in her marriage, has a thing for taken guys, sees the only straight guy she'll be regularly interacting with (helps that he's desperately in love with her in the musical), and decides she wants him. "I want it, I got it" indeed. (6) Like I said, Ethan didn't get to do the whole single guy dating thing in his twenties like most due, especially considering he said he had feelings for Lily since high school, so he missed out on feeling that rush of getting that kind of attraction (personally I think they had a fling, not a relationship, but it doesn't much matter). Ariana starts showering attention on him while playing the 'nice girl', meeting Lily and Ezra and all the while pretending to be friendly and professional. (7) clearly we don't know when or how it happened, but I can imagine that going from relative obscurity to having affection showered on you from one of the biggest sex symbols from the 21st century would be enough to scramble any man's brain. IMO he got a little too big for his britches and is trying to relive being 21 and having a 'fling', since he never got to experience that at the appropriate time. (8) Either way, it sucks, and if there was cheating they're both terrible people. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.🙏🏽

Alright there's a lot to unpack here, so let's do it.

The fact that you mentioned that he seemed to have never had a wild early 20's experience is interesting because we really don't know anything about his dating life prior to Lilly. If i'm doing the math right based on his interviews and such, him and Lilly started dating when he was 19/20 years old, so I wonder if he even dated a lot in high school or early college years?

(This is just me bing nitpicky, but if you're talking about when they moved to LA in the middle of covid, I think he said in a couple of interviews that the move to LA was for Lilly's job?? )

It's also interesting that you mentioned all the traveling they did in the summer of 2021 because during Ethan's Edge of the World press tour he mentioned a couple of times that they were in the process of moving, and then during his Broadway Buskers concert that fall he says they moved 3 times in 2 years?? I don't know why they were moving so much, but I just remember in his video interviews he was in a different location every time dfgbdfg!

Back to the current situation, I agree with you that if anything, him and Ariana may have had a fling instead of an actual relationship because I just don't realistically see any relationship between them lasting. I've seen a few people on twitter say that they think Ethan is Ariana's type, but like??? I feel like they only thing they have in common is that they're both theater kids 😂. Their lives couldn't be anymore different.

But like you said, this really is a sucky situation.

#answered asks #anonymous #e rumors #long post #whew that was a long one!#thanks for that one anon it really made me think

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ausbutlerhq · 9 months

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The Aftermath

Who: Vanessa Hudgens & Austin Butler @queenvh

Where: After the Barbie premiere and After party

Summary: The two spend the night at Austin's apartment and deal with the aftermath of their feelings.

Trigger warnings: mature themes, emotional devastation

Austin When Vanessa began trying to soothe him and moved to hold him he couldn't help himself. For the first time in a long time he allowed himself to break down. His body shook as he cried, truly not knowing how to handle his feelings anymore. Every semblance of a wall came crashing down as he let himself grieve the loss of their relationship while in Vanessa's arms. He still held onto her hand, allowing himself to feel the physical manifestations of the pain he'd been holding in from their relationship ending. He'd been so careful to bury it - whether it be in acting roles, cigarettes to calm the nerves he couldn't shake anymore or the constant running of his mind and body to try to push out the feelings of loneliness. The girls he'd slept with, the relationship he tried to form with Kaia to convince himself and others that he could live a life without the woman that he would've bet his life that he'd marry someday and have a family with. The woman that his mother loved, that his sister saw as her own sister. And Darla - the beautiful little gift that his mom left behind. He'd left her, too and all of that hurt him more than he could ever express. It was his fault and he blamed himself for allowing himself to get too into his head, allowing himself to become absorbed and overwhelmed. He remembered the nights spent with Olivia almost immediately after the breakup and now, three years later he couldn't begin to imagine how he had rolled into bed with her as if the nearly ten years with the love of his life hadn't mattered a bit. Soft sobs shook Austin's body as his mind and heart raced with no signs of stopping.

