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A change in fate ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾
pairing: no breakout!Joel x fem reader
Summary: Your toxic ex kicks you out of your place without another word. Only hiring a mover to get your stuff somewhere else. And when Joel finds you in a state of disarray, and stays indifferent, you butt heads until it comes to a head when your paths cross again after that night. That time, much more complicated.
Content warning: age gap, you're 21 and Joel is mid 30s to early 40s. Enemies to lovers.
word count: 4k
A/N: this is the first of a two-part series inspired by an old movie I grew up with. If you can recognize it, I'll like, give you a really big treat. no nsfw this chapter, but the next one will. And as always, let me know if you like my work or if you have any suggestions for anything else I could write :)
Part 2 out now!!: to make you forget
“NO. No. No no no no no no no NO!!!”
Your fist hits solid wood once more. Every slam that pounds upon its impenetrable front leaves a mark on your hand in the shape of bruises and soreness-- you try the door once more. It's locked, as it had been the last ten times you attempted to open it. Desperation laced in the fruitless fervor that played its sound of metal clanking on metal as the knob refused to turn.
The thump on the ground follows a fall of your knees. Defeated, hopeless, in a dress that isn't even yours. Tears stream from your face in such passion you can't even feel them anymore as more of you is wet than it is dry. You imagine you look a mess, hair disheveled as you held it as you screamed at him-- makeup once beautiful and elegant streams down and across your face in the motion your hands chose to wipe away your tears.
A screeching of tires followed by the shutting of a door is what knocks you out of this pathetic display. A man walks over to you and begins to pick up the boxes right beside you, carrying them to the back of his truck that has the title “MOVERS” painted on its side. You clamor to your feet, disorientation doesn't help the heels strapped to your feet as you chase after him;
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going with those? Who the hell are you?”
Rancor coats your tongue as your anger spits out onto him, He stands in the middle of an empty parking lot with only the light emanating from houses and lamps decorating the street are you able to take him in.
He was tall, perhaps 6ft, an older man. Salt and pepper hair covered just above his forehead and a stern face was complimented by equally gruff facial hair of similar color, and a frown that seemed natural for him. He wore an old jacket-- probably made in the same year you were born with plaid linings on its inside to support a Carhartt branded outside. All the clothes upon his body seemed worn, from the stained jeans and a belt fitted so many times it might as well have been made for the exact curve of his body, to the heavy worker's boots with every scratch telling a story beyond your years. He looks at you. Up and down his eyes register curiously the woman that stood before him. He scoffs, and with a low Texan drawl he replies in kind;
“Well princess, looks here like someone was kind enough to get yourself a mover for all them boxes outside the house. ‘Supose you know where i'm to drop em off?”
“They can stay right here.”
It comes out of you not in a literal sense, but you guess a plea of desperation. You can't imagine that this is actually happening. You can't just leave. After all the years you spent with him, all the hours you poured into his care and the best he can do is call up some old guy to take your shit somewhere else?
“Now you know I can't do that. I ain't come all the way down here just for’ nothin. Now, I was hired to move, least you can let me do is my job.”
His palms outstretched to you as he finishes putting the first box in the back of his truck, looking to you with little care for what you’re properly going through, moreso just a plea to let him go home sometime before 1 in the morning.
your breath grows uneven again, you feel something build up in you again as you just refuse to accept this. Turning your back to him, you storm over to another box untouched by him and kick it, screaming and crying and truly just making a mess of yourself as you collapse once again on the curb of the sidewalk. Folding your arms across your knees, and with a head buried deep in your chest you sit there for a moment as you listen to the crunch of his boots against the loose gravel along the pavement trail back and forth past you as each box is stored into the vehicle.
“Still haven't given me an address. Or were ya’ thinkin' of just sitting here and lettin' me take yer’ things?”
Irritation follows his tone as he becomes increasingly impatient about your behavior.
“I don't have anywhere to go.”
“Surely you got someplace. Now get a move on, I'm bout damn tired of all this.”
He drags you up by your upper arms, feeling his calloused hands hold onto the smoothness of your body as he lifts you to your feet. Shocked though, you push him away from you in haste;
“I can get up by myself. Thank you very much.”
You dust yourself off for just a moment before continuing, he looks at you with impatience.
“And I need a ride.”
He stammers a bit as he begins to speak,
“A- fucking,? Damn. alright then. Just get the hell on alright? Sure you wouldn't want em’ having to pay me extra.”
He walks back to his truck as you follow, The two footsteps upon the concrete road are all that can be heard in the neighborhood as your pain slowly wells into your chest, and the outbursts cease.
------------------------------------
“Now, listen here. We've been drivin' for damn near an hour now, and ain't nothing come of it. Where the hell am I takin you? Or I'm about to leave ya on the side of the damn road. I've got a kid at home.”
“Just take me to the other side of town.”
“Are you fuckin kidding me? Now, I don't know what you've got goin on and I truly, don't want to. But you're real damn selfish ya know that? Makin me drive all over town like this like I'm some goddamn taxi. This place best got some money to pay me for.”
His voice is deep, gruff, and when laced with the anger of a despondent woman who seems as if she has all the time in the world he's not keen to hold back judgment anymore. His hand grips the steering wheel firmly and doesn't look at you for a moment as he speaks to you.
You're taken aback, to say the least. After the pain you've felt, the torment you've faced the only thing to greet you is the unwanted mouth of some old man who doesn't know what he's talking about.
“I'm selfish? You don't know the night I've had. How can you call me selfish? You were hired for a reason so why don't you just do your fucking job okay? As long as you’re getting paid it shouldn't matter a damn to you.”
You shrug your shoulders and cross your arms in his passenger seat, watching him with disdain as he grips the wheel and drives relatively carelessly through the empty streets just to get you out.
After a few minutes more, and by a few you mean around 30, you find yourself in front of a home you’d never think to see again truthfully. As you take in the sight of it, a simple house facing an otherwise unimpactful street, but you held memories of all your years within the confines of these blocks. You were home, after so many years away.
“Get out.”
He says bluntly. The clock shines a bright 1:47 on its dash, signifying that you definitely didn't meet his “before 1” pleas. But damn, could he have been any nicer about it?
You watch as he hops out of the car himself, to the sound of a hard opening of the back that held all your belongings. And as you made your way ever so slowly out of his truck, trying to not fall as the step was coated in the darkness of the night that was no longer politely illuminated by street lights. As you made your way to the concrete below you, rounding his truck was he almost done putting your stuff back out, only on a different curb this time. And without a second to spare, he gets back into his truck, and leaves. Not a word said to you, not even an exchange.
What an asshole.
-------------------------------------------
“So you’re telling me, that the man you were with for how many years, kicked you out for what?”
The voice of your childhood friend rang once more through the old walls of the house, in the kitchen where you two sat. this was her family home, one that she now inherited, and one that after many years of silence on your part, she gladly opened up to you as well.
“We were together almost 3 years. And he just, found another girl I guess. But she was in my closet, filled with her clothes. It's as if he’d moved me out overnight. He didn't have a word to say to me, it's like I never even mattered to him. But I've told you this time and time again, what more can I even do at this point?”
She repositions herself with her legs crossing over one another as she looks for a response, taking a sip of coffee before having it dawn on her.
“Today. 3 pm. Uncles holding a barbeque. You remember my uncle right? Everyone will be there. Maybe we could find you a good little rebound to bring you down to earth.”
“Are you- a rebound? Seriously? Is that all you can think of right now?”
“Listen. The only thing you can do with a broken heart is fix it. And that doesn't happen in a day. Least you can do is get something tasty to chase the pain with. Like hot old guys. You’re only 21! This is the prime time to do whatever you want.”
