#i've mostly been drinking and watching criminal minds

[wastemanjohn]

unfinished boymom!mary fic

hi here are some snippets from a little something i've been working on if you like it give me a boot up the arse to finish it please thanks

Snippet 1:

Dean’s taking the scenic route home in his father's car with the windows rolled all the way down and an AC/DC album at the lowest volume in the tapedeck, chewing a piece of gum to soak up the taste-hangover of tobacco and sweet chemical jungle juice, taking deliberate breaths of liquor-sweet summer night air to help his focus. He's on high alert; trying to look as though he's not. On a night like this, there's a high probability of a bored, jobsworth cop around somewhere, looking to catch a lone kid out.

And it's not that Dean doesn't know better than this. It's definitely not that he didn't have his share of horrific nightmares after that scaremonger video Miss Osterberg made them watch in health class, the one that had kids with burn scars and missing limbs and glass eyes from catastrophic accidents telling horrific stories while a grave voiced narrator spat statistics that sounded made up. Get home alive, was the slogan, flashing up in eerie white text on a black screen. Don’t drink and drive.

And Dean wouldn't. Not usually. He's a good kid. A good kid who graduated high school today with grades well in the upper echelon of his class, a good kid with lots of friends and an abundance of invitations to the various house parties he's been milling between with the guys all night. And Dean’s friends are still at those parties, jumping into backyard pools with their clothes still on, vomiting on each other’s shoes, slurring promises to stay in touch forever, even if they’ll be at colleges eight states apart in a matter of weeks. It’s not like any of them are in a fit state to give Dean a ride home themselves. Hell, not a single friend of his even has home on their minds, not at the pitiful hour of 2am where the biggest night of their lives so far should just be getting started. But Dean doesn't mind needing to leave early. He was getting pretty tired anyway. 

And as he drives, down dead suburban streets with dark, sleeping houses, he's followed only by the shadows of gnomes and hydrangeas and mini wishing wells in tightly maintained front yards. He doesn't see a single soul, a single pair of headlights on the road other than his own. It’s rare, actually, that Dean knows such quiet. Such aloneness. And if there’s something comforting about it - well, it’s been a busy day. Lots of noise. Lots of people. 

In fact, as Dean makes it to his own street - in one tipsy piece and sans new criminal record - he finds himself slowing down. Stopping altogether just on the corner, shifting the handbrake touched thoughtlessly again and again by his father’s hands; and Dean takes a second, just a second, to lean back in the cool old-leather seat he has vague, time-faded memories of Dad occupying, listening to the music he has vague, time-faded memories of Dad playing, if a little distorted now with taperot and age - and he thinks about how driving the Impala is kind of like sitting in a time capsule. Kind of like slipping unnoticed into someone else’s shape, someone else’s imprint on the world; somewhere Dean can quietly belong, in this moment anyway, because Dean’s so entirely, incredibly alone right now, and no one can tell him that he can’t.

And Dean runs his thumbs along that steering wheel - really listens to the music. It's new to him, Dad's old classic rock stuff, but he likes it, he thinks. Stuff Mom can't have on in the house, because it's too painful; stuff that he'd never think to seek out himself anyway. Kids at his school are mostly into Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Tupac, and Dean is into them too by osmosis, because it’s all he ever really gets to listen to. But maybe he too would have liked hair metal and face-melting classic rock, if Dad had lived.

He’s only had Dad’s Impala for a few months. Had no idea Mom planned to give him the keys for his eighteenth birthday; hadn’t ever really thought about it ever coming out of its tarpaulin wrapping in the garage again, like a sheet covering the dead. And Dean had been alone then, too; alone with that moment, as he’d peeled back that sheet with a trembling hand and opened the driver door to find everything exactly as he remembered. 

Dad had been pretty messy. There was still a half-full cigarette packet on the dashboard, open so Dean could see the speckled beige tips, like Dad had been planning on coming back to them later. Cassette tapes on the passenger's seat, scattered, either stuffed into the wrong jewel cases or missing them entirely. There was a fast food wrapper under a layer of dust in the footwell. And the smell - car oil and blue collar sweat and trace cologne underneath. It kicked Dean square in the chest, that smell; flooded him with fragmented memories of this giant who’d come home in the evenings with dirty hands and pink tired eyes but still scoop Dean up in his arms with a big grin and a hey, buddy , spinning him around in the air until Dean was giddy and squealing, and Dad would be red in the face from laughing; and he’d take him out to the yard to kick a ball around before dinner even though he must’ve been exhausted, then at the weekends he’d ferry Dean down to the park and buy him an ice cream as big as his head with his finger on his grinning lips and a whispered, don’t tell your mother. And Dean had felt these memories like a freight train; climbed into the seat where Dad used to sit, and put his hands on the steering wheel Dad used to touch, and then he’d pushed his head against it too, and, alone and unseen, he broke down into the most violent, pathetic sobs of his life.

It’s hard, in the moment, not to do the same again. Hasn't been easy all day. Turns out there's nothing like graduating high school as the only kid in his grade without a father watching to bring it all back.

When he finally brings himself to stop the tape and get out of the car, he feels a little more sober; he can see a faint light still on in the living room. He breathes in a lungful of cooled but still humid night air, and thinks to himself, not for the first time, that he had absolutely no business going out tonight in the first place. If Dean’s feeling Dad’s absence today then god knows how Mom is feeling. But his friends wanted to party, and they wanted Dean to party with them, and they wanted Dean to drink and dance and hit on girls, and Dean just kind of gets swept up in things that way. He remembered wanting it strongly in the way Dean doesn’t usually want things, to do something normal, something kids his age are meant to do. Feel normal, like everyone else, when he felt anything but.

He opens the front door quietly. Sam will be asleep, or maybe awake with his headphones on and a book open under torchlight covers, but either way Dean doesn’t want to disturb him. Sam isn’t speaking to him at the moment. He’s not really speaking to Mom either, but that's just par for the course these days. He's fourteen and he’s sullen and he's angry. Mom says he's going through a phase. 

The light is coming from that gothic looking lamp on the side table. There's a near full bottle of white wine next to it, accompanied by a glass with just dregs left inside. Mom is on the couch, in her silk white night slip, sitting with her bare legs crossed underneath her. Her shoulders rise as Dean comes in,  but she doesn't look up. 

“Mom?”

She runs a hand through her hair, scraped back off her face in the remnants of that pretty updo she spent an hour on before the ceremony, now a little unravelled and wild. 

"Mom?” He tries a smile. “I'm home."

Her arms gather at her waist. She doesn't answer.

From her side profile, Dean can tell enough; her eyes are bleary, bloodshot, from the wine, sure, but Dean knows from the puffiness underneath and the mascara smears on her cheeks that she's been crying. Shit.

"I… I lost track of time. Didn't - uh, I didn't realize how late it was."

"Do you have any idea what's been going through my head, Dean?"

She still doesn't look at him. Like she can't bring herself to. The thought pierces Dean. He hovers, awkward hands by his side. “I'm -”

"I was about to pick up the phone and report you missing. Or dead, maybe. Not like I had any damn way of knowing."

That pit grows; he's never seen Mary this upset.

"Guess it would have killed you to answer your phone, huh? Guess a little courtesy call to let me know you weren't lying dead in a wreck somewhere was too much to ask."

"I - Mom, it won't happen again, I swear. I was - I was with the guys, and -"

“The guys. Sure.” Mary snatches up that wine glass. “But screw me, right? I’m only your mother.”

“Mom, don't - come on. It wasn’t like that.”

Except; it kind of was like that. It kind of was like Dean ignoring the vibrations of his phone, letting her calls go to voicemail unanswered. It was letting the texts that said things like Call me I’m worried and Baby come home its late barely read and unanswered. It took five missed calls in quick succession and a message reading Dean I really need you for Dean to get his ass in the car and drive back. To stop leaving his mother to rot. His loving, doting, widowed mother.

There are often nights like this, with Mom, where she gets all upset. Where Dean has to prise that wine bottle out of her hand and use every one of his learned tricks to get her to go to bed. But Dean doesn’t remember ever being the cause of her misery.

His mother drains the dregs in her glass in one angry gulp. Ignoring Dean. She’s never ignored Dean before. And it's like the world tilts the wrong way. Dean feels panicked, sick.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snippet 2:

“Anyway,” Mary says, “I wanna hear more about the party.”

Dean isn't sure there's much to tell. He spent most of it a few stone’s throws away from the center of the action. He watched dance-offs. He returned hugs from drunk girls and listened to their stories about how Mr Clement is such an asshole and how could he only give me a B?, making consoling noises in the right places. He remembers making himself very, very scarce when a game of seven minutes in heaven broke out. 

Dean asks, “What do you want to know?”

Mary picks up the wine bottle again. “You know, I loved partying when I was your age. It’s so fun, isn’t it? You’re young. You’re excited. All you wanna do is have a good time.”

Theres a smile on her face, but Dean can't quite place it. “I didn't know you used to party.”

Again, probably not the kind of thing a mother shares with her son either. But glimpses of Mary's life before, before Dad, before him and Sammy, are scarcely given, no matter what they look like, and Dean can't help but be obsessed with them when they arise.

“Oh, yeah.” Dean watches her top up her wine; fill the glass almost to the brim. “I went through that phase, honey. Drinking, boys. Sneaking out of the house.”

“Really? You did?”

Dean's half surprised; half thinking about how that's another thing. Sneaking out of the house - from who? From Dean's grandparents? Mom never really talks about them, either. Aside from things like this, as part of something else, a vague implication of their existence; not that they exist anymore, anyway. They died years before Dean was born.

“It's an exciting time,” Mary says. “You've got your whole lives ahead of you. You're at that age where you really believe you're gonna change the world.”

“It's too late to get philosophical, Mom,” Dean says, with a laugh. An apprehensive one.

Mary isn't quite looking at him. “Who was at the party, Dean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean says. “Everyone, I guess.”

“Everyone,” Mary repeats, with this look on her face that Dean can’t quite translate. “Who’s everyone?”

“I don't know. Just - everyone.” Dean laughs a little. Feels like he’s answering the question wrong.

That look doesn’t wane. “You're being very vague, Dean.”

“I'm - not really sure what you want from me here.”

Mary's lips irk up in something that isn't quite a smile. “Were there girls, Dean?”

“Yeah, Mom, of course there were girls. Everyone in our grade was out.” 

“Dean. What I’m getting at - is there a girl?”

A girl. Singular. And Dean guesses there was a girl. Kind of, depending on how you translate these things. He spent about five minutes in the blue part of the evening making out with Lara Stamp tonight; lovely Lara, with her pretty face and her wealthy Dad and her celebrity status popularity, her cheerleading tricks and her hair extensions and her designer perfume, her acrylic nails that kept catching on loose threads in Dean’s shirt when her hands wandered over his body, braver and more unrestrained than Dean’s. They'd been in Isaac Jones’ parents’ bedroom, the lights off, and Dean had tried to finger her a little, but she'd kept mewling and complaining he was hurting her - god, haven't you done this before? - and eventually she'd batted his hand away and she'd seemed annoyed when she'd kissed him again, and it was dry and awkward that time, the fire-fervor burned out. And Dean still doesn’t really know what he did wrong - why she muttered its like you’re somewhere else, Dean, its like youre always somewhere else - why she'd got up without a word and done her bra up again with her back to him, and then she'd said see you around and left, and Dean hadn’t seen her around at all, he hadn't seen her again all night. And Dean remembers going to look for another beer, unable to stop thinking about how strange her pussy had felt around his fingers, the first he’d ever touched, hot and squishy and somehow not like he expected; and he felt like an idiot, and a child, and a disappointment. 

Yeah - after tonight, there’s definitely no girl. 

“There’s no girl, Mom,” Dean confirms, aloud. Well aware of the pause he left before answering.

A faint smile passes Mary’s lips. “I’m not stupid, honey.”

“Mom -”

“Home so late? Didn't hear your phone?"

Mary looks towards her lap; she really thinks she's right, Dean realizes. He wonders if the tears and texts make more sense now. How strange it is that that would cross his mind at all.

"It’s only natural at your age, honey. I thought we don't keep.secrets from each other?”

Dean thinks back to those bank statements. “There’s no girl,” Dean says again. “I'd tell you, Mom, I swear.” 

“Hmm,” Mary drags it out, like she doesn’t quite believe him. That smile gets a little sharper. “Well. I’ve got my eye on you, Dean Winchester.”

“Mom,” Dean tuts. 

But Mary laughs, and takes such a long gulp of her wine that Dean feels a little sick by proxy. “Your father never strayed, Dean. Not once.”

“That's - good.” But of course Dad would never do something like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snippet 3

“This is all I always wanted, you know, To have things like this to worry about,”

She says it like she had worse to worry about once. Dean can feel those ceramic angels’ eyes staring into the back of his head from the cabinet, silent and knowing.

Mary’s lip quivers again, and when she takes Dean’s hand, the inside of her palm feels condensation cold. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head a little; a watery smile bursts through. “Nothing, honey. I just keep thinking about you up there today. How grown up and handsome you looked.”