Vanessa She felt his body shaking with sobs. Last time she saw him like that was when his angel of a mother had passed. This was devastating. She thought that when they broke up it was because he felt like there was no point in them continuing together. It was the distance, the work and because maybe he wanted to explore things with someone else after almost a decade with her, since his early twenties, and didn't want to actually cheat so the honorable thing on his part would be to end things with her. And what are you supposed to say when someone tells you they no longer feel like they can be with you? No? Of course not so she just agreed and let him go. Her sister had flown all the way to Scotland where Vanessa was filming back then to be with her, her mom already there. Honestly thank god she had them because things weren't good. But she pushed through. She'd film all day, pretend she was OK and then break down alone at nights. Did she spiral a bit at some point. Yes, yes she did, but a 9 year old relationship had just ended, wasn't it normal? And then she met Cole and she truly loved him but it was a differen kind of love. And she had realized that and maybe that was why she had ended things. She let him cry, saying nothing, just holding him because thats what she felt he needed from her now

Austin Pain filled Austin’s body as he cried, finally thinking over and releasing the feelings he’d had inside for so long. “A terrible mistake,” he whispered. “A terrible, terrible mistake. I was weak and I made such stupid decisions,” he mumbled, shaking his head slightly. Austin covered his mouth, feeling physically ill from all the crying. He hadn’t felt or reacted this way since his mother had passed. Even when the relationship had ended he’d drowned himself in alcohol and Olivia’s pussy, forcing himself to forget about everything he felt. He quickly slipped out of Vanessa’s arms and grabbed a small trash can from the corner of the room and threw up into it.

Vanessa She sat up when he covered him mouth seeing that he was about to throw up. She rubbed his back as he did, not saying anything. Once he was done she got up and went to the little kitchen returning quickly with a bottle of water and a few napkins "Here" she said handing them to him. It hurt her heart seeing him like this. It was as if he was grieving. She didn't know what else to do to help other than just let him get it out of his system and just… be there for him

Austin Austin coughed a little and took the napkins and water from her. “Thank you, appreciate it,” he said quietly. He wiped himself off and took a few sips from the water. “Sorry I didn’t mean to get sick, my stomach hurts.” He used another napkin to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. He took a deep breath, trying his best to focus on his breathing so he wouldn’t spiral into any kind of attack. “I’m okay,” he said quietly, more so to himself than Vanessa. “I’m okay,” he repeated again. “I don’t know if I can talk about it without crying right now - but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain how sorry I am,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Vanessa "It's OK…" she said quietly when he said he was sorry for getting sick. "Want me to get you anything?" she asked. She heard what he said and she just nodded her head "It's OK" she said again. She never could have imagined that he had carried so much guilt over it. Honestly she felt like he was living life. That he was finally free from the whole "Vanessa's boyfriend" title and enjoying how people were finally realizing what she knew all those years, how freaking talented he was. One one hand she understood the break up and guessed that he had to break away from her so he could shine. And she had grown as well. Stepped out of her comfort zone and pushed herself.

Austin Austin’s hands shook softly as he moved to stand and return to bed. “Can we lay back down here?” He asked. He sat back down and rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted.

Vanessa "Sure" she said. She felt a bit ridiculous still in her dress but what was she going to do? Shit happens.

Austin Austin walked to the dresser and pulled out a t-shirt that he knew would fit her more like a nightgown. He sniffled softly, his chest still dealing with the repercussions of his crying session.

Vanessa "Do you want to go put some water on your face, or have a shower or something?" she asked. "It might help relax you or calm you down". she said softly. She didn't know what to do or how to help. She didn't even know if her presence here actually helped or caused him to break down even more

Austin "Yeah, yeah. I can take a shower," he said, rubbing his eyes again. He handed Vanessa a t-shirt. "I'm sure you want to, too. Do you want to come with me?"

Vanessa She just nodded when he agreed to take a shower. She took the t-shirt that was handed to her and thanked him. "Um… sure OK" she said

Austin Austin headed into the bathroom and tested the water. He took off his t-shirt and sweatpants before getting into the shower, making sure to leave it open for Vanessa. He began allowing the very warm water to run down his back and face and hair, calming his body some. There was something different about him being nude in the well lit shower versus in the dark.

Vanessa She let him go in first, afford him some time alone if he needed it. She could hear the water already running. A deep sigh left her the whole emotional toll and exhaustion crushing her. She took the dress off her and padded towards the bathroom still debating in her head whether she should or not. She took a moment as she saw him already in there. God… She removed her underwear and just stepped in, the hot water immediately running on her a very welcome relief

Austin He began to wash his hair, the strong scent of his shampoo filling the steamy air. "It feels good," he commented. "Doesn't it?" He still felt so conflicted and his stomach hurt, but not nearly as badly as it had earlier. "Do you want me to wash your hair for you?" he asked. It was something he had done so many times before for her, under much different circumstances.