You think for a second. Letting this wash over you as you try and figure out the next thing to do. Do you really doll yourself up after the most traumatic evening of your life is not even 24 hours in your past, just to eye all of your friends older relatives, and family friends that you’ve been ogling at since you were 16?
I mean fuck it, what else are you going to do.
Following your friend up the stairs, she lets out an excited giggle at the prospect of having you back after so many years. There's so many things to tell, different people to see, and subsequently laugh at, but the best of all her skills with a brush have gotten much better since the last time she helped you look good. Much better, apparently for as you looked at yourself in the mirror you could barely recognize the woman looking back at you-- let alone any trace of the girl sat in a torn dress the night before screaming outside her ex’s house.
You put on a pretty yellow dress, adorned with flowers It's hemmed all properly frilled to some level, and the flow of the skirt portion barely getting over your back end does the top also treat you well; a low neck cup to shape your chest perfectly as the daintiness of your outfit, paired with little yellow heels, made you look properly irresistible.
-----------------------------------
“Guess whos backkk!!!”
The excited shrills of your friend beside you make everyone who'd arrived at the party thus far to crane their heads back to look, all of which subsequently smiled with shock as they looked upon you. None of them had seen you since you were 17, about 18 years old. That's when you left, the moment you could. Looking back you missed all of this so much, the community, the story told in every face that looked upon you. But all is lost now and the most you can do is make the best out of the time you have right now-- and as it stands you’re at the center of it all.
They approach you by the droves, asking every question they can that have undoubtedly had rumored answers to in your absence; detailing from where you've been, what you’re doing, where you go to school, where you work, and most hurtful-- how your ex was doing. You briefly told them all that you and him had since parted, and that you were just getting back on track, spending some time at your friend's house in the meantime. They all looked upon you in sympathy, but as more people entered the party the more they dispersed to greet other guests.
“Oh my god, is that who I think it is?”
A low, familiar tone enters the backyard where you stand, and turning around to face you is your friend's father. Who, for most of your life was like a father to you as well. He opens his arms and you follow suit, embracing him in what feels like a much-needed hug, before setting you down again to continue talking to you.
“Oh, honey if, if I'd known you were coming I'd have brought you something. How long has it been since I last saw you? God, you seem so grown up now. It's like I barely even know you.”
His head moves to look behind him for a second, and soon he ushers someone forward to join in the conversation.
“Ah, there's something I'd love for you to meet. This is a good friend of mine, Joel. I haven't had him around any of these much, he just moved back here from Texas a couple weeks back. But he's someone I've known my whole life. Kinda like you and my daughter in a way!”
Though as the man who emerged behind him reared his head, you couldn't believe your eyes. It was him, of course, it was him. That asshole that drove you home like you were the greatest burden he's ever had to carry.
“Yer fuckin kidding me.”
He looks at you in shock. Nothing more. However, you see that to his side is a young girl, no older than 12 who seems to be in awe over you. Her hair was tucked into each side of her face to illuminate it in a crown of curls that came to her shoulder and stretched all the way to her ears in volume. She wore a small shark tooth necklace, and some form of singer on her shirt that you didn't recognize.
He-, Joel, looks down at her;
“Sarah how bout you go say hi to your friends for me. I'm gonna be busy a moment”
She runs off, and your friend's dad begins to speak again.
“Do you, know each other from somewhere? I can't imagine you do.”
“She's that insane little girl I told you ‘bout. The one kickin n’ screaming all over the place. Reason why Sarah hadta’ stay the night at your place.”
“The insane little girl?”
You chime in.
“There's no way- Joel, you’ve probably got the wrong girl”
“No, he has the right one.”
You stare directly at him, sending daggers into each of the brown eyes that look back at you.
“He kicked me out of his car at almost 2 in the morning without a single word. Isn't that right?”
Though no matter how piercing your gaze it fails to impact him as it should, for with equal level tone he snipes back;
“Yep, after makin me drive all the way cross’ town just cause she wanted to. Knowin I got someone waitin’ for me. Clearly, something she don't understand all too much anymore.”
That was unnecessary.
Something brews inside of you as you glance upon his finger void of a ring, even a tan that would indicate its recent removal. Though as the only sane-minded person seemingly left to observe watches your eyes as you make such a connection, he swiftly puts an end to it.
“Now, Joel. you know how young girls are they-”
“I'm not that young.”
“Alright well, they. Are just passionate, that's all. She was with him for how many was it now? Three years? Left the moment she turned of age. Clearly she just doesn't know how a mans supposed to be. This is all she really knows.”
This is all she really knows.
That's all that rang through your head as the conversation died and Joel exchanged brief apology. That in a way, he was all you really knew. And now you’re back home, and you don't know what to do with yourself, really. You don't know what you like, or what you don't like. It was all just, him. For so long. You vowed to yourself that day that, no matter what went on you would say yes to anything. To embrace kind of, anything that came your way as some divine fate, or at the very least a fun experience.
As the night droned on, and you fielded the barrage of squeals, hugs from people you don't remember, and a bit more liquor you could've accounted for, the night came to a slow end. Feeling eyes on you constantly was one thing, but feeling the eyes on the man with who’d you'd had a comfortable reunion was even worse in a way. Although, as you looked upon him in your own moments you saw in him something unveiled after the veil of hatred and sorrow fell off of you. Something, interesting about him. Attractive. Obviously nothing you were going to personally indulge in, but an interesting assertion nonetheless. He stood in the light of the evening, fairy lights covering the backyard as it illuminated his now more time-appropriate outfit; one of marginally better jeans and a plaid shirt, rolled to his elbows to reveal what were impressive forearms, and with the proper fit of his shirt, showed an impressive physique for a single dad.
… … …
Thats stupid. Anyways, the night drew to a close and as you saw your friend too wrapped up in the conversation of someone relatively older than her, you decided to take the few blocks walk home, especially since you didn't have a car anymore either. Though as you exit the front door to travel down the sidewalk you hear a familiar accent call out to you after only a few feet have been made distance between you and the doorframe;
“Ya’ walking home this late at night?”
“Yeah, I am. Not like I've got a car do I?”
You turn your body to look at him, but only after you've finished your sentence, using the body language of someone unequipped for any more stupid banter to cue him into leaving you alone.
“How’s about I drive you home. Least I can do after what I’d said today. It wasent quite my place.”
His voice has an unfamiliar tune of sympathy as he lets out that apology of sorts, so you engage. Though, begrudgingly.
“Don’t you have a daughter to take care of? That seemed what got you so mad before.”
He sighs a little, you notice you've hit a bit of a nerve.
“Well, she’ll be stayin' at a friend's place for a few days, really hit it off. Got nothin but time on my hands now.”
“Well in that case I'm not gonna say no to a free ride. Obviously.”
You smile a bit, a first with him. Other than ones of sarcasm, every interaction you've had with him thus far hasn't been all that pleasant. And he smiles back. And, as the light of the moon shines down upon his weathered face, the smirk on his makes your smile grow even more.
Hopping into his car once more, you take the road to your place with a little more enjoyment than how it transpired the night before. This time, the sound of his music accompanied by a hum through his car is what played to fill the silence of the atmosphere. Something old, country, of course. You’d never heard it, and it sounded well beyond even his years. But despite that, there was a comforting air that was shared in the car-- cool air blowing in from the windows rolled down, watching as his arm held on to the side of the car door from the open window, tapping its side in unison to the beat.
“This here is it right?”
Pulling up to your shared home you felt almost a little reluctant to respond with a yes. Though when you do, he steps out of the car as you do as well. You watch as he awaits your circle to the front where he stood, as a means to walk with you to the front of your door. Looking at him curiously as you reach the entrance, he gives response to your motions, though you watch as his fingers fiddle with one another ever so slightly as he poses such a response;
“It ain’t right leaving a lady to walk all by herself after dropping her off. And, I just wanted to say again that it ain't my place makin assumptions about you like that. Wanted to know if I could make it up to ya’. Kinda seems like lifes dealt you a bad hand right now, thought to offer you a drink over it.”