Dean scoffs a bit. Handsome is Brad Pitt  or salt-and-pepper bearded guys, not an awkward kid graduating high school, walking across a rickety stage in ill-fitting hire robes. Fighting the urge to hide his face for his mother's ear splitting cheering, louder than anyone else's. He shouldn’t be embarrassed. He has no reason to be embarrassed.

“I looked like an idiot,” he mumbles.

Mary narrows her eyes. Makes this deep furrow in her brow. “This is what I’m talking about, Dean. You just don’t see what everyone else sees.”

Dean finds himself thinking of the time his homeroom teacher waved him over before first period and handed him a flyer for some after school programme, Self Esteem and Me, telling him quietly that he should think about attending. He’d promptly thrown it in the trash on the way to first period and tried to forget about it. 

And anyway, there’s this way Mary looks at him sometimes, when she’s had too much wine and too much to think; a look that’s unplaceable to anything Dean’s ever experienced. He thinks he knows what it is though; he thinks it’s a mother’s love. Mary says it’s the most powerful thing on the planet. And Dean knows he’s lucky to have it. There aren't many things in life that Dean feels good about, not really, overwhelmingly happy-good anyway. But that? That makes him feel amazing.

Mary touches his hair, gentle as when he was a little kid; runs her hands through it. He leans up into it like a dog, because her love really does feel so good . Like a warm blanket, or a hard drug.  “You know what your father used to say, Dean?”

The mention of Dad is kind of jarring. As felt as he’s been all day, he’s remained unspoken, like he always does on big occasions. Like he always does unless Mary brings him up first. You keep Dad to yourself; you keep him in your head, ignore the elephant, no matter how violently it swings its trunk around. You never know how Mary will react.

Mary doesn't wait for Dean to respond. “He used to watch you for hours. Couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Playing with your toys, reading your books. You used to sound out the letters. Did you know that you taught yourself to read?”

Mary tells him these things sometimes. If you listen to Mary, Dean could tell the time at the ripe old age of eighteen months as well. He scoffs; “Yeah, Mom, sure. I was one of those Hemingway toddlers.” 

“Dean. Listen.”

Dean listens.

“And do you know what he’d say?” Mary’s voice catches a little; her fingers get a bit more insistent in Dean’s hair. “He’d say, look at him. This kid is special. And I know all parents think their kid is special. But we didn’t just think it. We knew it. And - ”

Dean doesn’t hear most of those words. “Dad really used to say that?”

“Yeah,” Mary smiles, watery and weak. “He loved you so much, Dean.”

Dean can see tears crystallizing in her eyes again. He squeezes her hand, harder than he means to, but Mary doesn’t flinch.

“I  only wish he could’ve seen you today. He’d be so damn proud of you.”

“Mom,” Dean whispers. He means to add, don’t cry . Or maybe just, don’t.

Would Dad have yelled the place down too? Would Dad have clapped him on the back and brought him home for a quick illegal beer and told Dean with tears in his eyes, son, I’m so proud of you ? Would Dad remember that time Dean sat in his lap looking at a space book, astronaut, with love in his voice, you work hard, kiddo, and you can be whatever you wanna be. You’re gonna make me so proud of you some day.

“Me and your father,” Mary says, with trembling lips, “we made your bones.”

Mary always says this. Dean doesn’t know exactly what it means, but sometimes it’s just better to let her talk.

“You,” she whispers, “You - you’re all I have left of him.”

“Don’t say that, Mom.” But Dean can see how it’s true. What else is there?

“It’s not fair,” Mary whispers. “It’s just - it’s so damn unfair .”

It is. Unfairness has been a curse on this house, their lives, and as Mary’s voice cracks on the word, Dean feels that like a knife, this blunt, breath-snatching agony in the center of his chest; he hides it from Mom though, because seeing Dean sad only ever upsets her even more. She doesn’t need that tonight; so Dean shoves it down, as Mary lays her head against his, one of her ways of seeking comfort. On his shoulder.

Dean gives it by laying a steadying arm around her. the way he envisioned Dad might do if he were to comfort her, if he had to be strong for her. He feels that delicate warmth under his palm, the way her chest is heaving a little, and he wishes with everything inside him that he knew how to take her pain away. But he can’t.

Dean isn't good at many things in life. But he's good at giving comfort.

He listens to Mary draw a breath. Feels it himself, like the wind. “But hey, Dean. It’s our lot in life, right?”

She calls it that a lot, our lot in life. And Dean thinks about it often; sounds like something you were given, something you can’t help, something you cant change even if you wanted to. That lack of control is terrifying, but there’s something oddly comforting about it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Snippet 4:

They sit there like that for a while. Close, quiet. Dean thumbing away the tears on his mother’s cheeks. Her forehead sticky against his. Her hand gripping his so tight that it smarts, but Dean can handle it. There’s not a sound from upstairs, from outside. Suburban quiet, peaceful and dead still, enough that Dean can hear his breaths, hear Mary’s, out of sync with each other. Dean can feel Dad alright. Billowing around the room like smoke. Multiple sets of his eyes looking out at them from the photographs lining sideboards, cabinets, staring out into this beautiful suburban living room that should’ve been his home forever.

Sometimes it niggles at Dean, that he doesn’t know entirely what happened. When he got a little older, old enough to understand things a little better, he was told Dad died in an accident at work, with the kind of sparse details that hinted he really didn’t want to know them. But Dean has this vague memory, before that, maybe not long after it happened; he was small enough to sit in his mother’s lap still, and he wasn’t speaking, he remembers that; he didn’t speak for a whole year after it happened. But he remembered Mom holding onto him a little bit like now, crying a lot like now, and holding Dean so close his little ribs felt like they’d snap, and she kept whispering over and over, it got him, baby. The demon got him.

And as he’s gotten older Dean has thought back to that moment and how he must be misremembering. How Mom must have said demons plural. As in Dad’s demons got him; that maybe Dad made the accident happen, on purpose, to pulverize those demons along with his body.  He wonders though; what those demons were. He knows Dad was a veteran. Mary keeps his dog tags on the shelf with his photos. Could be something to do with that, maybe. 

Or something different entirely. Dean remembers Mom and Dad fighting sometimes. He remembers it getting worse after Sammy was born. He remembers being woken up by the sound of Sammy’s fitful newborn cries, underpinned by stage whispers, clearly not for his ears, but Dean could hear them, harsh and venomous, and then the whispers would stop altogether and there’d be yelling, there’d be words that Dean knew were curse words, then a door would slam and Dean would hear the Impala starting up in the driveway, and then he’d hear a rattle, like Mom was kicking or punching something, and he’d clutch his tatty blue teddybear close to his chest and not be able to sleep until he heard Dad come back again. He remembers this fear, this loud, cold fear, that Dad might not come back at all. 

It happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snippet 5:

“Please, Dean?” A wan, slightly pleading smile. “I don’t wanna be alone right now. Can we just stay up and talk or something?”

Her voice cracks, and Dean can’t bear it. And besides; he knows his mother is incredibly, desperately lonely. The air in the room is warm, musky, balmy air filtering in through the open window. Smells fresh, intertwines with the Fresh Linen and Orange Blossom reed diffusers Mary has on her shelves. The traces of Diorella perfume on Mary’s body, all she’ll ever wear, because Dad loved the smell. It’s so - it’s all so comforting to Dean. All he’s ever known.

He smooths her hair out of her face; “Alright, Mom. I’ll - we can talk. Sure.”

There’s a new flush of life on her face, like she’s reanimated. “Lay down with me, Dean?”

Dean can’t explain his hesitation to himself. The words hitting him wrong again. It won’t be the first time he’s had to sleep next to her. Making sure she doesn’t aspirate on her own vomit, if she’s been throwing up for reasons she attributes to anything but alcohol or medication, or when he hears her having one of her nightmares, the really bad kind where she cries out in her sleep. And as Mary hoists herself up on the bed, shifts over clumsily to make room for Dean, he thinks about Sam - it’s weird, the two of you are weird, and no, we’re not , he snaps back at him in his mind. Sam just doesn’t understand, doesn’t even know he’s fucking born.

And with that in mind, Dean shrugs it off and carries on taking care of his mother. Climbs up onto the bed, with its Febreze locked into the fibres, the smell of Mary’s citrus shampoo on the pillows; and Mary’s facing him and leaning on an elbow, and she shifts a little closer on the mattress, until her bare calves are brushing against Dean’s.

Everything is very, very quiet. So quiet that Dean can hear the blood go solid in his veins. Dad’s blood. Dad’s bones. We made your bones.

So quiet that he can hear the elevation in Mary’s breath. Hear the whisper of his shirt under Mary’s fingers as she runs them down his chest. There’s a different quality to her wine-spaced eyes, a quality Dean recognizes; the way Lara Stamp looked at him earlier before he let her down. Adjacent to the feeling stirring the hairs on the back of his neck when he’d sense his gym coach staring at him sometimes. Maybe not the first time Mary has looked at him that way, if Dean is really honest with himself, especially not on nights like this; there’s an amnesia block on that look , whenever it isnt happening.

But this is different. This is the first time Dean can really see the shiver rolling through his mother’s body.

Mom’s lips part. “Promise that no matter what - you’d never leave me?”

“I’m - Mom, are you with me? You know I’m -”

Not Dad dies on his tongue. Mary is with him alright.

There’s a strangeness to it that makes the world feel off kilter, upside down, and entirely changed in just a second; and he watches Mary’s lips flutter. “Can I show you something, Dean?”

She cups Dean’s face in her hand and leans in close, so close; and she doesn’t wait for an answer. Mary’s lips taste like ethanol and sugar, and her little gasp snags on the corner of Dean���s mouth; and her tongue is - god - Mary’s tongue is on his, plush wet and insistent; and there’s this heat-rush in Dean’s blood, this sense of the body he feels indifferent to and disconnected from most of the time switching on in a way it never has before.

He makes a choked sound. He might actually be choking. It’s panic; it’s something more complicated. And Mary draws back immediately, and her face is burst capillary flushed and her breaths are rough and she looks so pretty and fragile and she’s everything, she’s everything to Dean, and he’d do anything for her, and he’s mixed up and sick with it, and maybe that’s why he’s shaking, an earthquake in his bones -

“It’s okay,” Mary whispers, hands running manically through his hair. “Don’t be scared, baby. It’s okay.”

She whispers it over and over, like a prayer, like a mantra; hooks a leg over his waist, presses her chest up to his, and Dean can feel the press of her tits, her crotch. Her - her cunt .

His head is spinning. It’s moving fast, fast . Mary rolls her hips, slow, shudders through her lips; insistent press into Dean’s dick, rush of cotton-denim friction -

“Dean,” Mary sighs, eyes devil dark, both hands on his face, “Have you ever fucked a girl before, Dean?”

“N-no,” Dean stutters out. 

It’s the first time he’s admitted it out loud; and he’s sure the shame of that shows on his face, but Mary would never judge him, never think less of him for anything; and Mary just lets out this long breath and says, “Okay. That’s okay. I’ll show you.”

It occurs to Dean that maybe Mary seems more sober than she did just now; and he lets her take his hand, he lets her, Dean lets her; he watches her parted lips brush over his fingers like they aren’t his.

“I’ll show you,” Mary says again, breathless. “Just relax. Let Mommy show you, okay?”

“O-okay,” Dean chokes again as Mary’s lips close around his fingertips, and she holds his gaze as she suckles around them gently; her mouth feels soft and hot, and the sensation is new to Dean, alien, and he can’t decide what he feels for it. Mary gasps; and Dean watches, watches the glisten of saliva that isn’t his on his fingers, watches Mary move his hand between her legs. Beneath her white slip, she’s been wearing white all day; she's not wearing panties.

Mary’s eyes roll. “You feel that?” 

Dean does. Silk heat, wiry hair. Wet. She feels different to Lara. 

A sound catches in his throat.

“Touch me,” she breathes out, millimetres from his lips. “It’s okay. I want you to.”

“Mom,” Dean stutters back, and no, and don't just won’t quite follow; and Mary catches it on her mouth, and her kiss is so rough this time that Dean’s blood hums and his hips jerk; and he can feel Mary’s hands, on his shoulders, on his chest, hear her moan dragging against his teeth, and then heat-air hits his chest, she’s getting his shirt open; and Dean’s supposed to be touching , so that’s what he does. Blindly drags his saliva-wet fingers across Mary’s folds, her gasp like an electric shock; lips going slack against his as he cautiously pushes one inside. Silk soft clutch, and Dean isn’t sure what to do, whether he’s supposed to move it or what; but then Mary growls, fists his half-open shirt, and Dean’s breath catches for the drag of teeth against his lower lip.

“God, now,” she mutters. “Dean, I need you now.”