Vanessa "It does" she agreed. She could feel the whole exhaustion washing over her. This has been a day. She had been picketing all day under the sun, for the SAG-AFTRA strike and then she went to the premiere and now she was here. And she would most likely be picketing the next day too. "Yeah sure" she agreed not wanting to rock the boat or hurt him in any way

Austin Austin stepped behind her and first began to wet her hair. Once he'd done that, he squeezed a bit of green apple scented shampoo into the palm of his hand and rubbed it around before beginning to gently massage it into Vanessa's hair. He moved his fingers with great care, enjoying every second of touching her hair again for the first time in so long like this. He lathered her up and rinsed his hands before moving his fingers to her neck and shoulders. He moved his hand in gentle, but firm circles making sure to press kindly in between her muscles. Austin was pretty confident that he could help relieve some tension whether it be physical or emotional with his hands. He'd always been good with them.

Vanessa She let him do his thing. Wash and massage her hair and she just stayed silent. What was there to say? The silence was also heavy with words. This has been an emotional day in several different aspects. As he began massaging her she let out a sigh as the water kept running over her

Austin Austin decided that it was his turn to take care of her. She rinsed her off carefully before bathing her body. Once he’d finished he rinsed her off and wrapped a towel around her, helping her dry off. He used a t-shirt to squeeze out the excess water from her hair and tiredly and absentmindedly kissed the side of her head. He grabbed the t-shirt and helped her get it on before leading her back into the bedroom.

Vanessa She had learned to put her emotions into boxes and file them away when it wasn't convenient. It was the only way for her to cope. She did it when her father passed and she had to do a live show the next day, she did it when they broke up and she had to film, she did it when her engagement ended and she had to film as well. She had to push forward and leave her personal drama or whatever was going on in her life for her. People tend to be quite critical of her every single move all the damn time so she wasn't allowing herself to give them more shit to talk about, even though sometimes it was inevitable. She was always the one taking care of others, always the one to have to push through. So this felt… it felt good. But she couldn't allow herself to be hurt again. The last time was too painful. She let him dry her and dress her and she followed him back to the room

Austin Austin crawled back into bed and opened his arms up. He was also very caring and often put others first. He hadn't been like that in the previous three years with Vanessa, but had spent nearly a decade caring for her before that. He felt badly about his breakdown and his guilt.

Vanessa Vanessa sighed before she just gave in and got into his arms. She guessed they both needed it. An illusion of normalcy. To pretend that no time has passed and that the last three years didn't happen before they actually had to face reality

Austin Austin enveloped her in his arms and held her close to his chest. He covered them with the blanket and rested his head against hers. He moved his hand slightly to rub her back, hoping to provide her some comfort. "What happened with your boyfriend?" Austin finally asked, barely above a whisper.

Vanessa She let him hold her and she got comfortable, feeling his hand rubbing her back as her breathing steadied. "What boyfriend?" she asked. She didn't know whether he was referring to the guy she had met tonight or Cole

Austin Austin knew she must be feeling somewhat better as her breathing evened out. "The man you were engaged to," he responded.

Vanessa "So not my boyfriend, my fiancé," she said. "Or well ex fiancé now I guess" she said with a shrug. "It's nothing tragic. Just… the whole moving around thing takes a toll. First Pittsburgh, then Arizona which is where he is based, then Colorado…"

Austin Austin continued to trace his fingers along her back. "So, it couldn't be worked out?" He didn't want to make the point that they'd been long distance for nearly a decade and he'd never had a doubt until the end. "Did you love him a lot?" he asked gently, his voice calm and collected.

Vanessa "We tried to spend together as much time as possible. But athletes follow a certain routine. My life is just… all over right now. And he's 7 years younger so there's also that" she said "Yeah. I don't just agree to marry someone just because they asked. Not desperate" she said

Austin He rubbed her back again and listened to her words. He could understand that. He'd never been engaged. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'd hoped you would find some wonderful person who could give you everything I ended up not being able to give you. The marriage, the kids, the big fancy house." His chest hurt at the mention of the home they were meant to live in together. He'd only wanted those things with her. He never, ever had sex without using protection. Sure, he didn't want to get a disease but he also didn't want any children with women who didn't mean as much to him as they should. And maybe he didn't need to procreate anyway. They'd probably inherit his anxiety and nerves and inability to make good decisons.