A drink?
You thought about that for a second. The man that kicked you out of his car, literally less than 24 hours ago, is now offering to take you out for a drink. Well, it was as a means for apology. So that's something. Nothing more to it, it's a Southern thing. They drink to anything. Especially sorrow.
“I think I’ll have to take you up on that. You’ll know where I’ll be.”
You reply with a smile that grows just large enough to show your teeth. He gazed at you for a bit longer, as his eyes grew brighter at the prospect of an invitation accepted. He was a lot less harsh than meets the eye, it seemed. But you still weren't properly convinced. And, there was still much a mystery about him that although intimidated you, enticed you even more. You cock your hip to the side of the doorframe, leaning up against it as he spoke to you as a means to accentuate your figure just a bit as he looked at you. Just to see what would happen.
“Oh, alright then. 7 alright with you? I’ll come pick you up course’.”
“Seven’s more than alright with me. I'll see you then, Joel.”
As you bid farewell to him, you watched as his eyes tracked your movements as you did so. The way your hips have shifted place, the tone at which your voice shifted ever so slightly. He took in your gaze, a small cat eye that sharpened your eyes paired with the sly smile of a woman your age was enough to catch his stare for a moments longer than it should've. You relished in that.
He leaves you off with a nod and a smile, though you take the time that he walks back to his truck as a means to take in all that he was without interruption. He was handsome, to say the least. There was something to be said about a man with southern hospitality and an ass made from manual labor that reached deeper into a realm of attraction that was often untapped by the men of your age range. And you enjoyed greatly that you’d discovered such a thing.
Tomorrow, 7pm, Joel.
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spn thoughts as requested
tw & spoiler warning
they should have kept the grungy filter and aesthetics from the early seasons
bring back the southern / midwest gothic vibes
dean would've listened to and loved 90's & 2000s grunge - I know that the whole "there's no good music past '79" is a key part of his personality but pre series/early seasons dean is soo nirvana / Weezer / smashing pumpkins coded
there is too much flannel in the later seasons - I miss the carhartt and leather jackets so bad
BRING BACK DEANS JEWELRY
there's so much about cas that we don't know. there's all the episodes where he just isn't there and they never tell the viewers what he's doing or where he went
on the same note, cas's personality isn't nearly as flushed out as sam's or dean's are. who is his favorite musician? what's his favorite place to travel to? why does he like the pimpmobile so much? does he actually like the trench coat or does he wear it just because it's there?
so many people characterize cas as a little guy, and while he is cute, it's important to remember that he's also an incredibly powerful eldritch horror who leads angelic armies and brands Michaels vessel just because
dean is bisexual and in love with cas - I won't take the time to list all of the reasons here, but you can definitely find those reasons somewhere
i would've loved for them to use the handprint as a physical manifestation of their bond instead of having it be just a scar that fades with time
i'm actually really ok with the way cas dies, I think it makes sense for his character and provides closure (for him, at least, not for dean)
the parallels of cas and dean meeting in a barn and then dean dying in a barn
cassie is deans first love, cas is his last
the imagery of the empty as cas's wings in 15x18
why do the subtitles spell cas as cass, its awful
there's a few lines in the early seasons that seemingly reference dean getting roofied / sa'd and are subsequently played for laughs, Jensen Ackles confirmed that dean would've done underage sw when John didn't leave them with enough money. I believe that this trauma is a major reason that dean never accepted his sexuality
the way deans alcoholism is overlooked and joked about is actually insane
having dean be completely ok after 15x18 is also insane, especially after the widower arc where the show specifically shows it's viewers how deeply dean grieves cas when he dies
deans death is literally so stupid. I get that the show is trying to make a really meta point about the characters not having plot armor anymore because chuck is gone, but dean deserved to find peace. if the events of the show had never happened and pre series dean had never gotten pre series Sam back into hunting it would've ended the exact same way - dean dead on a hunt and Sam dying from old age
dean spends as much time on earth as he did in hell, and while he would never be the same, I like to believe that if he had been allowed by the narrative to live longer he would've gotten back a little of the twinkle in his eyes that he had before hell
in 15x20 Bobby says that cas helped rebuild heaven but if he was there he would've gone to see dean. additionally, there's no way cas should have been able to escape the empty. this is such a glaringly obvious plot hole and it drives me nuts
I would've liked to see cas's wings in the show - not just the shadow of them
the only time I tolerate serious discussion of wincest is in the context of ethel cain
i am a Sam disliker - while he does have many positive qualities, I have a really hard time getting past him not looking for dean when he was in purgatory and him joking about deans alcoholism and other traumas
i like Sam the best when he's with Eileen, I think they're adorable together and I'm mad they killed her off
I am a chronic jack defender, that boy has done nothing wrong
it would be interesting to explore cas and jacks relationships with their respective genders
there's no way being forced to murder the dean clones didn't affect cas, we only saw him kill the last one but the first few he had to kill had to have been devastating
i'm really disappointed by 14x13 Lebanon, we get the scene with John and Sam but I would argue that dean has significantly more reasons to be upset with John and it's unfortunate that the episode just glossed over this - I believe a screaming match between the two would have cleared the air a bit and been at the very least cathartic for dean
i'm fairly sure that it's canonical that John sent dean away on his 17th birthday to kill lesbian ghosts. my personal hc is that John suspected that dean was bi and sent him to teach him a lesson
i saw a post on here comparing hunting culture to biker and cowboy culture and viewing those things through a queer lens and I thought it was fascinating - there's so much spn could've done if it cared about the show more than money and losing viewers
every time cas and dean beat the shit out of each other, it serves as further proof of their relationship rather than discrediting their relationship - ie demon dean and cas fighting in the library is used to parallel Cain and Collette. it could even be assumed that their love is stronger because Cain killed Collette but dean left cas alive
The purgatory love triangle was so silly
once dean worked through all of his trauma and toxic masculinity he would've been a swiftie
all of the main characters have old / vintage cars but in like season 13/14 dean sam and cas just collectively own and use this really ugly silver truck from the 2010s. its such a small detail but it absolutely ruins my viewing experience every time I see it
dean is actually really smart but most of the fandom overlooks it because Sam is characterized as the smart one. if you know anything about cars you know it takes an insane amount of brains to build a car from scratch (he did this with baby multiple times throughout the show) also he just makes an emf meter using basically nothing. if dean had been given the same opportunities he gave Sam, he would've been an engineer or something
i will always be a John hater, if this man has 0 haters, I am dead
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Spotless: Canto
Chapter Thirteen
Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela
Other characters: Reader's OC family, Ellen, Dean/Jo, attempted Reader/Cas, Pam/Lee, Sam, Cole/Reader's sister and Garth/Bess
Word Count: 5009
Warnings, etc: Mutual pining. MORE BACKSTORY AHEAD, story takes place currently in Dec 2017, flashback to Jan. 2004 in italics, all towns mentioned are made up, I gave the reader the best dad in the world (you're welcome), underage drinking, talk of bar hook ups, car accidents, injuries, character death, guilt, stupid brother-in-laws, unbeta'd
Special shout out to @thoughtslikeaminefield who helped immensely on sorting out the backstory for this chapter and the next, way back when I started outlining this thing.
Series Masterlist
You made your way through the harrowing process that was holiday travel, flashing your medical card at the TSA agent and going through the regular pat down deal before finally getting to your gate. It was mild in LA, but you brought your puffy coat with you on the plane because December in Nebraska was never that kind. It was also a free blanket once you reached cruising altitude.