And it happens fast, it happens so so fucking fast ; Dean’s body is stiff and puppet-like all at once, and the light in the room is too bright, those laundry-perfume scents in his throat, and he’s staring up at Mary, straddling his hips, her eyes closed as she tugs at his belt buckle, the zipper on his jeans; the hiss of it hits Dean’s back teeth. And something washes over him, then; like a feverish waking dream. Looming vivid images of himself loading up the Impala at the quiet crack of dawn, filling the trunk, backseats, with labelled cardboard boxes, a college acceptance letter in the glove compartment on top of the photograph of his family and his enrolment paperwork. Parties, people from different states and countries, coffee shops and lecture halls; and Dean would change, he’d grow, he’d find himself , that’s what his teachers kept saying about college, that you find yourself there; and maybe Dean would meet a beautiful girl who was studying law or medicine or something, and on graduation day he’d propose to her and give a spiel about her being the love of his life, down on one knee outside the lecture hall where they first met, and she’d cry and jump and say yes, yes , and there’d be a beautiful wedding and Dean would get onto a graduate scheme and go to work in a suit and they’d go for fancy dinners and they’d travel, they’d live the kind of life his friends want. Although it wouldn’t even need to be that fancy; Dean could stay in Lawrence, he could move out now, he could get a job as a bartender or a bricklayer and rent a shitty apartment, he could run into Lara Stamp at the mall or the gas station one day on accident and end up reconnecting, and she’d give him another chance, and he’d blink and he’d be married, and her rich Daddy would buy them a beautiful house in an upmarket neighbourhood, and they’d have three beautiful babies who’d go to private school and go on to do great things, and Dean would be stable, life would be stable, and Lara would age beautifully and he’d be the kind and steady glue man-of-the-house holding it all together, and it would be a damn fucking good apple pie life.

But that’s not Dean’s life, because his father is dead, and his home is sad and broken, and his baby brother’s got the devil in him these days, and his mother needs him louder than the oxygen in her blood. And Dean thinks back to that drink-drive video Miss Osterberg showed, the deaths, the injuries, the statistics. Thinks about what it would be like if Dean became one of them, if he’d given into careless driving and veered off the road and if his car had rolled over three times and caught fire, and it’d be gruesome and bloody, and god, what would happen if Dean never made it home at all -

But he did, and now this is happening. His dick is bare, it’s hard and his mother’s hand is on it, her other hand on his chest, and she’s bared over him, bracing herself, and her hair is in his face, and this is fucking happening ; and Dean’s panting and still, and Mary’s face is close to his, and she’s panting too; and if Dean is crying a little, no one seems willing to point it out, least of all himself.

“I love you,” she whispers, tender like a promise, gut-suck horrifying; “I love you so much, my sweet baby boy.”

And Dean clings to that. Clings to Mary, to her hips, unsure what to do with his hands, as she sinks down onto his cock, silk-hot-clutch, god, brand new sensation, scrambles Dean’s head, he’s never felt anything like it; and Mary’s eyes flutter closed, she moans, pitchy-loud, a sound Dean should never know. But it can’t hurt when you’re nothing, and you don’t know what you want.

“Love you,” she gasps again, head tilting back, “fuck, love you so much.”

Dean can feel himself getting harder. Feel his body taking over, pushing him deeper inside himself, building a wall between him and how fucking good his mother feels inside. Her head tilting back like an exorcism, her mouth open, as she rocks on top of him, her hands grabbing, up in his shirt, his hair, her mouth open; and those cries are words sometimes, they’re cries of fuck and Dean and sometimes they’re cries of John , they blur up, and Dean feels heavy and far away; and it doesn’t matter who Mary’s calling for anyway, because Dean is both blank canvas and magic mirror, he’s made of fragments that don’t make a whole, and it just doesn’t matter. It’s his lot in life.

#deanmary #mary live john dies au #unedited #preseries #butterfly effect #tw non con

[underthenightskydreamsneverdie]

10 - catchy beat or deep lyrics? 13 - coffee or tea? 14 - sweet or savoury? 16 - summer or winter? 17 - autumn or spring? 25 - metal or rap?

bonus - have you been in fandoms before?

p.s I love you 😘

This or That questions from my sweet Pugs!!

10 - Catchy beat or deep lyrics? Deep lyrics every time! A song can have a super catchy beat but if the lyrics are shit, I'll turn it off.

13- Coffee or Tea? Tea, I actually hate coffee. I only got into tea a few years ago. Drinking tea out of my Hufflepuff mug does in fact make it taste better, btw.

14 - Sweet or Savory? Savory. I've had to cut back on my sweet intake over the last ten years because sugar gives me headaches, so I've learned to appreciate the savory side of things.

16 - Summer or Winter? SUMMER!! I love everything about summer, the warm weather, the flowers, the feel of the sun on my bare skin, swimming everyday. Yes, I'll take all of that right now please.

17- Autumn or Spring? Spring! Much like in Summer I adore the start of warmer temps, the first signs of life from plants.

25- Metal or Rap? I don't really listen to either of these that often, but I'm going with metal.

Bonus - Have you been in fandoms before? OMG YES! Mostly as an observer, this is my first time being a creator. Let's see I was almost as deep into the Wolfstar (Remus Lupin and Sirius Black) fandom as I am the HL fandom. Here's a few others I've been a part of over the years: Percy Jackson, Criminal Minds, Doctor Who (that one is a forever fandom, once you get sucked in your stuck for life), Nancy Drew (The games, the books, the movies, currently watching the tv show - all of it)

p.s. I love you too cutie!!! 😘💜

#Thanks babe! #this or that #asks answered

[harrypotterhogwartshitpost]

yo so what's going on in hogwarts mystery, i haven't opened the app this month?

#hogwarts mystery #hphm #harry potter hogwarts mystery #harrypotterhogwartsshitpost #i've mostly been drinking and watching criminal minds #and of course online school

[vigilvntes]

Sweet Fantasy - Adrian Chase x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: today has been a wild ride between me having the worst morning, my vigilante shirt arriving and then scaring the shit out of james gunn on twitter by letting him know that i'm in his walls... so yeah have this. maybe i'll write a part 2 who knows

Warnings: NSFW (not full smut but like . basically), language

Request: "it's not like i've fantasized about you or anything" + "you said i had nice lips"

Word Count: 2k

••••••••••••••

"Hey, are you listening to me?" You asked Adrian, poking his cheek to snap him out of his daze, the two of you standing around the back of Fennel Fields on your break.

You knew Adrian was a little bit of a weirdo, and that was one of things you loved most about working with him. Some of the things he said, whether it be the random nonsense that he spurted to other co-workers, or the quiet comments he reserved only for you, had you giggling to yourself for days afterwards. But lately, Adrian had been acting strange. Like, really strange, and it was starting to concern you.

You worked behind the small bar in the corner of the restaurant, pulling the occasional round of drinks and polishing glasses, which meant you had a little more free time than most others in the restaurant. For this, you were grateful, it meant you could slack off and text your friends or your family, or scroll through social media. Lately, though, on your free time at work, you had been noticing little things that you hadn't previously picked up on.

Like how Adrian would stare at you from across the room like a predator eyeing up its prey.

At first, you shrugged it off. He was your friend and he was probably just zoning out, his gaze just so happening to land on you. However, as the weeks passed, you felt the situation begin to intensify. Not only was he staring at you from across the room, he was staring at you right in front of your face. You couldn't begin to count how many times you had to wave your hand in front of his face to bring his attention back around to whatever the hell the two of you were talking about.

It was frustrating you to no end, mostly becasue you just wanted to know why. Could he see something on your face that you never noticed? Were you ugly? Or was he truly just zoning out? You were going to find out one way or another.

"Huh? W-... What? Yeah, yeah. I'm listening to you." Adrian stuttered out, squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. Fuck. He really had to stop doing that.

"Okay, well, if you were listening then... what did I just say?" A barely noticeable smirk played on your lips as you practically watched his brain buffer.

"You said... You were talking about, uh... About how an octopus' arms have a mind of their own?" His voice now a higher pitch than before as he stumbled over his words.

You pressed your lips together and resisted the urge to laugh, knowing that Adrian often said these strange things to deflect. You knew his tactics. "I was actually talking about squids, but nice try." You responded sarcastically.

"You were?" He asked, his face now twisted in confusion.

"No."

"....Oh."

You sighed, "Okay, listen to me this time, please?" Adrian nodded once in affirmation that he was listening, so you continued. "I have to take my car in to be checked over next week, and I was wondering if I could carpool with you until I get it back? I can pay for gas..."

He was gone again.

Adrian wasn't sure when exactly he developed a crush on you. Sure, you were always nice to him and after spending some time together the two of you realised that you got along like a house on fire. But he was sure he never felt this way about you when he first met you. Or did he?

All he knew was that one night (around two weeks ago) he climbed into bed, after a night of catching (killing) criminals with his buddy, Peacemaker, and his thoughts drifted to you.

Innocent, at first. He thought about your smile, how easy it was for him to make you laugh, the way you would respond with an attitude to your other co-workers but never to him. Though, it didn't take long for his thoughts to take a detour.

Soon enough his cock was in his hand, pumping furiously as he imagined you spread out beneath him, your voice whispering praises and words of affirmation as he fucked you dizzy, your pretty face contorting in pleasure until you were drunk on his cock and begging him to cum inside of you.

He moaned your name that night as he came into his own hand, panting and sweating, afterwards willing himself to go to sleep as quickly as possible to forget what he had done and who he thought of whilst he did it.

Then, every night after that one he found himself in the same situation. His cock in his hand, your face occupying the space in his head, and your name on his lips.

He sometimes imagined himself in different scenarios with you (he was creative like that). Adrian imagined his face being between your legs, eating you out like you were his last good meal on earth. How pretty your moans would sound as he attatched his lips to your soaked cunt, swirling his tongue over your clit, pushing you steadily over the edge.

He also imagined how you would feel on top of him, rolling your hips and fucking yourself on his cock, using his body however you needed or wanted. You would throw your head back and push your chest out, fingers circling your clit until you came hard on his cock.

Soon, though, his imagination took him beyond the sex, into more romantic territory. He would think about holding you afterwards, how warm your body would be against his, and how you would probably snake your hand into his hair to scratch against his scalp gently. He would also think about kissing you slowly, his hand cupping your cheek and you sighing against his lips after a long day at work.

Hand-holding, going out for drives, going on dates, kissing your cheek, pressing his forehead against yours.

Yeah, he was down something atrocious. Just one look from you from across the room, or even just one thought of you could get him rock hard and make him feel all fuzzy inside.

This made working with you everyday excruciatingly awkward for him. To begin with, he was sure that you had just brushed it off as another one of his 'Adrian-isms', as you liked to call them. But as your hand waved in front of his face, and a scowl played on your lips, he was sure that you knew something was wrong.

And there was: he had been staring at your lips the whole time.

"Hello?! Why the fuck are you staring at me like that? Seriously, you've been staring at me non-stop for, like, a week. It's freaking me the fuck out."

Adrian blinked a few times, "I'm sorry. I don't... I'm sorry. Please don't be freaked out. I'm just... I'm zoning out. I don't know. Just don't be freaked. It's not like I'm fantasizing about you or anything." He replied, his words eventually coming out faster and more panicked as he tried to reassure you. "And I mean that. I'm definitely not fantasizing about you." He reiterated, a grimace flashing across his features before he forced a grin.

You were silent for a few moments, staring up at him through your lips parted. Eventually, you managed to breathe out, "You fantasize about me?"

"Wha-...? No! I just said that I'm not fantasizing about you! You might have nice lips and a nice face, and I might spend a lot of my time staring at you and thinking about you, but I don't fantasize about you!" He protested, pointing his finger at you.

"Well you brought up fan-... Wait. You think I have nice lips?" You raised your fingers to your lips. You knew you were blushing, too.

Out of all the things you expected from your typical, mundane conversation with Adrian about him possibly driving you to and from work for a a couple of days, this certainly wasn't on your list. You had planned to confront him if you caught him staring at you again, but you didn't expect him to admit it. Although maybe you should have expected it. He was a rambler, after all.

"Of course I think you have nice lips! They're soft and pretty and perfect just like you! But that doesn't mean that I think about kissing you or-... or anything else!"

This... was such a weird and unexpected turn of events for you. First of all, you had finally figured out the reason why Adrian had been staring at you. Second of all, you couldn't exactly say you were mad about it. Adrian was pretty, not to mention hilarious and kind and everything you could ever want in a man. You would be lying if you said that you hadn't though about being in a relationship with him before. How it would feel to be able to call him yours. You just weren't too sure if he was actually interested in you.

This was your confirmation.

"Or... anything else?" You asked slowly, taking a step towards him, placing a warm hand on his arm. "Tell me, Adrian, what is 'anything else'?"

He became flustered immediately, and you couldn't help but smile as his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if he had the words on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't find the strength to say them out loud. It was quite amusing, actually. Seeing someone usually so talkative be so, so quiet. Maybe even a little shy.

The blush on his cheeks suited him, you decided.