Vanessa She just shrugged "I will. One day," she said "As for the house and kids I can also get those on my own" she added. "Well the kids, I got the house already" she said. After spending about two years fixing and decorating the house in Los Feliz and doing the Architectural Digest interview and shoot she had managed to sell it for almost 2 million more than they had originally bought it for. So she moved back to Studio City where the first house she ever bought was. A sort of going back to her roots and basics kind of thing for her

Austin "Do you think you'd want to have kids on your own?" he asked. He wasn't judging her by any means - he could understand that, especially with her being in her mid 30s.

Vanessa "If I feel that I'm ready for that and I want that for myself, then yes, why not" she said "I work hard, built my life on my own. I can afford it" she added with a shrug

Austin "Just curious. I'm not knocking it," he said, listening to her intently. "Would you have rather done that with me?" Austin whispered, although he knew he shouldn't say what he was thinking. "I'm sorry that I fucked up the plans."

Vanessa "At some point I did" she responded honestly "Obviously if I got a second mortgage to get a house and all that" she said "But whatever, wasn't meant to be so the past is in the past" she sighed when he asked sorry "Stop"

Austin Austin could tell that he seemed to be striking a nerve with her and silenced himself. "For the record, I want that with you, too," he responded. "There's a reason why I always keep condoms on me now. I don't believe that's in the cards for me anymore."

Vanessa "Whatever happened happened" she stated "Maybe the inevitable was just sped up. Maybe we saved ourselves serious trouble in the future had we stayed together. You don't know. So just… drop it I guess" she said. As the years passed and people kept asking when the two would get married she always responded how she didn't need a piece of paper and all that. And it was true. But as people around them kept getting married after being together for much less time than them she had accepted that maybe they just weren't one of those couples. And at some point a relationship comes to the point where you either take the next step or you end it and in their case it was the latter. "Never say never" she said "You might meet the right person soon that will make you want that. Men can have kids at any point"

Austin Austin’s heart ached in his chest. How he could tell her that he’d only wanted that with her? Everything felt so set in stone, so permanent. “I wanted you, though,” he said softly.

Vanessa "Oh well. As I said, the past is in the past, no need to ponder over it" she responded. How was she supposed to respond to that? Not enough apparently? She didn't want to get into that whole conversation once again.

Austin Austin could feel pain pooling in his chest. His heart rate got higher at Vanessa’s words. He shifted ever so slightly. “I don’t think so.”

Vanessa "You don't think so what?" she asked lifting her head to look at him confused

Austin “I don’t think we should just leave it and call it a day,” he admitted. “What are we going to do?” He asked softly.

Vanessa "I don't know" she admitted as well "I don't have any answers" she said with a sigh. She really didn't know. She was trying to protect herself at any cost

Austin Austin had so much on his mind and heart that he wasn't sure if he should keep talking or be quiet in the aftermath of everything. He knew they were exhausted, but he also knew his time with Vanessa seemed limited and she'd have to leave in the morning, which was rapidly approaching considering their long night. "I want you to know something," he said quietly. It had been true, he had been sleeping with other people, but he had to get something off his chest. "No matter what relationship I end up in, no matter who I go to bed with -" he began to say. "no matter what I do or don't do, how I react or don't react, no matter how many times we come back to each other scared and guarded, no matter how many mistakes I make," Austin continued. "At the end of the day, the love that I have for you hasn't ever dimmed. I wholeheartedly believe that if soulmates are real and if love is still real and if everything we can't see is real that you are the love of my life. And, I will never even when I'm old and gray, even if I had a wife and kids and everything - there'd never be a time when I'd see you in the press or at an event and not die a little inside at how beautiful you look, die inside when I hear your laughter, die inside when I see you with someone else. Die inside when I hear you talking about having kids or having kids by yourself," he admitted.