You put your phone in airplane mode, popped in your earbuds and let yourself nap for most of the three hour flight home.
You didn’t go home often, your schedule never left you with much time off, especially over the last couple of years. Or, at least, that’s what you told yourself and how you avoided invitations from your family. Between the band and Bobby, all you would have to do is ask for time off and they would have given it to you, of course they would. But it’s not like they aren’t workaholics themselves.
The wind rattled the jet bridge as you made your way to the gate, dozens of strangers trudged along beside you as you felt the first hint of true winter air. You turned your phone back to normal settings and tried not to get caught in a young family’s way as you all followed the signs to baggage claim. You smiled as you heard the familiar buzz of the accentless plains’ speech in the surrounding conversations, you were really home.
You stepped out of the line of traffic to find a restroom and clear out the ridiculous amount of notifications you received while in the air. You had texts from both your mom and dad, your sister, Sam, Dean, Bobby and Ellen. You opened up the chat with your dad because he was picking you up and said you had landed and told him where to look for you because you knew he parked instead of waiting in the chaos of the arrivals area traffic.
You ignored your mom and sister because it was all wondering when you got in and you’d have time to reply on the drive home. You opened Dean’s message and it was a picture of a ‘Nebraska… the good life’ sign taken out of a car window. You sent a heart emoji and told him that you just landed, because no matter how tough he was Dean always complained about flying and you needed to give him proof of survival.
Sam’s message was a compilation of shots of Dean sleeping with random things propped on his head or shoulders, which meant Dean was probably driving the last stretch to their dad’s and Sam had been saving those for blackmail. You laughed, forgetting you were in public and rushed out a reply before saving them to your phone.
You read the message from Ellen but stopped yourself from fully opening it. You locked your phone and shoved it into your pocket. Right now nature’s call was more important than answering questions and you always had to be careful how you replied to your surrogate mother, she could always read between lines you didn’t know you’d drawn.
Twenty minutes later, you were greeted by a burly bear hug, compliments of your dad, that knocked the handle of your duffel out of your grip and rocked you on the spot. He smelled like engine oil and canvas with winter still clinging to his Carhartt, you held on tight.
“Glad you’re home, sweetheart,” he mumbled, breaking a way with a firm hand on your shoulder. “Got everything?”
“Yep!”
He smiled his tight lip smile, where it was all in the eyes, and nodded. “Alright then, let’s get out of here.”
The ride home was uneventful, catching up, complaining about traffic, asking about the weather, all while you cleared through your messages and emails. You stopped for a late lunch and got the rundown on your older sister and four-year-old niece.
“Any word from Cole?” you ask about the elephant in the conversation.
“Nothing she’s telling us. Figured you’d know more,” your dad sighed.
You tisk, “like she tells me anything.”
“Maybe she would if you called her,” your dad replied, eyebrows up and knowing.
You rolled your eyes, you and your sister were not close. After she got knocked up by a guy known for his charm, you pretty much never heard from her. You weren’t worried about her, she always had a tight friend group that was impenetrable. But when her husband suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth, you started to pay attention.
Your mom had generously kept you in the loop, whether you liked it or not.
You and your dad finished your meals and got back on the road. The town of Mills’ Crossing had roughly a population of one thousand people with enough villages and farmland surrounding it to make it feel bigger than it was. Your first trip to LA the summer before starting college was mind altering. Coming home was surreal, knowing everyone (to some degree) everywhere you went was almost alienating after so long living amongst droves of beautiful strangers.
You never sought that kind of attention.
Your parents lived in the same three bedroom ranch you grew up in on a quiet street with normal, working class people as neighbors. It was the exact opposite of your place now, where you were wedged in a neighborhood that was both overpriced and rundown and your neighbors came from every walk of life imaginable.
Luckily for you, you were charged next to nothing by LA standards of rent.
Your dad drove through town with the radio on classic rock, like always, unless he was in a mood and he put in a Maynard Ferguson cd or Tower of Power, blasting brass to wake up. Meanwhile, you took in all the things that had changed since you left, not that there were many. As you approached Hound Drive, a familiar apprehension crawled into your stomach, taking you back to a snowy night almost fourteen years ago.
“Come on! They’re not going to be there all night, and it’s not like we can follow them to another bar,” Jo whined at you as you put on your makeup. She barely needed any, which always made you jealous. But you didn’t want to rush yourself and look like you were still in high school. Bela had taught you a lot about maintaining a strict beauty regimen during your first semester and you were going to put those lessons to good use. So what if you were late.
You primped your hair and took one last look in the mirror.
You drove to the Roadhouse in your ancient Buick LeSabre, which still had a cassette deck. But you had upgraded it with an adapter so Jo slipped a burnt cd into your Discman and turned up the volume, Phantom Traveler’s latest recording blasted through the old speakers. The open road and the entire world were at your feet.
“I can’t believe they’re still playing around here,” you said, letting the drum beat add to your excitement.
“Dean says they’ve had some nibbles from labels, but he won’t tell me which ones,” Jo confided.
“How often do you guys talk?”
“Enough that my mom got me my own phone line for Christmas,” Jo admitted.
You shrieked. “Girl, I know that bill has gotta be ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m paying for it. And it’s worth it. Can’t be as bad as his cell bill.”
You giggled. “Which one is the one you want me to talk to?”
“Castiel, Cas, he’s the quiet one with blue eyes. Not the guitar player, that’s Lee. He’s been eyeing the drummer, so don’t get any ideas there. Trust me.”
You tried to picture who she meant from the handful of times you’d seen them play, but came up empty. The parking lot was packed and you pulled your jean jacket tight against the falling snow as you made your way to the entrance, missing the California weather you’d been soaking up since starting school. A wave of smoke and stale beer hit you as you stepped into the bar, an old jukebox filled the dim space and you tried to act like you weren’t too young to be there.
Jo navigated the crowd and you kept pace behind her, scanning your surroundings until you found a group of guys who towered over both of you at the pool tables.
“Dean!” Jo called over the cacophony at a guy in a vintage leather jacket drinking a beer. He was even more hot up close, almost casual until he spotted her and his entire face lit up.
“Here she is!” he called, stepping away from a long haired guy to drag her in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“This Y/N?” Dean asked, holding out his hand for you to shake.
You shook it like your dad had taught you, firm and with eye contact. “Hey.”
Dean cupped your hand in both of his before turning and tucking Jo into his side and gestured to the guy he had been talking to. “This is Lee, and that’s Cas, Pam’s around here somewhere. What are you ladies up to?”
You nodded at the other guys, older than any of your classmates, but still welcoming. You couldn’t have known that your life would change in impossible ways that night.
Jo challenged the winner of that round of pool and you mingled, not sure what to do with yourself besides tease Jo and try and seem aloof. Apparently, the band were out for a good time and even though you were driving, you accepted a beer from their pitcher when they offered. It was crappy, but it was free and you weren’t about to play prissy to get something that tasted better.
Around ten o’clock, Ellen spotted you and you gave her a hug and asked about her shift. She eyed Dean with suspicion as Jo flirted with her cue in hand. You tried to keep Jo’s mom’s attention away from the budding romance, but other customers were more effective than your rambling about California ever was. You left her to work and got suckered into a game of pool.
“Cas, please, teach this girl how to shoot. Explain the physics of it or whatever, because I can’t watch Sammy win that easy,” Dean begged his friend, who you had learned was the keyboard player.
Cas rolled his eyes and circled around the table to your side.
“Not exactly subtle are they?” you conspired.
“No, but Dean always tells me my people skills are rusty, so this is him playing wingman,” Cas admitted. “Here, you want to brace the cue on your left hand.”
“I know how to do it, I just really don’t care if I win,” you said out of the side of your mouth.