You gripped his arm gently and tugged him closer to you, hearing his breath hitch in his throat as he looked down at you. "What do you fantasize about, Adrian? I want you to tell me."

"I-... I think about taking you out. To dinner- I mean... Not with a sniper. That, uh... that came out wrong." You tried not to laugh, knowing that it'd only discourage him. "But, I mean, if you didn't wanna go out I'd cook you dinner. I-... I know my way around a Guy Fieri cookbook."

"And then?" You mumbled, sliding your hand down your arm to take your hand in his. "What happens after that?"

"I-... We... I take you to bed."

"You take me to bed, huh?"

"Yeah." He breathed out, looking away from you.

"And you fuck me real good, right?"

"I... I think so? I'm probably not the best in bed, so I don't think I'd be able to live up to your idea of what being fucked 'real good' would entail, but I would definitely try."

You gave him a soft smile at that. "I'm confident in your ability to wreck me."

Your words, although somewhat crude, meant a lot to Adrian, that much you knew. He was so unsure of himself most of the time, used to being rejected or pushed away. You never wanted to make him feel like that when it came to you.

"Hey, my shift ends soon, so I'm gonna head back inside. But... You should text me when you get off shift, okay?" A subtle invitation extended from yourself to Adrian.

He nodded, "Y-yeah... I'll text you."

"Cool." You grinned and stood on tour tiptoes, pressing your lips the corner of his mouth before you pushed the door open, glancing back at him one last time before you let it close behind you.

Adrian just stood there for a minute in complete silence, giving himself a moment to process what the fuck had just happened. You had pretty much just told him that you would have sex with him, possibly even let him take you out on a date.

That thought made him break out into a grin. He punched the air, mumbling a 'fuck yeah' to himself before heading back inside to eagerly await the end of his shift.

Tags!

@bvcksmurdock @neptuneswritingwork @vlkyriesgf @juniebugg @cressida-clearwood @withahappyrefrain @all-the-captains @lindenvale @tinalbion @ladamari68 @flower-slut00 @milfodyssey @madmax2191 @andromacher @myguiltypleasures21 @osnapitzandi @flutterskies @emmaflag17 @trash--blog @jlclvsjpm @papitas-con-sal @thedamchii @abbynx @lunaticsandidiots @skateb0red @fenderenderender @possessedxparrot

#adrian chase x reader #vigilante x reader #peacemaker #adrian chase #vigilante #hbo peacemaker #x reader #vigilante imagine #adrian chase imagine

[bailey-reaper]

I've said it a few times already, but you write one of the best Baroks I've seen :) he's deceptively hard, but you nail his nuances, and his "in love" version is so cute ❤️ I also love a lot your take on Klint, in my mind your interpretation has become canon. Can I request something slightly different? How do you imagine Barok and Iris' first day as uncle and niece? How would they spend the day, how would they treat each other? :>

Headcanons (Barok's your Uncle, Fanny's not your Aunt)

Notes: 🥺😭 Thank you so much, @beevean! I'm so touched and grateful for your lovely compliment! And I'm delighted that you enjoy my Klint & Barok portrayals! :D ♡ Thank you very much for the request, I hope you enjoy it!

Content Warnings: GAA spoilers

Unlike any arrangement she has with Sholmes (who's always late), Iris is delighted when Barok arrives promptly and even has the courtesy to bring her a gift – of high quality tea leaves. She gratefully takes them and promises to make him a fitting special blend in thanks (he insists she doesn't need to trouble herself, but she's having none of it).

Barok's surprised when Iris presents him with an itinerary of the things they'll be doing – including a visit to London Zoo, afternoon tea and a balloon ride over Hyde Park. Still, he had promised her the entire day and he has no qualms about the events she has in mind. Of course, he insists that he'll be paying even when she politely suggests they split the cost of the day.

They start the outing at a cafe near London Zoo, where Iris has lavender tea and a jam tart while Barok has a cup of drinking chocolate. At first, they're rather... polite, almost wooden, with one another - because it's very odd for both of them to accept that they're no longer the orphans they once perceived themselves to be; they're a family, bound by blood, albeit there's much time to catch up on.

As such, the initial talk is mostly small talk: how Iris tolerates living with Sholmes, confirmation that he has been a reasonably able guardian, etc

Barok makes for intelligent and engaging company, much to Iris' delight, and she says he simply must come over for dinner one day as she believes he'd be a wonderful dinner guest. He accepts, albeit with the caveat that Sholmes has no part in cooking the meal. She assures him he knows the kitchen is out of bounds.

Gradually, as the day progresses, they start to soften toward one another and become more comfortable – not that they mistrusted one another, it's just been such an odd time and at last those earth-shattering events are starting to become part of the past rather than the present.

Iris does notice, however, that Barok is continually glancing over his shoulder and paying particular attention to shadowy backstreets or side roads. Eventually, she asks him about it and Barok confesses that he had his reservations about meeting with her due to his infamy as the 'Reaper of the Bailey'.

Even if that spectre has been largely put to bed in his mind and those present at that closed trial – London's criminal underbelly has no idea about the reaper's true identity and as such they continue to target Barok (despite there being no further murders since then).

She asks him why he allows the Reaper to continue to exist, and he replies that the best thing he can do moving forward is be a deterrent to the criminals of London – "If my being mistaken for a demigod makes life even marginally easier upon the people of London, and reduces the crime that plagues this city, then I believe it is worthwhile even with the risks it poses."

It's rather sad to hear him say such a thing - because it implies, as far as Iris can see, that Barok continues to be at peace with the idea of being hated and feared by most, and ultimately risking being killed at the hands of brutes who don't know the truth.

Not to mention, it means he has no choice but to continually watch his back; and he can't even relax during this outing, which should be a fun affair - "It sounds all together too sad as far as I'm concerned... wouldn't it be better to be 'Barok van Zieks' and... my uncle?"

It's the first time she's actually called him that since she learned the truth, and it's a tentative attempt to see how he responds.

". . . ." at first he's not sure what to say, because it would be much better to be part of a family - of course it would. He smiles, slightly, "... Your uncle, hm? For such a long time I thought I had nothing left in terms of family, and now I'm blessed with an intelligent young niece thanks to my older brother... yes, Iris, I do want to be your uncle and support you in whatever way I can, but, I also intend to continue to fulfill my duty to the public at large as a Crown Prosecutor. Even if I weren't known as the Reaper of the Bailey, my work would still attract hostility as it did for my brother."

He has no delusions about how vile the criminals of London are and the lengths they'll go to in order to continue their enterprises. Strong law enforcement and effective legal procedures make their lives harder, so they would always target anyone in such office -- as they had Klint, and him in a bid to get to his older brother; this had always been a part of his life, ever since he was young.

"So, pray, forgive me if I continue to look over my shoulder..." he'll then turn the conversation to lighter things, like the animals at the zoo, and ask her which is her favourite while picking her up so she can pet a curious giraffe.

By the time the day is over, Iris is fast asleep and Barok dutifully carries her home and tucks her into her bed. Of course he bought her a stuffed toy from the shop at the zoo, and she's cuddling it tightly as she dreams. It's... a heartwarming sight, one that brings a genuine smile to his lips.

"I say," Sholmes will say as Barok closes Iris' bedroom door over, "Who'd have thought the Reaper of the Old Bailey was also the Pied Piper? She seems utterly charmed by you, sir."

"Clearly she's been wanting for intelligent company," Barok will remark pointedly, provoking Sholmes to laugh and heartily agree-- but, he can't quite permit himself to be so cold, "Thank you," he says, quietly, "For taking good care of her. She's becoming a splendid young woman."

Sholmes will simply smile and offer a small bow. No words are needed, after all Iris is a special young lady who has saved them both in different ways.

#barok van zieks #iris wilson #request #fluff

[breakfast-cereal]

Stupid For You (3) -Johnlock

← ←← MAIN MASTERLIST

←← PART ONE

�� PART TWO

!¡Trigger Warning¡! DO NOT IGNORE!: mentions to drugs and addiction, alcohol use, vomiting, hints to declining/poor mental health.

John felt guilty as he stared into the ceiling. He always felt guilty lately. He wanted comfort. He wanted Sherlock again. Sherlock made him feel comfortable, most of the time.

Sherlock came into their bedroom and laid down next to John. John had that guilty feeling nagging in his stomach. He wanted normal. He wanted this all to go away.

"Rosie is asleep," Sherlock mumbled.

John turned to stare at the wall. It had the ugliest wallpaper that John had wanted to change for ages. Looking at the wallpaper almost made him forget until he felt Sherlock's arm over him, and then Sherlock's body. Was Sherlock cuddling him?

"Sherlock," John questioned,

"John." Sherlock sounded incredibly groggy.

"Are you cuddling me?",

"Do you mind?" John felt a heat in his cheeks. He couldn't be blushing. Maybe he was blushing.

"No." Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around John and pulled him closer. John moved his arm to be over Sherlock's. Their fingers gently brushed together, but neither moved. John loved this moment. It felt right. He wanted this.

John had woken up without Sherlock. He felt cold. John couldn't deny it anymore. Even if he tried the thought would resurface. John loved Sherlock. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to deny it badly because Sherlock would never like him. He knew this would be one-sided, and it hurt, but he couldn't deny it anymore. His feelings existed and he had to accept them. He had to accept all of them.

John exited their bedroom to see Sherlock pulling apart their bookshelf for Jane Eyre while Rosie watched intently.

"What's Sherly doing?" She looked at Sherlock attentively.

"I'm not sure." John came up close to Sherlock and quietly mumbled, "what the fuck are you doing?",

"Jane Eyre. The objects and Jane Eyre. There were clues the objects and there has to be in this. By the way, the password on your computer needs to be stronger. Found it out very easily.",

"You looked on my computer?"  John whispered aggressively.

"It was necessary for the case. I'm sure you'll forgive me." Sherlock was right, John would forgive him. Though at the moment he was incredibly annoyed.

"You went on to my computer without my permission and now you're tearing apart our bookshelf." John wasn't sure where his point was trying to go, but he was just angry. Angry at everything. "Remind me why we have seven copies of Jane Eyre spread across the bookshelf?",

"I've accumulated them. Mostly gag gifts from Mycroft." Sherlock pulled out one copy to shake it and have a paper fall on the floor. He picked it up and ran to his desk, placing it with the other papers.

"What's that?" Rosie asked,

"Important papers for daddy's work," Sherlock responded immediately. John was always shocked by how well Sherlock was becoming with Rosie. Rather than being extremely blunt, Sherlock had worked on dialling it down. John was also shocked that Sherlock considered himself Rosie's dad.

"Why don't you go play in your room for a bit, okay?" John added.

Rosie scurried into her room and John went over to Sherlock. He had felt this strange anger after he realized his interest in Sherlock. He was angry Sherlock didn't realize. He could read people so easily, so why didn't he realize? Why didn't he call John out? Did Sherlock already know and that's why he's always been distant? Does he hate John? John began reaching at possible scenarios without noticing the tears building in his eyes. He didn't cry, but then again, he's been doing things that he never expected to do a lot these past few years.

"It seems that they're another set of coordinates. I'm going to need your laptop to check where they are or just some form of access to google maps." John gritted his teeth together. Sherlock could read people, but it seems he forgot that emotions exist. Sometimes, John felt like he was talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that responds, but can't acknowledge.

"Are you oblivious or just extremely insensitive? Because I feel like it's the latter." John gripped the edges of the table as Sherlock gave him a strange glance.

"I'm not oblivious, though I've been told I'm insensitive," Sherlock responded nonchalantly. He responded in a way that made John feel like steam was coming out of his ears.

"People who tell you that are right. You are insensitive. How do you think I feel when you disappear? Or go off on a bender? There are times I worry if you're going to die! You don't realize how you're actions are going to affect people." Sherlock stared back at John.

"I understand you're angry.",

"That's all? No apology?" John didn't care if he was being rational. He knew he wasn't.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock seemed genuine, but at the same time, it seemed so false.

John couldn't take it. He needed a drink, which wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was the only thing he had unless he let down his pride and started seeing a therapist again. He grabbed his coat, and this time grabbed his wallet as well. John slammed the door, hoping Sherlock would maybe come after him, but he didn't.

John was sitting in a cab. The driver gave him strange looks every once in a while that was beginning to get to John. He felt trapped. He felt stupid as well. Going to a pub at barely eleven. John saw a bookstore approaching in the corner of his eye.

"Stop here,"

The cabbie pulled over to the side and John handed him a twenty.

John walked to the bookstore and noticed it was near the building covered in vines. The building John remembered clinging on to. John would not be doing that again.

A faint ring was heard as he entered the bookstore. It was relatively quaint and packed to the brim with novels. He saw a copy of Jane Eyre leaning off the shelf and thought of Sherlock. He felt guilt while looking at the book. He had treated Sherlock so terribly and left without considering how Sherlock may feel, but then John felt anger again. Sherlock didn't care how John felt, so why should John care how Sherlock felt. John didn't feel the buzzing in his pocket of Sherlock texting him frantically. It was, John? I'm sorry. Respond SH. repeating over again with slight variations every time.