Vanessa Her eyes filled with tears when she heard what he was saying without her being able to stop it. This hurt. A lot. It had taken her so long to put her pieces back together and to be able to move on. He had put into words things she felt as well. At the thought of him having a wife and kids, the life she had imagined for them, the future she tried to build with him that was never meant to be, she felt as if she was punched in the stomach. She was so overwhelmed with emotions that she didn't even realize that she was actually crying. She prided herself in being strong, in being able to pull it together and being composed. She had no words and didn't know what to say. Actions spoke louder than words sometimes so all she could do was just reach up and kiss him hoping to convey what she said without talking

Austin The silence was deafening at first. Only when Vanessa leaned up to kiss him did he realize she was crying. She was always so strong, sometimes it was difficult to know how she felt, especially after the three years of separation. Austin tightened his hold on her and kissed her back, the way he kissed her soft and slow backed up the words he had said. He pulled away a little and held her as tightly as he could without hurting her. “I feel like I can’t breathe without you, no amount of time is ever enough,” he whispered.

Vanessa Her breaths started coming out labored as the tears kept coming. God damn it. She felt broken all over again. She hid her face in his chest as he tightened his grip around her "I know" she said "I just… I don't know how what to do, where to go from here" she admitted "I don't have the answers" she repeated from earlier. "But I never not love you" she added "In whatever form it takes…"

Austin He rubbed her back softly, hoping to soothe her as she cried. Hearing her cry at all made his chest ache. He rubbed her back, hoping to calm her breathing. “I’m never, ever, ever going to hurt you again,” he whispered. “You trusted me to keep you safe - and trust me, I know you’re more than capable of being a strong and independent woman, just like my mom or your mom,” he said softly. “But you trusted me to never hurt you and I broke the promise. But every second we’re together is a gift, it’s a second where I don’t have to feel how I lost you and how it was my fault,” he whispered. “And I get why you don’t trust me, half the time I don’t trust myself either - but I’m still trying to fathom how I did what I did. So many times during our relationship you were the reason I got up in the morning. You encouraged me and loved me during my worst moments and I loved you at your most insecure and painful. I - I don’t know how my mind ever got to a place where I thought breaking up and having our life dissipated would be a good idea,” he whispered, tears filling his own eyes. “It makes me sick to think of it. Absolutely sick. I never wanted to hurt you, but I take responsibility for it and I know I did. I know I wrecked you and I’m sorry. I wrecked myself, too, I was supposed to be someone you could count on. Your best friend, your partner, your confidant,” he said softly. “All those nights after my mom when you held me and just let me break. The nights that I held you after your dad and even though it hurt to see you going through such pain I knew exactly how you felt and it was my turn to be there for you,” he said, sniffling softly. “I was drunk the first time I slipped into bed with Olivia. I don’t even remember it. I woke up the next morning and showered and cried. The realization that I’d never feel your panting against me or taste you again hurt, knowing I wouldn’t fall asleep to your gentle breathing or hear you laugh at something I’d said absolutely destroyed me.”

Vanessa Hearing him talk, put into perspective once again how much they've been through together. How they were together for each other during their lowest points, helping and supporting the other person. They had gone through the loss of two parents during their relationship, and helped each other through it. They had been part of each other's families and part of important moments. No matter whether they wanted it or not they would always be linked in one way or another. She was his sister's bridesmaid at her wedding. When he started talking about Olivia she winced. She didn't want to know. She held no grudge against the girl, she had even become friends with her as weird as that was. But hearing about them being together right after they ended hurt. "I don't have the answers" she repeated once again. She didn't know where to go from here. She didn't know if she was ready for a relationship or whatever. But this had opened Pandora's box, the two of them sleeping together. She didn't know if this was toxic or not. You could never take the emotion out of it especially when it was people with so much history between them "All I can offer right now is just… I don't know. This" she said pointing to her body "I don't know where this will go, I don't know how things will end up" she said "Lets just take it one day and a time" she said. And well in the words of Olivia Pope, if you want me, earn me. If he wanted her he had to win her over

Austin If she’d let him, he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to her. He knew he’d fucked up majorly. “I hope you know that I don’t just want your body,” he spoke quietly. “Your body is magnificent, but I’ve always been after this,” he continued, placing a hand over Vanessa’s heart. “And the fact that I had you completely and fucked that up is something I’d spend the rest of my life trying to make up for. I - I want to be it. I want to be the one you wake up to and fall asleep to. I want the marriage, the kids - but I wonder if it’s too late. I know that I’m late and I’m scared that I’ve already done too much damage. I’m not..different but I’m not the same either. Getting to know me now is like getting to know another part of me.”