“I won’t tell if you won’t, but it will be a lot easier if you play it up,” Cas admitted in his low voice, knowing you both were stuck in this setup while neither of you were particularly interested in one another.
“So, what? I just let you put me in position, cop a feel?”
Cas’ eyes sparked with amusement. “I’m fine with verbal instructions if you’d prefer.”
“Nah, it’s okay, let’s give them something to talk about.” You winked at him and saw the blush creep across his cheeks with his gummy grin.
“If you say so,” Cas whispered, stepping behind you to guide your arms.
The rest of the night was a blur. You started drinking soda around midnight, knowing your parents would kill you if you came home smelling like booze, even if they couldn’t enforce a curfew on you anymore. But Jo could sneak behind the bar like the thief she was and everyone else was getting sloppier for it. Knowing Ellen, she was keeping tabs, but as long as she had an eye on you both, you knew you couldn’t get into too much trouble.
Sam wasn’t much older than you, but being in a band and astronomically tall gave him sway into the not getting carded club. He asked you about school and you told him as much as you could, though most of your classes were just prerequisites at that point. He seemed really smart and thoughtful, but maybe it was just because he was less lewd than Dean or Lee.
Jo held her own, like always, keeping the men on their toes like the bartender she had grown up to be. It was no wonder she had made friends with them when they played there after their dad begged Ellen to give them a place to play. Stopping back on their latest self-scheduled tour had just lined up for your winter break and Jo’s night off.
At some point, you lost Jo and when you tried to go find her, Lee dragged you back to the tables with a game of ‘Never have I ever’, they didn’t even tease you for drinking soda. Dean appeared out of nowhere and stole Cas’ beer, before a very flushed Jo rounded the table and deposited a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels for them to split. That earned her a chorus of praise, but something told you she had been off stealing bases instead of just booze.
You smirked at her and bit your lips. She just nodded at you and mouthed ‘later’.
Later came with Ellen kicking everybody out, warning you to get Jo home to bed before she could put her to work closing the place up. You huddled in your car as Jo and Dean had their goodbye in the parking lot, Sam honking the horn on an old Chevy for Dean to wrap it up. You hoped they had done just that, curiosity ate at you as your car warmed up.
Finally, Jo dropped into the passenger seat with her dimples on full display.
“Oh my god, dude!” you balked.
“I know! Shut up.”
“Tell me everything and then I’ll decide if I will!”
Jo smirked and turned down the volume on the radio. “He is such a good kisser, Y/N, you have no idea.”
“Uh, I couldn’t have guessed! God, you were out there for like twenty minutes.”
You pulled onto the side street and increased the speed of your wipers, the steady snowfall had turned into a cascade and you really needed to see. Jo continued about her rendezvous with Dean in the men’s room and how he’d fingered her against the stall door.
“Oh my god, Jo!” You were impressed, guys were always talking about this shit, but apparently it was worth it to Dean to see Jo squirm.
“He was so into it, like obviously, he’s a musician, he’s got good hands, but it was like he liked doing it,” Jo continued. “Ugh, he better call me before they leave town.”
“He will, he’s got it bad, even I can see that.”
She beamed. “Yeah? What did Cas say? Did Dean tell him anything?”
You threw your head back and laughed, feeling the tires slip on the unplowed road. You righted the wheel and checked your surroundings, slowing slightly to keep steady.
“Cas didn’t say anything about you two, but I could just tell, okay? Call it bff intuition, okay?”
You made the turn onto Hound Drive, three blocks from Jo’s neighborhood, feeling the way your backend fishtailed with even the most careful of maneuvers. Jo continued her story, talking about Dean promising to take her out, just the two of them, about how big the backseat was in his car. And just as you made her promise to be safe, headlights blared on the wrong side of the road. You spun left to avoid a head-on collision, but the other driver wasn’t slowing down and before you even fully stopped you were T-boned directly into Jo’s door.
You woke up to the sound of the other driver screaming at you if you were okay. You couldn’t move your right leg and Jo hadn’t woken up. There was glass and blood everywhere. And even though the snow had gotten worse, you couldn’t feel the cold. The paramedics told you it was shock, they wouldn’t tell you if your best friend was dead or alive.
Your mom hugged you at the door, followed directly by your niece, Ada, running from the playroom shrieking your name. It felt good to be so welcomed, so loved. You held them both longer than they meant you to. Your sister gave you a sad smile, but hugged you too. And you told her honestly that it was good to see her. You hoped she meant it when she said it back.
You dropped your stuff off in your old bedroom and joined everyone in the living room where the Christmas tree was bursting with years of handmade ornaments. You could spot the new additions from Ada’s preschool. You wondered if you’d ever have little hands in your life to make macaroni art with. It wasn’t something you ever really thought about, but leave it to being home or the adorable company to stir up those nurturing instincts.
“Wanna play cards before dinner?” your dad asked, breaking you out of the daze of the tree’s lights.
“Obviously,” you replied and marched over to the pantry to fish out a deck and the coin jar.
Christmas Eve was magical, carols on the old stereo and lots of snacks. Your aunts and uncles and cousins came and went, making sure to leave time for everyone to get to church for the candlelight service. Ada fell asleep in your dad’s arms before the closing hymn of Silent Night sent you all back home to await spiritual and material gifts.
You opened presents at the crack of dawn, you could tell your parents had missed having little kids to cater to with the amount that “Santa” brought that year. But you couldn’t blame them, the coffee was bottomless and breakfast was to die for. Nothing could beat home cooking.
Just before ten, you had your dad drop you off at the Roadhouse and you let yourself in through the employee entrance. Ellen’s smoky voice greeted you before you even made it into the kitchen, “here comes Trouble!”
“Merry Christmas!” You called back, smiling, she was the one who had given you that nickname in the first place.
She tossed the towel she was wiping her hands with onto the counter and held open her arms. You stepped in to hug her and a piece of your heart thrummed inside your chest.
“It’s damn good to see you,” Ellen whispered, though nobody else was there.
“Yeah,” you agreed, still holding her tight.
Ellen pulled back and looked you in the eye, dark eyes full of wisdom and sorrow. “You doing alright?”
You nodded and sighed. “Same old, same old.”
Ellen hummed, still watching you. “Okay, if you say so. Why don’t you wash up and we’ll finish up these trays?”
Every year on Christmas day Ellen opened the Roadhouse for a free dinner. She sent fliers to the nearest homeless shelter, veterans outreach center and local churches. She served everyone, no matter what and whatever leftovers she ended up with, she left at the firehouse for the night shift to enjoy. The bar itself was closed, it wasn’t about money, it was about something bigger.
Whenever you were home for the holidays, you helped. It wasn’t much, just chopping vegetables and serving the people as they came through, but it made you feel good to be able to do something. To be able to be there for Ellen on one of the hardest days of the year was the least you could do. Your family never questioned you ditching them and before Ada was born, your parents volunteered sometimes too.
Something about this year, you were grateful for it to be just you and Ellen doing all of the prep work. An old radio played the classics in the corner and you helped finish the green bean casserole. You worked in comfortable silence, every once in a while answering questions that came up about life and the band. The one you didn’t want to answer popped up just as the last tray went into the oven.
“So Dean’s seeing your friend, huh?”
“Ellen,” you groaned. You did not want to lie to her.
“What? Is that a bad thing?” she prodded.
“No, it’s just weird talking to you about it, I guess.”
“Girl, I’ve heard more gossip than you could shake a stick at. I’m just checking in on you all. It’s not like I get updates all that often,” she finished with a flawless guilt trip.
“Yes, Bela and Dean are an item,” you said in a confessional huff, crossing your arms over your chest and waiting for the interrogation to begin.