John brushed his fingers over the books, and his mind still went to ones Sherlock would like. There was a book on unsolved criminal cases that John could see Sherlock flipping through. There was another book of violin compositions. John found these books a strange combination, but he didn't question it, assuming this was a second-hand book shop. He couldn't help himself as he pulled both books off the shelf and placed them into his hands. He checked the prices and felt relieved to see they were only a total of £25 together.

The cashier smiled at him, "Interesting combination.",

"For an interesting person," John responded. He felt the anger towards Sherlock lessen. Even if Sherlock did piss him off, he still cared about him.

"Mm, would you like a gift receipt with that?",

"No, thank you." John took the books in his hands, ignoring the extra 15 cents he could have spent on an easier carry.

John placed the books down on the ground and opened the flat. He hoped the books would make for an adequate apology.

"I texted you," Sherlock said as John entered.

"I didn't realize. I got you things." John placed the books on Sherlock's desk.

Sherlock looked at the titles of them and smiled. "Thank you." He muttered.

It seemed so unnatural for Sherlock to thankful for something, but it made John feel giddy.

"I asked Mrs. Hudson to watch Rosie. The coordinates lead to a park in central London." Sherlock grabbed his coat off the coat rack and his hat. The paparazzi had calmed down a little, but Sherlock still insisted on bringing his hat places. "Mrs. Hudson should be here," Sherlock placed his cap on his head, "now."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at them as she walked into the flat. "On a date?",

"No, simply a case." Sherlock grabbed John's coat and threw it at him. John barely caught it.

"Well, have fun boys." Mrs. Hudson called from the flat as they left.

John's hand rested near Sherlock's in the cab. Sherlock moved his hand slightly so it rested on John's. John felt his heart beat out of his chest. Sherlock meant it in a friendly way, but John couldn't stop thinking about what this meant. He felt the butterflies again, and heat on his face.

Sherlock didn't move his hand, nor did John. They sat without admitting the hand holding. They had done it before, but this was different. As the last time they did it they were also in handcuffs. Or maybe it wasn't different and John was just reaching.

John was just as close to Sherlock on a train. Their hands touching again. John leaned on to Sherlock, testing the waters. Sherlock moved his hand to put his arm over John and John felt like he did in the cab. He felt like he had just had his first kiss all over again. John wasn't one for PDA, but he could ignore it for this. This was his one exception.

John knew they wouldn't talk about this once they had gotten to the park. They would never talk about this. It was like the cuddling or that thing that one time. John hoped they didn't talk about this. He'd end up admitting things he wanted to keep secret. He'd spill his feelings like one would with a glass of wine then they're a little too tipsy.

Sherlock looked at down at John and moved on to looking at his lips. It seemed as if Sherlock was studying them. He studied the soft curves, and John thought Sherlock might kiss him right there on the train. Sherlock glanced away though. He looked at the posters and people. Almost like he was trying to ignore John. John slumped down and Sherlock lowered his arm to catch John. John felt strange. Sherlock was being strange, which was odd. Sherlock wasn't usually one to be like this, but there were times when Sherlock would spiral. He would spiral off into a bender, that would cause John to panic because he knew one day it would kill him. He didn't want to have one day where he finds Sherlock dead with a needle in his arm. It terrified him. His terror always turned into anger. He tried to control it, but he wanted to scream at Sherlock when he does things like that. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he'll yell until his voice is hoarse, but it doesn't make him feel any better and it doesn't fix things. This moment on the train made all those bad moments so prominent. Instead of John's brain going to Sherlock doesn't like him, it went to Sherlock deserves better. He didn't want to think about this, especially not like this, but he couldn't stop himself. His brain went into a spiral. It was an uncontrollable waterfall of negative thoughts until the train came to a stop.

The park had lush green grass and multiple playsets. It didn't seem like the place to meet up with someone shady and who knew if they were even there? Rather than questioning Sherlock's motives to come here at this time, he followed him to a secluded area.

There was a man in a black coat standing there with his back facing towards them.

"Brother, dear." Mycroft spun around.

Sherlock had a look of complete confusion on his face.

"I expected you." He approached them, "Now, I'd assume you'd have figured it was me and not wasted your time to come here, but I was wrong. You were always the slow one, so I shouldn't have expected much." ,

"Why are you here?" Sherlock had an angry edge to his voice.

"You seemed quite bored in that little flat of yours, so I set up a fake case.",

"How did you manage to get things in our flat?" John asked,

"Well, for one, giving little gifts is an easy way to infiltrate into your flat, and then I just placed all the clues. By the way John, you should use a stronger password."

"So you placed things in our flat without permission and managed to have us not notice until the woman came?" Sherlock smiled, "Quite genius, I have to say.",

"Genius? Sherlock, he went through my computer!" John glared at Mycroft.

"You have some quite interesting files." John's eyes went wide. "Work is also a quite obvious porn file name, so I'd recommend changing that," Mycroft added. John felt a little calmer knowing Mycroft hadn't found the file on Johnlock articles.

Sherlock laughed and looked down at John. John felt small under Sherlock's stare. Sherlock glanced at John's lips again, and Mycroft coughed.

"I'd rather not see what you do in private, please take the PDA somewhere else.",

"There's nothing going on between us," John responded automatically. Sherlock shook his head in agreement.

"Nothing at all," Sherlock said.

Mycroft smiled at them, "of course."

There was a heavy tension between them as they left the park. John wanted to say something, but all he would say would raise the tension.

They both walked next to each other and John accepted Sherlock not flagging down a cab. There was a heavy silence that said everything.

"Sorry about Mycroft. He can be a little much sometimes.",

"For someone who's supposed to be a genius you're incredibly stupid." John covered his mouth in a panic. Why did he say that? He wanted to take back the words. Fall back in time and disappear.

"What?"

There was no going back. John was all in. He could either make something up or admit. John needed to admit things. The weight was taking up his life. He wanted to admit things, but he needed a better time.

"We should go to that restaurant." John pointed down the street to a random building.

"That's a bookstore, John." Sherlock deadpanned,

"Let's find a restaurant." John walked down the block looking at names of stores until he found a small cafe. Amour Cafe was printed in bold letters on a wooden sign. John brought Sherlock into the cafe. The interior had plush leather booths and small tables. The cash had food items on the shelf. Each one with a price John couldn't read out underneath.

They walked up to the cash and a person with a friendly smile greeted them. "Welcome to Amour Cafe, what can I get 'ya?",

John looked over the options, but Sherlock spoke before him. "We'll have two teas. Room at the top for milk.",

"I'll get right on that, sir. Your order number is 12."

Sherlock brought John to one of the booths and patted the spot next to him.

"Why did you order for me?",

"I know what you usually want." Sherlock looked at the table. "They have a very interesting type of wood. It seems that multiple people have sat here and some even carved in their initials. Do you see it?",

"Sherlock," John hissed, "why are you acting like this?",

"Acting like what?" Sherlock continued to pick at the table.

"Like something is wrong.",

"Mycroft can be a bit much." Sherlock tried to seem calm, but there was a bitter tone in his voice. "Sometimes he knows too much."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock returned the look and his gaze went down to John's lips again. John wanted to shy away, but he didn't. He kept his eyes locked with Sherlock as if they were in some strange staring contest. A staring contest where you were able to cut the tension with a knife. Sherlock leaned down at went to cup John's face but a bell ringing made Sherlock jump back.

"Number 11." The person at the counter called.

Sherlock and John watched as two people went up, their hands interlocked. They looked so happy. Sherlock glanced back at John and quickly looked away. John wanted that. He wanted it to be like that with Sherlock. He couldn't have that, though. Sherlock didn't like him. Earlier was just John's brain. He was thinking about it so he imagined it was real. Sherlock wouldn't kiss John.

John's tea was subpar, but he couldn't blame the cafe. He felt tense and anxious next to Sherlock. He wanted something to happen, but he didn't. The feeling wasn't a calm before the storm, it was more the opposite. These feelings were a storm without calm. It was the bottom of the ocean. Mostly unexplored, and confusing. Oddly, this was the most human John had seen Sherlock. He could read Sherlock this time. Sherlock was uncomfortable. He looked lost.

Sherlock turned abruptly down an alley. John wondered if this was where Sherlock was going to end up murdering him. Instead, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him further down the alley. John was shocked at the touch but accepted it nonetheless.

At the other end of the alley were rows of shops and a smaller park. Sherlock led John to the park, which was rather secluded.

Sherlock didn't let go of John as he led him through the park. John started to dislike this layout. There was a park just through that alley, yet they had to build another one. John couldn't hate this park, though, so he directed his hate towards the other park. This park was gentle. It called John, telling him it would be okay, whereas the other park was pushing John, telling him he needed to grow up. The other park also had Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock seemed to not know where they were going, but he pulled John to a tree and stopped.

"What did you mean earlier?" Sherlock questioned,

"Well, I, uhm, Sherlock," John fumbled over his words while Sherlock watched intently. Sherlock tried to figure John out. Sherlock studied John again. This time there was realization in Sherlock's eyes. The realization became confusion and the cycle started over again. John wanted to show Sherlock. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to get what he meant out somehow. John knew he loved Sherlock. There. He had admitted it. He loved Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock. He was infatuated. Stupid, even.

John couldn't take this anymore. He looked at Sherlock, starting the staring game again. This time, John focused on Sherlock's lips more than his eyes. He wanted to do something. He wanted to make the move. He feared rejection. He feared what Sherlock would say or do.

The tree was a weeping willow. It had gorgeous long branches that nearly touched the ground, though it had small openings, most likely from people entering the small enclosure underneath. The tree had an aura of comfort. It didn't need explanation; it was just there. It existed without explanation.

They were still holding hands. Sherlock glanced back at John's lips and kept his gaze there. John looked back into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock had these beautiful brown eyes that had so much meaning. Sherlock was beautiful as a whole. He was beautiful and confusing. He was a person who was hard to like, but John managed to fall for him. John Watson, who told himself he strictly liked women, fell for a man who was the hardest to fall for. He had fallen hard. He let go of Sherlock's hand and reached up. He brushed Sherlock's jaw with his hands and pulled him down. Sherlock placed his hands on John's waist as they kissed. The butterflies were there again, but this time John didn't mind. This felt right to him. He felt confirmed. Sherlock pulled John closer and put more pressure into the kiss. The kiss was like the tree; it existed. Rather than existing without needed explanation, it existed as an explanation. Sherlock had gotten the answer to his question. Because you haven't realized I'm stupid for you.

John sat at his computer with Sherlock working behind him. The blog post for this case would be interesting, to say the least. John began typing and deleting. It repeated until he had found what he was looking for.

THE FAKE WOMAN This case that was incredibly fascinating, turned out fake. A setup. Not to say it wasn't interesting. This case was revealing. It was naked. My boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, had stayed focused on this case for days, even when it seemed nothing was to come of it.

John stared at the words written down with a smile. Boyfriend. His boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes.

TAG LIST: @johnlocktrashsblog @ephemeraljimin @artefo @love-j0y

#johnlock #johnlock fanfic #john watson #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock

[heresathreebee]

Garrote part 2

[Starz Power Diego Jimenez X Jazmine Mann (Black!OC)]

Word Count: 1591 words

Warning(s): Rated teen (until like chapter 6?). Language, more mentions of human trafficking. Previous Masterlist Next

AN: I got excited and I couldn’t wait to post this tomorrow. The OC finally appears here. (Diego looks like he’s trying to incite a three way and/or sexy shenanigans in this photo)

@1zashreena1 @nicke0115 @mental-bycatch

Diego didn't like Agent Healy. He didn't like anything about this scenario or the way the man just knew about the baby or where to find them. Alicia and Diego were some of the biggest criminals in North America and nobody was supposed to know they were even on this side of the border. There was no doubt in Diego’s mind that Alicia blamed him for it. But regardless of fault, Healy did know, and for that, the man had Alicia's confidence (if even by a frayed thread) and his instructions were easy to follow. 

Healy hadn't given him a name nor a description, so Diego, with nothing but an address and a time, walked into a convenience store at 6 in the afternoon. She'll know you, was Healy's only explanation. Diego deeply regretted this already. 

The bell on the door rang twice and as his eyes swept across the floor, it was mostly empty. The employee behind the counter barely looked up at him. There was an old drunk woman leaning over the beers and a younger woman in deep contemplation over which trail mix she wanted. 

Feeling out of his element, he wandered through the snack section, glancing over to the young woman again. She was kind of cute. Straight hair pulled into a high ponytail and glasses perched at the end of her nose. He was going to say something (he didn't know what) when she looked up angrily and tossed the bags in her hands back onto the rack. 

"When are you going to get vegan options in this store," she yelled at the employee. 

The employee's exhausted eyes lifted from inspecting her fingernails and she pointed lazily, "next to the beer. It's only drinks, sorry." 