Vanessa "I'm not the same either" she said with a shrug "People change. People evolve. I'm not the same person I was 3 years ago. Not the same person I was 5 years ago and not the same person I was 10 years ago" she said "As for the rest… I told you the past is in the past" she said with a shrug "We can just… I don't know. Get to know each other. I can't promise anything. I can't promise things will go somewhere or not. I can't promise we'll end up together or not. But we can just see where things go." she said "But not in public"

Austin Austin knew that was all he could ask for, but it was still a hard pill to swallow. “Okay,” he agreed. “Do you think we should stop having sex?” He asked seriously.

Vanessa "Do you want to stop having sex?" she asked him with a shrug

Austin “No, but if we’re going to try to get to know each other and date then I feel like maybe having sex could complicate things,” he admitted.

Vanessa "It's not… dating per se" she said "I don't think I'm ready to take things public. Imagine the clusterfuck and the hassle. The added pressure and attention will complicate things as well" she explained hoping he understood as well where she was coming from and that he agreed. If them randomly running into each other at an event was news, what would happen if they attempted to go out together? It added unnecessary pressure she didn't want to deal with. "But OK if you believe sex will complicate things, then no sex"

Austin “Oh no, no no. Not public yet by any means. Not because I’m not sure I just, this is complicated enough for us. We don’t need to add a third party of public opinion to any of this. By dating I mean - we’ll go on dates even if it’s just here or somewhere secluded where we can be normal people. It doesn’t have to be at your house,” he assured her. “I think that we should try to not have sex. And if you want to keep having it with other people or I do, that it’s something that needs to at least be brought to each other’s attention. For safety purposes. But, I’m also serious about this so anything happening will no longer be happening for me.”

Vanessa Vanessa nodded in agreement a bit relieved he agreed and understood where she was coming from in this case. Curiosity got the best of her though and maybe a bit of jealousy which she would never admit "You gonna go down the roster and message them you're closed for business?" she joked.

Austin Austin thought of the best way to answer her question. “Well, yeah,” he admitted. He figured he should just be honest. “I need to have a talk with Kaia,” he said obviously. He took a deep breath and shook his head a little. “It’ll be okay. And then, yeah there’s one or two other girls I probably need to at least send a text to,” he admitted, rubbing his eye with his free hand. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, including but not limited to giving my body to people who just want it for their pleasure. I mean, I guess I did the same to them but it was all consensual of course. Either way, don’t really feel great about sleeping with people I don’t know very well. It feels better when it’s with someone who knows me inside.”

Vanessa At the mention of Kaia she winced. She felt so bad for the girl. She seemed smitten with him. The earlier events of the day also hitting her and making her feel guilty again. "Nothing wrong with that though" she chimed me about the part of giving his body to people who just wanted it for pleasure and vice versa. "Yeah you won't be doing that though"

Austin Austin was concerned about hurting Kaia, but knew he would need to let go of the situation in order for both of them to be happy. “Doing what?” He asked.

Vanessa "Sleeping with people that knows you inside" she responded. "So you are basically not having sex with anyone from now on"

Austin “I won’t be having sex with anyone, Vanessa,” he responded. “You’re the only person who even knows me inside to any degree. And if we aren’t having sex then yes, I will not be having sex with anyone.”

Vanessa "Hm" she said "OK" she said with a shrug before she readjusted her position so she was more comfortable "Then good night I guess" she said

Austin “Huh?” He asked, confused. “I - why would I have sex with anyone else if I want you?” He asked, misunderstanding.

Vanessa "I didn't say that" she said "I was basically saying this means you won't be sleeping with anyone, agreeing with you"

Austin “Oh okay. Then yeah you’re right. I’m closed for business,” he said, leaning back against his pillow.

Vanessa "You are tired. Go to sleep Austin" she said shaking her head, closing her eyes.

Austin "You go to sleep, too," he responded.

Vanessa "That's the plan" she said eyes closed

Austin Austin allowed his body to relax some and he closed his eyes as he held Vanessa. He began to grow drowsy, the feeling of her breathing against him being the ultimate comfort for him.

Vanessa She could feel his body relaxing before she drifted off to sleep not being able to fight it any longer, the exhaustion, both physical and emotional, of the day finally getting to her

#stories; magic worlds where the impossible becomes the everyday #vanessa; i was born to love you with every single beat of my heart

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