Ellen hummed again and bit her bottom lip. “Well, I guess that’s something. She good for him? I know he’s been going through it again.”
“He’s been doing a lot better. Sam and Bobby got him a therapist,” you sidestepped beautifully.
“No shit. Huh.”
“And we’re ramping up for a new tour. New album is all done, just waiting for clearance from the label and that’ll be on the market in a couple of months.”
“I’m sure that’s great, but I’m worrying about you as individuals, not as rockstars and company,” Ellen smiled sadly at you. “You know that, right?”
You melted inside and nodded, letting your defenses down. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Okay, well, let’s go move some tables while everything cooks,” Ellen said, guiding you out to the main room of the bar and grill.
The day became a whirlwind of small talk and easy smiles, faces you remembered but names you couldn’t really recall. Just after three Garth showed up with his wife Bess and little girl in tow to give you and Ellen a chance to sit down and eat yourselves. He had worked the bar through dental school and ran a small practice on the edge of town after settling down. He was always in a good mood and its genuineness thrived at the holidays.
Ellen watched the small family fondly as she tucked into her mashed potatoes. “They’re expecting again, twins,” she confided in you.
“Good for them,” you said between bites.
A couple of older guys sat at the other end of the table, sipping coffee and talking about a mutual friend. They must not have had anywhere else to be and it made you mix of sad and proud that Ellen did this whole thing in the first place.
Nobody should be alone on Christmas.
“How are you doing? Still dragging your feet about putting more sandwiches on the menu?” you asked Ellen, changing the subject.
“Oh, I’ll do it eventually, maybe before the summer tourist season. I’ll have some more staff by then,” Ellen answered non committedly.
“But things are going good?” you pressed.
“Yeah, I mean, my back is still acting up, but can’t really complain,” she replied.
“You seen Cole around?” you asked about your elusive brother-in-law.
“Not lately, but I heard he wandered off on your sister, what a coward,” Ellen muttered.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. He seems to get his mind on something and he can’t leave it until it’s sorted. Maybe missing Ada’s at Christmas will wake him the hell up,” you sighed.
Ellen gave you a knowing look.
“When do you want to head home? I usually wrap this up around five,” she asked.
“That works for me, no plans for the rest of the day, thank God,” you said before excusing yourself for the bathroom. The gentle croon of ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ reverberated through the bar and the persistent ache inside you reminded you it still existed.
When you got back to the main room, Dean and Sam were there giving Ellen hugs and asking in hushed voices about what was going on.
“You mean she didn’t tell you? I’ve been doing this for years, her too most years,” Ellen chided.
“Hey, guys. Merry Christmas,” you said as they turned and hugged you in turn. Sam got to you first, hugging you to his chest with a quick clutch on the back of your head. Dean sauntered closer and you could tell by the look on his face it had been a hard day. You hugged him and could smell the whiskey on his breath, but trusted Sam to be the safe driver.
“You better eat now that you’re here, nobody gets served on Christmas, you understand?” Ellen laid out the law before corralling them towards the line.
Dean nodded and hid his face, shoving his hands in his pockets as you went behind the line to let Bess get off her feet.
“Wow, Ellen, you’ve got all the fixin’s,” Sam pointed out.
“It looks amazing, thanks for letting us crash your meal,” Dean said softly.
She looked him over with her classic tough kindness. “Anytime, hon.--- Now don’t you worry about anything, let John rot in his own stubbornness, alright?”
Dean didn’t say anything, just hummed in agreement and turned his plate for you to add the gravy. You hadn’t thought you’d run into them since you were only home for a couple days, but something about being back and guessing what had been going through Dean’s mind made you feel oddly protective. And you couldn’t help but watch them both as they sat at a booth by themselves and ate in near silence.
The remaining guests came through by themselves, occasionally two at a time. But just before Ellen was going to call it a young family came in with their three kids and little Gertie had somebody to play with as you dished up plates for them all. Ellen ducked into the kitchen for to-go containers, wanting to send some home with them before taking the rest to the firehouse.
Dean and Sam stuck around, wiping down tables and making sure everybody had a way to get to where they were going. Once Ellen had her truck loaded up, you turned to say goodbye to the boys.
Instead Ellen interrupted, “you’ll get her home safe? I’m wiped and would appreciate it.”
“Wha–I thought you were taking me?” you felt instantly guilty about pilling on to Sam and Dean’s Christmas.
“We got Trouble, it’s fine,” Sam answered over your head.
“Come here,” Ellen insisted, pulling you into another motherly hug. “Don’t forget to call me when you get back to California so I know you’re safe. That goes for you two, too!”
You held her tight and promised. “Love you.”
“Love you more,” Ellen replied, brushing the hair out of your face and thumbing your chin before pulling back to hug the boys.
You stood there next to Sam’s car and watched her pull out of the parking lot, the winter chill enough to keep you in the moment.
“I guess we better get going,” Dean said to Sam more than to you.
“Yeah, did you still want to swing by St. Mary’s?” Sam asked quieter. Your mind spun on the idea of them going to church, but then you remembered what lay behind the aging brick building.
“Maybe we should ask her if she wants to go,” Dean said, looking you in the eye.
You swallowed and shook your head. “It’s okay, if you don’t mind dropping me off first. I know it’s in the other direction.”
“It’s fine, we’re not in a rush,” Dean answered for them both.
You climbed into the backseat, finding evidence of their cross-country trek strewn about. You pushed some wrappers off the seat and clicked your seatbelt. Sam turned down the music and double checked your parents’ address. Dean whisper-sang along with the radio while you asked them about their trip.
It wasn’t a long ride, nothing in town was, but you hoped it was enough to even Dean out before going to see Jo. You told them you’d see them next week, double checked Dean would be back for the photoshoot to accompany his interview with Meg on the 31st, and that everyone would be going out for New Year’s afterwards. It felt ludicrous to be discussing LA excess after the humbling day you’d had, especially in the driveway of your parent’s home. Even if that was the life you all led, you didn’t want to look at it too closely.
“Alright, drive safe, talk to you soon,” you said, finally opening your door to find a familiar truck parked behind your dad’s.
“Tell your folks Merry Christmas,” Sam said.
“Later, Trouble,” Dean added, watching you with something unsaid behind his gaze.
It turned out, Cole had shown up not long after you left, arms full of presents for everyone. And he and your sister had taken a walk to talk things out while Ada napped. Which was probably the only reason your dad hadn’t kicked him out on the spot. You sat down on the floor with Ada to open the gift Cole had brought for you while your mother’s favorite Christmas album played.
It was a double sided picture frame, one side held Ada’s school picture and the other had a picture of the rest of your family from one of their camping weekends the previous summer.
“I know you’re big time in LA, but figured you probably have a desk or something to put that on,” Cole said shyly.
You felt the heat behind your eyes, but you wanted him to know where you stood, squarely on the fence about him still. “Thanks, I know just where to put it. Look at that big girl, huh, can’t believe it.”
“I am gonna be fibe Auntie Y/N. I’ve been big a long time already,” Ada said firmly. You couldn’t help but laugh and hug her little shoulders. “I know, babygirl, I know.”
Tagging:
@deans-spinster-witch
@mrswhozeewhatsis
@cosicas-cuquis
@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like
@suckitands33
@ladysparkles78
@deans-baby-momma
@stoneyggirl2
@sassy-pelican
@leigh70
@globetrotter28
@winharry
@lastactiontricia
@rockhoochie
Chapter Fourteen: Pomposo
#spotless series#dean/reader#dean/jo#dean/bela#flashback#rockstar au#fake dating#slow burn#character death#car accident
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Happy 28th!