The young woman looked nervously at the swaying drunk woman standing guard of the path, then caught Diego's staring and disappeared as quickly as possible. The sour gummy worms Diego had in his hand returned swiftly to the shelf in a calmer imitation of the fit the other customer had thrown not seconds before. He grabbed a case of beer and twizzlers before heading for the counter. He felt foolish– he didn't know what to do or who he was meeting or even what the next step would be. The employee looked over him seeming to sense his disgruntlement. 

"Just this?," she asked. He nodded, watching her try to scan the items, fail, sigh in annoyance, and then manually enter their item codes to the register. He took a second to admire the radius of her curls. The black hair turned a caramel color at the ends and he imagined her hair tie holding on for dear life to contain the thick mass. Should it snap, the poof would be magnificent. 

"OK, $7.23." 

"That's it?" He gave her his card and ID but looking over his items, he decided to take it back. He was overpaying for this garbage. He noticed her stiffen as she spotted the name on his card. 

"You're Diego Jimenez?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes…?" 

He didn't like the way her shoulders slumped suddenly. Women didn't react like that– scratch that– no one reacted that way to him. Fear or arousal, but never… resignation? She looked like she was mourning something. Finishing the sale, she gave him back his cards and grasped his wrist to keep him from leaving. This shocked him– nobody was stupid enough to lay hands on a guy like him. 

"I'm Jazmine." As if he couldn't read the name on her tag, but then she continued, "I'm your new girlfriend." 

"What?" 

"Just"- the bell of the door chimed behind him– "play along," she whispered. 

"Bella!" An overly joyful white man walked over to the counter with a bright, familiar smile. "Mi primadonna. So lovely to see you again." 

Jazmine chuckled in that 'I get paid to do this' sort of way. "Well, you know I'm always working!" 

"Of course, of course," he replied, fishing for his wallet. He wore a suit– not expensive enough to be tailored but it wasn't overly unfitting– and his hair was beginning to thin at the top. Jazmine reappeared from the store's office with a bag of prepared items in it seemingly just for this guy. Upon noticing her, he gasped in surprise and pouted his lip like a young girl reacting to getting a present from her first boyfriend. "You hold the key to heart, and every time I see your face it makes my day just a little brighter." 

Jazmine bowed her head to hide behind her bangs (were they bangs? They were textured and fell over her forehead short of her eyes). "No need to thank me, I always enjoy your visits." 

If Diego wasn't so confused, he might have noticed her lying through her teeth. At the present, he was distracted when this cheery, overly doting man looked down to find Jazmine's hand touching the wrist of this stranger. Something dark flashed in his eyes. 

"Who's this?" 

Jazmine hopped over the counter, planting herself directly in Diego's personal space, and caressed his arm. "This is my boyfriend Diego. Diego, say hi." Diego looked between him and her. "This is Jeremy. Jeremy Haagen– the guy I've been telling you about." 

"Oh," Diego managed. Go with it. "Hi. Nice to finally meet you." 

Jeremy Haagen's jaw ticked but he reclaimed his smile, albeit with a chip on the shoulder. He spoke to Jazmine, not Diego. "It's nice to know I am on your mind even when I'm not around. I think I'll be going– I've got an early day tomorrow. Goodnight, Miss. Mann. And, uh, it was nice to meet you as well, Di-e-go." 

He disappeared quickly into the rapidly growing cover of night. Jazmine was practically giddy. She lay backward across the counter top like a happy cat and stretched so a sliver of her belly showed. "I've never had him leave so quickly. I should have thought of this months ago!" 

Diego hummed resisting the urge to reach out and touch her. To satisfy his lust or his annoyance, he couldn't say which. He watched her roll back into a sitting position and meet his eyes, now a little sheepish. 

"I guess I've probably got some explaining to do… I can't do it right here, right now, it's probably best if we wait til we're somewhere less public..." 

~

His phone showed it was 9:45 pm in bold font, indicating it had been hours since the strange incident. Jazmine Mann was indeed the woman he was supposed to work with– a specimen he never expected to tangle with. The good news was that she knew a little of Healy's scheme– and the better news was that she wasn't overly fond of the man either. 

The terrible, terrible, awful news was that her shift didn't end for fifteen more minutes, and her replacement was always late to their shift. Jazmine watched over the store, stocked shelves that looked virtually OCD with how untouched and organized they were, and finally she escorted the drunken Chinese woman out the back door and across the street, then returned and immediately went back to cleaning. Diego was beyond bored. His soul had left his body and was back at his penthouse suite getting sucked off by that vegan yoga instructor from earlier. He was nearly asleep when his head hit the window and woke him up with a growl. 

"Can we fucking go?," he snapped. "Fuck your job. Nobody's been in here for hours." 

Jazmine sighed, unperturbed by his lack of etiquette. Her hand drummed on her thigh until she shrugged. "OK. I have to lock up first, then we can go over to my place and talk about things." 

Diego grunted and pushed off of the counter opting for a smoke to calm him. He made it a point not to watch her work because watching her was like watching molasses on a hot summer sundae. It didn't mean he didn't notice whenever her shadow passed by, or when the lights behind him finally went out. He was lighting a second cigarette when at last, she locked the front door. She had traded the dull red work vest for a jean jacket, allowing the music band logo of her shirt to show proudly. They walked seven goddamn blocks through city streets to get to her apartment and even with his gun tucked into his pants he had never felt more unsafe. 

"So what did Healy tell you?" She secured every lock on her door and sat down without offering anything to drink. So she didn't get many visitors-- alright then, he wouldn't put out his third cigarette. 

Diego cleared her coffee table none too gently and sat facing her. "A whole lot of bullshit. Said he's trying to dismantle and trafficking ring and that you were going to need some help getting the job set up." 

Jazmine bobbed her head. "OK. Healy let me be in charge of the details, but since the set up was already in affect, he's just taking advantage of an opportunity." She said the word opportunity while making air quote gestures with her hands. "That guy you met– he's the target. He's been coming into my store for the better part of a season and making unsutble passes at me almost every day. Healy says he runs most of the human trafficking around these parts– specifically the underage scene... and he left it at that so as not to compromise the integrity of my 'character.'

"I guess you and I are going to be a team." Jazmine leaned so she had his full attention. "I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend while I draw him out so Healy can snag him. Understand?" 

"Not really." 

"Good, we're on the same page then," she joked with a note of sincerity.

#Diego Jimenez x OC #Starz Power #Diego Jimenez #three bees writing #🐝🐝🐝✒ #Garrote

[ambivalent-anarchy]

Grey

Gender: Female

Pairing: Peter Parker x morally grey! reader

Warning: None

Saw something on Pinterest and had an idea.

This will be a new storyline. Not a fic, just the one-shots will be connected, though you'll be able to read all of them separate and it still makes sense. You can send requests for this storyline just put 'Peter Parker x grey!reader'

Morally grey- a character who does too much good to fully be bad, but too much bad to fully be good and their motives are unclear.

Hope you like it!

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

Peter had been warned against people like her.

She kept him on his toes, always switching sides. She wasn't like the other villains he'd known.

Mysterio, Scorpion, Otto Octavius. They were bad. There was no doubt about it. They'd each brought some turmoil on the world in one form or another.

They needed to be stopped. So Spiderman stopped them. Simple as that.

But [Y/N]. She was different.

"Watch out for the morally grey ones," Mr. Stark had told him early in his superhero career. "They're the confusing ones. The ones ya just can't fully be mad at."

Natasha was much more clear with her approach. "Take my advice, kid," she said. "Don't make it personal. I've seen how you act with your villains.. one like that, where they're so close to being good, yet so far. One like that would kill your spirit."

And it certainly seemed Peter had finally found his match.

"Give it up, [Y/N]! I always catch you!"

He'd been tracking her for weeks now. At first it seemed she was just a common thief. But she was smart. She had skills. She had plans. And well, if you wear a costume, you can't just be some common thief.

"You forget, Spiderman!," she chirped as she ran, a large, bulging bag on her back. "We're twelve to seven! I've been coming up lately!"

Peter rolled his eyes as he hopped into action. "Is this just a game to you?"

"I'm just saying," she laughed. "Gotta give credit where credit is due!"

Peter scoffed as he swung to catch up. "You say that as you hold a bag of hundreds of people's stolen money!"

This was her fifth time this week. Going to rich people's banks and sneaking past the security systems and stealing their money.

For a few weeks, Peter hadn't eaten. He hadn't slept. He was practically going crazy searching for her. Trying to pin an M.O. to make it a bit easier for himself. But she was untraceable. The only thing he'd found out about her was her name. Which basically led to nothing being that she was practically a nobody. The only time he could see her was when she made herself visible.

Today, she'd hit the bank Norman Osborn had been storing sums of his money into. But hardly anyone knew that. She'd done her research and some heavy snooping.

"It's mostly just Osborn today, he'll find a way to bounce back! He always does!," she yelled, jumping to the last building on the block.

She looked around desperately as she felt her chaser getting closer. She was trapped. "Crap," she muttered.

"Gotcha," Peter whispered to himself as he swung to the building she stood on. Once there, he quickly webbed the bag from her back.

Quickly noticing what he was doing, [Y/N] caught it just as he began to snatch it. She kept a tight hold on it and they began to fight for dominance, stuck in their own little game of tug-of-war.

"Let...go!," Peter grunted.

"Not on your life," she shot back, feeling her feet slide on the concrete. She was about to lose.

They both realized it as her feet began to give way and her body became airborne, almost crashing into Peter before he quickly moved out of the way.

"Ugh!"

[Y/N] screamed as her entire back crashed into wall of the building. Looking up, she watched as Spiderman grabbed the bag.

"Oh, hell no," she spat.

Peter smirked as he picked up the bag. "Sorry [Y/N]. But I guess it's thirteen to seven now- AGH!"

He collapsed in an instant, feeling something hard sling across his face. It was too hard to be a fist. And God it hurt like hell.

[Y/N] scowled. "You threw me into a wall!," she screamed as hit her nemesis again and again with the butt of her gun. "You asshole!"

Peter grimaced, attempting to grab hold to her wrists and push her off of him. "Well, I didn't BREAK YOUR NOSE!," he hissed through gritted teeth. Luckily, that was the only thing that felt broken of his.

She continued her brutal attack on his upper body, almost as if she's was trying to put the gun through him before he finally got the upper hand and threw her off.

He moved to try to stand, but he fell back down, an entirely new, different pain aside from his face starting.

[Y/N] propped her head up. "Was that your stomach?," she asked.

Aunt May was out of town, so there was no one to make sure Peter had been taking care of himself, which he hadn't. The last thing he'd prepared was a pop-tart, that was still burning in the toaster in his home as he sat on that building.

[Y/N] stood, rubbing her back to relieve some of the pain she felt that was keen on staying. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was your stomach."

Peter scrunched his eyebrows together, confused. Still, he put his fist up to fight, ignoring the heavy and loud rumbling of his stomach.

Rolling her eyes, she threw the gun down. "Well, I'm not gonna fight you now." She moved toward him to pick up the bag he barely had a hold on. Unzipping it and reaching in, she pulled out a few bills and put it in the hand that wasn't pressing his cheek. "Here. Take it."

Peter backed into the wall some more, if that was even possible. "I don't want your dirty money," he protested.

"Well, it's from a rich people bank. It's actually pretty clean," [Y/N] joked before kicking his uninjured leg lightly. "C'mon man, don't be weird just take it, okay?"

"Put the money back in the bag," Peter ordered, making a second attempt to stand. He didn't make it this time either, cursing quietly as he fell back to the ground. Was he hurt or was he just really tired he asked himself.

"You need to eat something."

Peter frowned, wrapping both arms around his grumbling stomach. "You need to mind your own business."

[Y/N] stepped forward slowly, arms held out in front of her, palms up. "You fainted on me last week, remember idiot? And I can hear how hungry you are now." She walked a bit closer, picking up the bills her enemy had thrown on the ground, then looked back up to him. "If you won't take the money, at least let me buy you some food," she bargained.

Peter watched the mixed expressions flicker on her face. Annoyance. Concerned? She sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Look Spiderman, you help everyone. Let someone help you for once. Don't let your pride stop you from taking the help you need to continue saving lives, okay?" She smiled crookedly. "To continue stopping people like me."

Peter stared, mouth agape. "[Y/N], what is this?," he questioned. "You're not nice.. you're rude, a-and you only care about yourself." He winced, shuffling to lay his back on the wall of the building you'd thrown him into moments before.

"Well, I've always preferred 'rough around the edges', but okay," she snickered, rolling her eyes and then looking down at the ground right in front of his feet. This was completely out of her element, but she couldn't help but feel like she was obligated to do it.

"Alright, but.. you hate me," Peter said, looking up to see her completely unreadable face.

She finished stuffing the rest of the money in her bag. "I think you've got me messed up with Doc Oc," she said, wiping off her pants, getting ready to help Spider-man up. "I'm not like most of them, y'know. Us villains aren't all the same. Some of us actually do have some morals."