Here are all the lovely fics I read this month:
Temporary Fix | dbeaux | [234k]
Whether it’s a company event, a date for the day, a hookup, a vacation companion, or even just someone to spend time with for a few hours, whether it’s formal, extremely casual, or somewhere in between, no matter what the requirements, you provide when and what your needs are and leave the rest to us. - Temporary Fix
Harry needs someone to go with him to his parents' yearly event. After months of debating and one drunken night, he wakes up to find he submitted the application. He knows it's unfair to subject someone to his life, but when his eyes land on Louis, he finds himself drawn to him. Is it possible that Louis could be his saving grace?
Louis doesn't need anyone. He's better off alone, so why did Zayn send in his application to Temporary Fix? Louis has secrets...lots of them, and he intends to keep them. After all, no one needs to know, but after he meets Harry he finds himself wondering if he can let go and trust again. Can Louis let Harry in? Can Harry accept him once he knows everything?
Behind Smoke Stained Curtains | jaerie | [19k]
It was a particularly lonely night when Harry walked through his door with a flurry of snow. He was a little rough around the edges with a trucker hat pushed down over untamed long hair. He looked a little greasy, a shower definitely not in his recent past. His tan Carhartt work coat was smudged with dirt and oil and caked with grime, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The scent was overwhelming as soon as he walked in, unmasked alpha from days on the road stewing in a cab of his own pheromones. Louis was sure it was so deep into the fabric of his coat that no amount of washing would ever truly remove the stench.
The worlds align when Louis meets an alpha from the road with as many secrets as he holds himself.
see-through, need you | HoldingOnToChaos | [50k]
Louis has a crush. He’s also a 19 year old virgin. Determined to get some experience before he goes out with his crush he enlists the help of his ex best friend—known in the university to get around, and star football player, Harry.
Harry agrees to help Louis practice and learn, and Louis always has been a good student.
--
OR the one where himbo Harry helps virgin Louis practice fucking.
Heart Beat | allwaswell16 | [33k]
Hideaway Haven is the place that Louis has always called home. It's also the place that Harry had tried to leave behind him. When Harry returns to start a music academy in his hometown, he finds himself face to face with his high school crush—and his charming daughter who wants to learn to play the drums.
A 2023 Advent Fic ~ Now complete!
Santa Baby (one little thing I really need) | we_are_the_same | [3k]
When Louis himself had first heard those words - all the nurses at the A&E have a secret line to Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve-, not nearly long enough ago to be considered a child himself, but long enough that he hadn't really felt like an adult all the time, he’d laughed them off. Thought they were sweet, of course, but just a line, something said to appease the kids who ended up having to stay overnight. Something to explain the presents that parents brought to the hospital on Christmas morning, or that were waiting for them at home, if they were lucky not to have to stay any longer.
Something that would allow a little bit of Christmas spirit in the sometimes sterile rooms of the hospital.
But that was before he’d met him.
Ride My Sleigh Tonight | kingsofeverything | [9k]
In exchange for free food and drinks at Liam’s office holiday party, Harry pretends to be his boyfriend.
But this is not that story.
The Busker | Chelsea Frew (chelseafrew) | [7.5k]
A snowstorm has trapped artist Louis at home on his birthday--Christmas Eve--and on Christmas. Louis anticipates a lonely holiday. A mysterious stranger appears on Christmas morning, however, and Louis doesn't have to spend the day alone. But where did the man come from? Why does he seem familiar? It's a Christmas mystery.
Sunlight and Shadow | Cryinginacoolway_2931 | [88k]
Foster dad Harry isn't lonely. He really isn't. Caring for children in crisis is his calling, and he doesn't need anyone to help him.
That is, until he does.
Louis, a handyman who craves love and a family more than anything, might just be the missing piece he never knew he needed.
Where All Roads Lead | Rearviewdreamer | [7k]
Harry's Christmas takes an unexpected turn when he discovers a misplaced holiday card in his letterbox. He never thought that braving the snow to return the card to its sender would be so worth his while.
Santa, Baby | Throwthemflowers | [16k]
Nothing in Harry’s life has gone to plan. From giving up his art dreams in favor of a stable 9-5, to singleness, to a bought with cancer that left him infertile, Harry finds himself wishing for a Christmas miracle. When one seemingly occurs, Harry meets the sperm donor of his dreams and begin to imagine the impossible. But not everything with Louis is as it seems, and soon an elusive art agent is adding to the chaos of Harry’s very unexpected holiday season. Set against the backdrop of New York City, this hallmark-style rom com is filled with a bit of drama, a drop of angst, and a touch of Christmas magic.
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little by little, my days are filled with you - jungkook x reader ♡
jungkook doesn't know how, but little by little, step by step, your traces are stained oh-so-beautifully all over his penthouse. the pairs of shoes neatly lined up next to his and your favourite puffer jacket next to his favourite long coat. it makes his heart swell at the simple domesticity, something he's been craving and searching for a very long time. he greets bam, who was waiting patiently by the door. you peek your head out the kitchen, excitedly waving at him, beckoning at him eagerly to come see what you whipped up for dinner. he gladly takes up the offer, elated to be back home with you.
you finished work early today and immediately went to your favourite place, your boyfriend's penthouse. you rush back home to find bam sitting calmly like the gentleman he is, waiting for his parents to come home. he all but is over the moon at your presence, nosing you till you feed him his favourite snack and you lovingly rub his back while you see him devour his food. he goes back to the door, sitting on his paws, waiting for his father. you roll up your sleeves and take whatever time you have left to make a simple yet hearty meal. you found a simple recipe for chicken alfredo, finally having a reason to use the sudden influx of chicken breasts in the fridge. jungkook insisted he needed them for his diet, even though you could see he was slowly starting to detest them.
after making the pasta sauce and letting the spaghetti cook, you fix up the living room, making the mattress in the middle inviting enough for the both of you. setting up your favourite pillows and blankets, you set a bottle of pillow mist, a latest obsession of yours. it lulls you to sleep quickly, sometimes finding jungkook's face buried in your pillow, sinewy arms wrapped around you. rushing back to check on the pasta, you mix it up with the sauce, plating it with the chicken. bam's excited barks and jungkook's soft coos reach your ears, perking your excitement. your chest is filled with content, happy your home is home.
"you actually like sleeping here or...?" jungkook teases, finding you settled in a mattress, wide eyes yet again on moon gangtae.
"oh, hush," you say, "you refuse to install a tv in the bedroom so i have to make do with what I can have," you admitted, slight smile at the end.
jungkook all but jumps next to you, hands slipping under your his large carhartt t-shirt, finding their place and gently gripping you, like you may disappear any minute now. you silently assure that's not the case, folding into him and doing the same to him. jungkook raises his head to check up on bam, finding him fast asleep on his bed. a fond smile spreads over his face and becomes even wider when he feels you place tiny kisses on his bare chest, absentmindedly giving him the love he missed out when he had late nights and early mornings. he places a finger under your chin to bring you into a much needed kiss, hand slowly slipping to the back of your neck. you loop your arms around him, wanting him to be closer to you than he already is. you both don't feel like pulling apart, the slight lack of oxygen making the moment seem more exhilarating than it already is. hand on the small of your back and on the back of your neck, your darling lover pulls you on top of him, the impact of falling on him breaking you apart, smiles wide on both of your faces.
sitting up and straddling his lap, you brush the hair out of his face, expressing your love for the mullet he's growing. you tuck his hair in, making it all pretty, just how he likes it. while you go on about how he should pull a rock when a stylist brings a scissors near him, jungkook cannot believe the position he's in. you look absolutely beautiful from where he's looking, flyaways framing your face and your side bangs growing out, he brings his hands up involuntarily to tuck your hair in before it gets in the way of your seeing and speaking. he cups your face gently, nodding along to whatever you're saying. you're long gone, now lamenting about his long purple hair from last year. you miss it so much, you say and he finds himself endeared by your quirks. his eyes follow the big and expressive gestures your hands make, finding them falling back on his chest when you're done and you're mumbling about how you're relieved he liked dinner tonight, that his angry face and bouncing feet was all the compliments you needed.