He watched as she looked around, muttering to herself. If it were anybody else, they wouldn't have heard her. But with his senses, Peter heard her loud and clear.

'God, give me strength.'

She held her hand out to him. "Come on, let me get you outta here, Spider."

Underneath his mask, Peter's frown deepened. "No, I got it... just go, okay?" He still had a hold on the bag with his webs. He was offering her a chance to escape.

"Don't be an idiot, dude," she scolded. "I just pistol-whipped you. Even if you swing, I'm sure all that wind blowing on your cuts and bruises wouldn't be comfortable..."

Peter blew out a breath. He knew she didn't really want this. So why was she so insistent? She was a criminal and he was the hero. Simple as that. Or at least, it's supposed to be.

But now she was helping him? Offering him a meal? He hated to admit it, but at this moment, he preferred criminals like Doc Oc or Green Goblin. At least they didn't confuse him like this.

But she's didn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. And he did still need to take the cash she'd stolen. So swallowing his pride, he chuckled. "Um, [Y/N]... look.."

-

And now they were in the Olive Garden parking lot.

She'd helped clean most of his cuts in her car (his mask only going up to his nose of course).

After he'd had a bit of time to calm down, he turned his face toward her. "So, um, there's no drive-thru?"

The villain scoffed lightly. "Hell no," she responded. "I'm not throwing my whole day off on you. We're movin' on my schedule bucko. And anytime I lose against you, and not get thrown in lockup, I go drink, okay? That cool with you?," you teased. "Or are you gonna tell me how unhealthy that is Mr. Superhero Guy?"

Peter huffed. "Well, you can go eat. But I'm not taking off my mask. I'll stay here."

"And let you steal back my cash? I don't think so," she retorted.

"So what?," he asked, frankly annoyed at this point. "Spider-Man just walks into an Olive Garden with a random girl?"

"Wouldn't be that way if you'd just take off your mask," [Y/N] defended. "Then it'd just be two random people walking into an Olive Garden."

"That's not an option."

Tapping on the dashboard, she groaned. "C'mon, I take my mask off in front of you all the time! You know who I am. Why can't I know who you are?"

"You don't care about keeping your identity a secret because you have nothing to lose. I'm not the same. I want my loved ones to be safe."

"That's implying that I'd hurt someone you love, Spider-Man. I'm not sadistic," [Y/N] corrected.

Peter frowned. "You literally pistol-whipped me about an hour ago."

"And I just spent that last hour nursing your wounds," she shot back.

"Sometimes you go out of your way to beat me up though."

"That's because sometimes you aggravate me," she laughed. "Occasionally, you deserve to get punched in the face."

"Whatever."

It was quiet again.

Until two minutes later Spiderman's stomach growled once again.

"Look dude, we could always pass you off as a overenthusiastic cosplayer?," she offered. "You wouldn't have to take off your mask that way, but you would get weird looks."

For probably the hundredth time since starting his hunt on her, Peter rolled his eyes. "Why do you want me to eat so much anyway?"

"I don't care about you if that's what you're suggesting," she said. "I just don't like people going hungry. And it's obvious you're not taking care of yourself." Her eyes shifted a bit. "And what's the fun in beating you if I'm not beating you at your highest, right?"

Peter chuckled at [Y/N]'s excuse. "Right.."

-

And now they were sat at a table. [Y/N] in a cute shirt she had in her car and some jeans. Peter still in his Spiderman suit.

Awkward, to say the least.

But the stares from waiters were the least of Peter's worries.

'What am I doing???'

He should've left hours ago. He should've grabbed the money and returned it and taken this girl to jail.

But the more he talked to her, and the way she nursed his wounds without question and gave him some food. It made him think of all the other things he hadn't noticed before.

How she only stole from the rich (which was very bad of course but way better than just taking from everybody). How she never went for kill shots, or even for spots that'd cause heavy injury.

She was a bad guy, yes. But maybe she wasn't a bad guy.

"I'm sorry for that time I shot you, by the way," she spoke in the middle of their meal. "It was meant to just be a warning shot. But you moved and it got your leg. It's been bugging me for a long time. That didn't take too long to heal, did it?"

Peter shook his head as he chewed his food.

"Good," she said. "Also for pistol-whipping you earlier today. I kinda got carried away."

"Yeah, I could tell. It hurts to chew right now," he said.

"Well my back still hurts from being thrown into a wa-"

"Why do you steal?," Peter cut in to ask.

Without any hesitation, [Y/N] responded. "It's just my way."

He frowned. "Just your way?," he repeated. "Haven't you-"

"Don't want a job. Tried them and didn't like them. And there's nothing more schools can teach me. Stealing has the thrill I love and it helps me to get around and, if the opportunity presents itself, to help somebody out."

Peter stared, dumbfounded. So [Y/N] was a good person...who just happened to like stealing? But then that else make her a bad person.

How could one person be so contradictory?

"You are an enigma," Peter marveled.

"Thank you," she replied, taking a sip of her wine.

When it came time to leave, [Y/N] paid and they made their way out of the building, actually laughing together and enjoying themselves.

They made their way back to her car. [Y/N] smiled. "Well, thanks for that, even though I never saw your face the whole time," she giggled. "Wait, does this count as a date? I'm sorta dressed up and you're probably in the best suit you've ever worn." She pinched at a spot of his suit on his shoulder. "Had a semi-fancy dinner-"

Peter held his head back and laughed. "I mean, I guess if you want it to, then it does. But I'm still gonna arrest you if I catch you again."

[Y/N] smirked. "And I'm still gonna steal, so.."

"Right..," Peter sighed. It wasn't like he thought he could actually change her in one night. But someone so insistent on doing a bad thing.

So close, yet so far...

Which made him remember..

"Oh yeah!," he exclaimed as he bursts off running towards the car, leaving a confused [Y/N] behind him.

She didn't get a chance to ask what he was doing before he kicked and busted the tires of her car and broke one of the windows to reach in and steal the bag of money inside.

Jumping onto her car, he pulled his mask up to right above his mouth. "Thanks for the meal! Gotta blast! Remember to stay off the streets!," Peter yelled before he jumped into the air.

Shocked, [Y/N] stood there frozen. "I-i, I-i.... I'M GONNA KILL YOU, SPIDERMAN!!!"

"You say that a lot!," he joked. "I'm beginning to doubt your commitment!"

"Ugh!"

-

"How'd it go, underoos?," Tony asked early the next morning.

Peter looked up from his computer with a unreadable expression on his face. "Hey Mr. Stark," he started. He furrowed his eyebrows. "I think I met one of those villains you used to talk about. The good but bad ones?"

Tony crossed his arms. "And?"

"I think we're kinda friends..."

#peter parker oneshot #peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #spiderman x you #spiderman mcu #spiderman fic #spiderman x reader #spiderman #marvel x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel

[dwellordream]

Hello I've got 2 questions: The first one was if you could do a directors cut of toms chapter from grass crown? The second one was if you have any tips for writers, specifically dealing with criticism? I'm not great with constructive criticism and have a hard time putting my work out there and I was wondering how you deal with it?

I like how chapter 10 of Grass Crown is now just known as ‘Tom’s chapter’ haha it sounds so foreboding. I was both very nervous and very excited to write Chapter 10 because I’d never attempted to write from Tom’s POV before, despite being tempted a few times during Barbed Wire. I know I discussed that chapter pretty heavily in the comment section so I’ll try to avoid repeating anything I said there. the chapter begins with Tom waking from a dream because I think it speaks to his nature- he has a lot of dreams for his future (most of them good for him, bad for others) and it could be correctly said that he is, in many ways, delusional. but he’a also got a pretty good track record with making his dreams (thus far) into reality, through a combination of smarts, cunning, blackmail/intimidation/threats, and networking.  Amy has mentioned before, because nothing is really ‘off limits’ to Tom, he very rarely doubts that he can achieve something; he’s like that meme of ‘everyone should have the confidence of a mediocre white guy walking into an interview he’s unqualified for’ haha. He’s used to getting his way, either sooner or later. the only ‘thing’ he’s ever dreamed of that he failed to materialize was a life with Amy in it. It was also important to me that everything in his house be described as modern and new and top of the line and carefully selected by him or Lydia. it’s really his version of a ‘fuck you!’ to his childhood at Wool’s, where he had very little control over his surroundings. now he has all the control.  we then go into the intro of the pensieve, which I knew pretty much from the start I wanted/needed to include, given the constant flashbacks and references to the past in this fic. Tom using a pensieve was a smoother transition to the memory than him just brooding on it for an hour straight.

what’s also interesting is the memory he’s chosen to ‘replay’ over and over again; yes, it is his and Amy’s ‘first time’ but his interest in watching this doesn’t really seem to be pornographic- he acknowledges that he’s not even interested in watching the act of sex itself over and over again- but what precedes and follows it. that level of vulnerability and intimacy which he had once and has never had again. I think it both intrigues and repulses him, the idea of ever opening himself up like that to anyone again. he mocks Amy’s appearance and his younger self’s devotion to her because that’s easier than confronting the pain of losing all that. he pretends to focus on the fact that sex just isn’t super exciting or even interesting to him anymore to avoid dwelling too much on the fact that being with Amy made him feel appreciated, not just in the physical sense for his looks, but appreciated and accepted as a flawed person, not for any other reason. we then get the creepy segue that A. Tom hasn’t been celibate since then, unsurprisingly or not and B. the one sex worker he frequents bears a passing resemblance to Amy. that sort of speaks for itself. Tom looks for her in the people around him, especially the women, and is both infuriated and pleased when they either live up to the standard she set... or miss it entirely. we then jump back into the memory and see Tom and Amy joking with each other after the fact and having a playful argument. this is obviously very painful for Tom, but he masks that by acting shocked and appalled that he ever let someone speak to him like that or mock him to his face like that. the lack of agenda or manipulation in his younger self at that point disturbs him, for all that the relationship between the two was already damaged at the time. we then see Tom head into work, which is pretty straightforward until the infamous interrogation with Jaime. Jaime is pretty much Tom’s opposite; referred to as a ‘conman’ and a ‘common thug’ and known for moving in the same circles as a lot of organized crime, he’s essentially the blue collar outlaw to Tom’s white collar, just-under-the-surface corruption and deceit. Jaime might not be trustworthy, but he doesn’t pretend to be, either.  Tom is so dismissive and derisive of him that he is enraged when his usual tactics don’t work, and Jaime fails to immediately turn on Amy, as Tom had expected him to do so. the idea of a ‘common criminal’ having some kind of code or honor or even loyalty to anyone but themselves both perplexes and angers Tom. he pivots to assaulting Jaime’s mind in an attempt to get the info on her by force, and is further incensed when Jaime’s memories of Amy conjure up feelings of warmth and affection. the idea of her even having a friendly relationship with Jaime Isola clearly does not sit well with him. unfortunately for Tom, his attempts to then imperius Jaime our cut short... and we see the transition to home again and the anxious wait for the election results. his conversation with Lydia is always interesting for me to write because they are both very calculated but trying to play it off as casual and innocent, and both always think they’ve got the upper hand at the moment. Tom suspects Lydia is not nearly as pure of mind and heart as she pretends to be, but is ambivalent about this, content to wait until they’re married to pry much deeper, and acknowledges her intelligence and charisma in the sense that it will be an asset to his career. he ‘scolds’ her a little by bringing up the fact that he knows about her visit to MESP, but is surprisingly unfazed by her lack of cowering or subservience when she gives a clearly overacted apology. she still, of course, demonstrates plenty of deferral to him in other ways, fixing him a drink and getting his mail.  also, of course, the note that Tom seems to like her best when she acts in a more ‘Amy-esque’ manner; he’s thrilled by her verbal approval of him and not nearly as put off as he usually might be by her open display of affection when she hugs him.  re: dealing with criticism: this is something I continue to struggle with, although I do my best not to get into sparring matches in the comment sections and I try to ‘see the best’ in every comment and not get derailed into a pointless argument over semantics or fixate on someone’s wording. I’m a sensitive person (I think a lot of writers are) and I think it’s okay to feel upset or hurt by someone’s criticism without feeling like you are being arrogant or selfish. sometimes constructive criticism can be delivered unkindly or in a convoluted manner, especially when it’s mixed in with more minor critiques or compliments, and sometimes criticism isn’t really criticism and is just someone expressing their frustration in the comment section. I know a lot of writers choose to moderate comments or disable non-ao3-user comments for this reason. I don’t do this because I want people to be able to read my comments and get an accurate sense of how readers felt right when the chapter was posted. even when the comments are embarrassing to me or make me feel bad about my writing. this is a personal choice and I’m not saying you should or must do this.  mostly I deal with it by trying to wait a little to respond; it’s easy to get upset and type out a snarky reply but sometimes if you wait a little you can get a better perspective on how the reader might have felt or what confused or annoyed or felt incongruous to them about your writing. when I do respond I try to just address things very point by point and straightforward, and I also generally do thank people for commenting unless they’re being a blatant troll and just looking for a rise from me.  overall I feel like it’s just something you have to get exposed to over and over again. I’m much better now about not taking comments too seriously or letting them direct my writing than I used to be. when you gain confidence as a writer you can sort of develop a better filter for what critique is useful to you and what isn’t. just because someone has raised a valid point in the comment doesn’t mean they necessarily have the best solution for said problem.  sometimes it is really just a matter of interpretation of a character. it also heavily depends on the fandom (if you are writing fic). in my experience the ASOIAF fandom, as much as I love it, tends to come in swinging a lot harder than the HP fandom, which I think is a little more chill and mellow and more ‘you do you’. if I mess up a worldbuilding detail or don’t explain myself properly in an ASOIAF fic, especially if it involves popular characters or plot points, I know I’m going to get heat for it in the comment section from someone. overall, I would say try to come at it from the commenter’s perspective, but also don’t let yourself obsess over it. it’s hard to remember but most fics do have a silent majority, and there are so many people who are just going to read it and enjoy it and who just don’t leave a comment because that’s not how they roll. if moderating comments and being able to approve them before they go up will make you feel more in-control and secure, then you should do that. I do find that if you reply to comments, a lot of times people might seem less abrasive or intimidating on comment #2 than #1, mostly because they’re not expecting to get a reply from the writer. you shouldn’t be afraid to go ‘actually, I agree with you regarding *insert*’ or ‘well, in my view, *character* is acting this way because...’ it’s good practice to be able to calmly state your opinion or defend your work without it turning into an online brawl, and it’s not a mark of weakness to agree with someone’s critique or acknowledge that you could have done something better. plus, you have to write a lot of crappy fics before you can write a good fic. I try to remember that when I look at my old works. nothing’s set in stone and you can absolutely continue to improve and adapt your writing as you go along.

#ask #anon #ask game

[pedropascalssimp]

●part one●

Demon of the night

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pairing: brian may x vamp reader.

Summary: its fall when Brian's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere leaving him to walk in the cold midnight air lost. But what happens when he runs into a certain someone..or something...

Warnings: none yet hehehehehehe just some high quality neck licking and probably language?...

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

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It's a cold night in london as brian walks out of the bar he and his band just played at, the cold fall chill making him shiver a bit as he bids his friends goodbye while carrying his beloved red special with him, they all say their goodbyes and head back in for a few drinks, usually brian would join but tonight he just didn't feel up to it, instead he just wanted to get home to his flat and rest. So he sets his guitar gently in the backseat of his car while getting in the drivers side and starting it with little difficulty, the old car has been having some trouble starting up lately, but he didn't think anything of it and just decided to have it looked at when he wasn't so busy with recording and playing.

But he would soon regret it when the old thing finally gives up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sigh while watching all these people walking around the streets at night, deciding which one should be dinner for the night, everyone here seemed so innocent though and you wasn't a murderer...you mostly ate the bad people...like criminals, murders, shit like that.

But as you stand in the shadows leaning against the building, watching these people you couldn't seem to find anyone, you might as well go to the damn graveyard and eat rats. You groan at the thought but it's your only option so you stand up straight, about to leave until someone catches your eye.

If your heart could beat your pretty sure it would be Beating out of your chest right now, the man you spotted was the definition of perfection and pure beauty, and when you saw him smile and wave at his friends you'd assume, is when you felt the connection you was always promised you would feel one day, I feeling you've been waiting for, for over centuries.

You smile at the man as he walks to his car carrying a guitar, his curls bouncing as he walks, and his smile still on his face. You're thoughts trail off as you think of any possible way you can turn him....because he was most definitely your soulmate you could feel it. You frown though once you notice he left...but lucky for you, you can trick that beautiful little mind of his to go wherever you need him to go...and you can follow him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

" ah shit..." brian mumbles as his car breaks down, he tries turning the key but it doesn't do anything, he sighs and leans his forehead on the stirring wheel, he decides to try and walk to the nearest gas station, but when he looks up he realizes he's in the middle of nowhere...surrounded by trees and the only light there is, is provided by the full moon.

He's beyond confused, last he checked he was on a actual road...but now he's not. He shrugs it off blaming it on the alcohol in his system that roger gave him before their show. He gets out closing the door making an echo through out the dark forest around him. And that's when he see's someone up ahead leaning on a tree.

" hello!." He says slightly loud, while walking toward the person, the closer he gets the more he see's, and that's when he notices it's a beautiful mysterious looking woman, she was paler then any normal human, and had a smirk. He clears his throat and stops walking when he believes He is close enough.

" excuse me ma'am...but my car broke down and I have no idea where I'm at..or how I even got here...but I was wondering if you could kindly point me toward the nearest gas station." He asks, his voice slightly shaking from being nervous, the woman smiles at him showing off her pearly whites...two front teeth sharper then anyone else's he has seen.

" of course I can its about 20miles back the way you came....but that would be an awful long walk for you." She smiles at him, he gulps and runs a hand through his curls.

" that it would be..." he said, he then looks toward the woman once more. " do you live nearby here so I could borrow a phone?." He asks her gently, she grins and motions him to follow her.

" yeah my house is a few minutes from here." She says while walking up the road, brian sighs with relief and follows her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You smile as your plan was coming together so smoothly, especially since your little mind game worked on him bringing him right to your house you've lived in since centuries, you smile as the dark Victorian house comes in view, as you walk in you smile at him and motion him towards the ancient 1800s looking phone. He looks at it with a slightly shocked look.

" I know it's a little out of date but it still works." You tell him, he nods and begins figuring out how it works. But after a while he figures it out and calls someone.

But he frowns as nothing happens, he hangs it up and looks at you.

" I thought you said it worked?." He said, you look at him with fake confusion.

" it does...unless the squirrels chewed the chord again." You say, you sigh and give him a apologetic smile. " I'm sorry I'll fix it in the morning...that is if you want to stay the night?." You add, he runs a hand over his face with a small sigh.

" well I dont want to walk 20miles at 2am so I guess if you would allow it I could." He says, you can hear the stress in his voice making you smile kindly at him.

" I have a guest bedroom upstairs that I'll fix for you...I'm y/n y/l/n by the way." You introduce yourself with the same mysterious smile that has Brian's heart beating faster and faster,

" brian may...lovely to met you miss y/l/n." He smiles, you cant help but to fall even more in love with the tall man. He was just so handsome.

" likewise...why dont you have a seat while I make you some tea." You suggest, he nods and sits down. Playing with the end of his shirt sleeve nervously. He felt very sceptical about you and this place. After a few minutes the tea was done and you brought him the small cup, he smiled gratefully at you as you sit in a love seat in front of him.

" so y/n...what was you doing out this late at night anyway?." He asks you curiously, you smile and cross one of your legs over the other.

" well...I have a tomcat that doesn't really like to stay in one place for to long." You tell him, he nods, " he ran outside and I was afraid he would freeze to death where it's so cold so I was looking for him when I found you." You explained,

" I hope you find him." He says sincerely, you smile and stand up.

" dont worry he'll come back as long as I leave the window over there open." You say, he nods once more. You can tell how nervous he is. He seems scared as well and that's when you sit beside him.

" what's the matter bri...you seem scared?." You ask him quietly, he sighs and looks around at the ancient decor of your house...the living room walls was a deep red while the curtains was black, the floor's a dark brown wood while the lights was basically candles in old candle holders...but you had a chandelier providing more light then the candles...and your clothing choice was odd...you wore a black gown that came to your ankles and had long sleeves and the chest was cut out but it had a turtleneck. And your hair was left down

" I'm fine...just a bit shaken up is all." He reassured you, you nod and stand up.

" well what gotten you all shook up then?." You ask him, he stays quiet And you decide to fix the guest bedroom up for him. " I'll be back shortly I just have to fix that bedroom up." You smile and leave him alone to his wondering thoughts.

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Brian stands up and looks at the phone making sure if it started working or not, he didn't want to stay here but the walk was ludacris, he thought you was a nice woman but you seemed so off...like you was hiding things from him he needed to know...he felt unsafe and uncomfortable here. And he had many reasons to, like the fact your house looks like it belongs to the 1800s murderer along with everything inside it...including you. He was scared for some reason.

He picks the phone up ready to call john knowing he would be the one to pick it up at such an hour, but like before it's dead silent on the other end, he curses and slams it down. If only he'd fixed that damn car he wouldn't be in this mess.

As he let's out a string of silent curses he feels as if someone is watching him, chills run through him as he turns around and sees a black cat staring at him with yellow glowing eyes. He jumps a bit as it meows at him with a rather deep meow. Even the cat seemed creepy

" there you are maximus I've been looking everywhere for you!." You say cheerfully, brian looks to the window seeing it's still closed, confusion takes over his features as he looks to the cat. If this was the cat you was looking for then is it in here?.

" I thought you said it ran outside?." He asks confused. Speaking his mind while lookingat the cat." And the windows are shut so how'd he get in?." He adds with wide eyes. The sound of your light giggle fills the silence of the house as you take the cat into your arms.

" he got in through the upstairs window...I always leave mine open at night...I sleep better when cold." You tell him, but he can tell that it's a lie...and that makes him more alert.

" let's get in bed brian its rather late..." you trail off as you walk up stares talking softly to the cat, great now he's stuck with a crazy cat woman. He hesitantly follows you though and you lead him through the dark hallway to a door. You stop and smile at him.

" here you are bri...I hope you have a wonderful nights sleep." You say, you set the cat down watching as it runs into brians room. and smile at him, " I should have the phone fixed in the morning before you wake up...so no need to keep trying." You said while bringing him in for a hug, he hugs back awkwardly and when you pull back you grab his warm hand In your ice cold one.

" goodnight brian...." and with that you disappeared into the next room over from his, he let's out a breath and stares at where you just stood with a confused look, you was the most beautiful yet mysterious woman he has ever met...and the fact you felt so cold made him worry a bit...

But he shrugs it off and walks into his room, the room was dark and cold, no lights on whatsoever, just the moon coming in through the open window beside the old bed with knew sheets and blankets, he sighs while taking his shoes off and sitting on the end of the bed, and holding his head in his hands, even though you seemed weird and off to him, you was a nice lady, Especially offering a complete stranger to stay with you. He felt bad for naming you weird but it seem to fit your description.

After closing the window He decided to get some sleep and laid down on the bed and covering up, he was rather tired and stressed over his car...and the fact he left his beloved red special in the car, that thought never leaving his mind. A small Yelp left Brian's lips as he felt something jumped on him, but he calms down seeing it's just maximus. Staring at him once more.

" maximus please dont stare at me...its creepy...just like everything else in here." He mumbles, the cat meows at him and continues its stare down. Brian sighs and closes his tired eyes. Falling asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You pace around your room as you wait for the beautiful man to fall asleep, maximus was on watch for that, its around 4am as you patiently wait for the cat to run in here at any moment, you felt bad for doing this for some reason...but if you dont then you let him slip through your fingers like sand, he wont feel the connection unless you bite him...and once done the two of you will be inseparable.

But if you dont bite him then he could walk away leaving you to feel the unbearable pain that takes over you till the day you die...and you'll only die from said pain. And he...he will live a miserable life and you didn't want that for him. And you didn't want that for yourself so you have to turn him...whether he likes it or not.

The sound of a meow breaks your train of thoughts and a smile appears on your face, you quietly walk to his room seeing him sleeping peacefully, his mouth slightly parted as soft snores emitted from him, his beautifully sculpted face making a sense of love run through your cold veins, he was truly a gorgeous human, and your happy that he's the one who you've waited for all your life.

You walk to him and crawl in the bed hovering over him, he stirs a bit and moves around until he's comfortable, you smile and stare at his beautiful neck, you lick your lips as you bring a hand up moving his soft curls out of the way, once done you lean down ghosting your lips across the warm soft silky skin of his neck, you cant help but to lick the flesh, he moves a bit more and that's when your fangs come out and you bite him, he groans and you moan at the taste of his sweet pure blood, it was the best thing you've ever had, it was better then any other you've had, and that's what confirmed he was definitely your soulmate.

You pull your teeth from his neck and lick the mark you'd just made...the only scare that will ever paint his beautiful skin, you smile and roll over beside him to sleep, he was sweating and breathing heavily as he slept, he would sleep for a few days know as his body would adjust to becoming a demon of the night like you, you rest your head on his chest listening to his heart beat, knowing it will be the only and last time you'll hear it.

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A/n.

I was bored and decided to make a brian may x vamp reader imagine series hehehehehe. I hope you guys like it even tho no one looks at my imagines lol...but hopefully this one will get some likes and stuff, theres gonna be a part two btw....

#brian may #brian may smut #band #musicians #rami malek #borhap #band imagine #beautiful #ben hardy #gwilym lee #joe mazzello #queen #queen band #queen imagines #brian may imagines #brian may series #Freddie mercury #roger taylor #rogerina #john deacon #john deaky #deacy #bri #recent updates #queen one shot #queen series #rock imagine #rock #rock band