you find yourself slowly burying your face in his chest, the weight of the day slowly hitting you. jungkook places one final kiss on your forehead, bunny grin spread wide on his face when you reciprocate with kisses on his chest, hands intertwining with his tattooed ones. jungkook always thought the scenes he lives out now was far-fetched, secretly keeping the fact that he'd never find anyone understanding and considerate of his job and him.
but he found you.
you, so tender and kind to his cracked and flawed self, filling him with your perfect love, like a kintsukuroi piece. he finds himself healing everyday, like looking at you everyday is enough medicine for him. it makes his heart flutter right when he sees your face in the morning, puffy eyes opening to see him with a tired smile, he's grateful to have seen another day with you. he likes to keep you all to himself when he can and often on your free days, you both find yourself wrapped in each other, loving each other no matter the place.
in the world so harsh outside his door, jungkook is indebted to you being next to him. when the weary days come and he feels his shoulders burning under so much weight, you lift them all off so easily, swaddling him with you. the nights where he mourns and wallows in self doubt are all disappearing and appearing less, with you sternly yet gently teaching him to express himself more.
he learns from you everyday. ever his heart found yours, he picked your benign habits, always trying his best to give back what you've given, tenfold. despite not being much of a taker, he's taught you to be one, teaching you ways to lean and depend on him. your happiness and sadness, your pain and pleasure, he takes it as his own as much as it is yours.
finding you gently snoring away on him, he reaches for the pillow mist, spraying the required amount on your pillow. laying your head on the pillow, he switches off the tv and gives the living room one last lookover before lying next to you, pulling up the blanket and snuggling next to you. jungkook takes in your tranquil face before his eyes soon become heavy, heart light in his chest, contented to know he's filled with your love, just how he likes it.
pt time: @lvoekook ; @joondiary ; @soobhyun
#yes this is part of the mattresses and midnight!au#i cant get enough of this couple#i cant write enough of whipped!koo#maybe i should make this a mini series? lmk lmk ^^#jungkook x reader#jungkook drabble#jungkook scenario#jungkook fluff#jungkook fanfic#bts x reader#bts scenario#bts fluff#bts fanfic#bts jungkook#little by little#moy&i#chaenelcore
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185 - ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY FIVE
Please visit breakerwhiskey.com for more information or to send a message to Whiskey's radio. Breaker Whiskey is an Atypical Artists production created by Lauren Shippen. If you'd like to support the show, please visit patreon.com/breakerwhiskey.
Transcript under the cut. For more episodes, click here.
[click, static]
I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ll be quick, I promise.
I came back to the house. I staked it out for a good three hours first, to be sure that no one else was here, but it’s clear that someone has been here. The house is torn apart since I was last here—I don’t know what Junior is looking for…maybe nothing. Maybe his father’s watch. Maybe he heard my broadcast the other day. Maybe he just wanted to break anything and everything in his path, just because he could.
A lot of our supplies are gone too—I don’t know if Harry took some when she left or if he’s taken them, but I just hope they’re being used by someone. I’m still not sure how to feel about the whole Junior thing—I’m mostly trying to not think about it at all if I’m entirely honest—but I’d be happy to inadvertently be feeding him or helping him survive somehow. Mi casa es su casa, I guess.
I’m not thrilled about my Carhartt jacket though—that seems to be missing as well. I’d been hoping to…I don’t know, I didn’t really pack all that many sentimental objects when I left but I wanted to—I don’t know. I liked that coat. And coming back here made me realize how much I missed—
[click, static]
Well, I fucking miss cigarettes that’s for sure. If I ever have a garden again, I wonder if I can figure out how to grow tobacco and roll my own. Though, at this point, with everything I’ve been dealing with, I might have to resort to smoking the seven year old packs lying around.
Anyway, the jacket is gone. It wasn’t on its usual hook and I searched the whole house and its…gone. I’m assuming Junior didn’t take it, but I can’t remember if it was here last week when I came back to the house for the first time. Maybe Harry threw it out the day I left. Maybe she took it with her when—
(scoffs) Probably not that. More likely she just tossed it. Or cut it up into scraps to line the chicken coop.
I should get going, I think. It’s not good to linger. But I—well, I left Harry a note. On the off chance that she does come back here. It’s got the same info I’ve said on the radio, with a new meeting place in case…
Well, in case. I also—well, I wrote—I know he probably wouldn’t want to hear what I have to say, so maybe I’ll just keep it and—
[click, static]
(sigh) I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know if there’s anything I should be taking with me from the house. Any other bits of sentiment, any remaining supplies.
I have this feeling…I don’t think I’ll ever be back here after this. I think—
[a creak of the door opening behind her]
(gasps) Wh—
[click, static]
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Why You?
CW: PTSD, panic attack, hallucination, traumatized whumpee, escaped whumpee, some referenced gore from the past
Death Valley
For @amonthofwhump day 8; holiday haunting
-
Wichita, Kansas, 2012
A man who had once gone by Finn Schneider sat in a diner just before midnight, sipping weak but scalding hot coffee and waiting for his breakfast plate to be ready. The diner held a scattering of people other than him - a group of five drunk kids who couldn’t be more than teenagers, giggling to each other, a boy and girl shooting each other lingering looks that told the man that they would probably be kissing before the night was out.
The girl had stolen the boy’s hat five minutes ago and currently wore it with the bright and shining smile of the triumphant. The boy slid her sidelong smiles.
How long did it take him to realize what it meant when girls stole his sweater, his coat, his hat? He couldn’t remember, really. At some point, though, he understood that it was the same as a sign waved in the air, interest made clear without words.
There were a couple of truckers meeting for what passed for dinner at midnight, too. They’d nodded to him when they came in, thinking he must be one of them. He figured it was the eating-at-midnight, the loneliness, the heavy canvas coat he wore against the frigid chill of wind outside.
Noah had given it to him, congratulated him on your first Carhartt, now you’ll fit right in behind the wheel with me, and he’d worn it ever since. Noah was off on a different job, and it was up to the man - who currently called himself Henry Schmidtgall - to try and fit in by himself. Mostly, that meant saying as little as possible to hide his accent and wearing these heavy coats and gloves and a thick hat.
He was on his way from his last job in Illinois, near Chicago, headed up to Montana. There were some people he’d pick up in Colorado, three or four, and then he’d head north for the border and hope they made it before the snows fell.
Meanwhile, he sat in a diner in Kansas freezing his ass off. The chill air from outside made its way through the big glass windows, and he looked out to see absolutely nothing beyond the bright streetlights flooding the small parking lot. Not that there was much to see.
He hated driving through this part of the country.
There were no trees to stop the wind, for one, no real hills to slow it down. It blew across the fields and plains and cut like a knife. Half the time he thought if he forgot to wear gloves it would slice his skin right open. This time of year, there wasn’t even corn to rustle.
The waitress stopped over to refill his coffee, and he smiled at her, distant and unfocused. Over the tinny speakers, country music played, low enough to mostly escape notice, occasionally breaking into his thoughts as the singers wailed a particularly emotional line. The booth squeaked a little when he shifted, but he ignored it.
One of the teenagers threw her head back, letting out a bright burst of laughter that traveled through the diner like a gunshot. Everyone tensed a little, then went back to their soft conversations or - in Finn’s case - to staring at nothing.
Two waitresses argued over politics by the countertop, the cook occasionally chiming in while bacon sizzled and eggs fried in a saucepan to one side. The man who used to be Finn Schneider barely listened to them. He didn’t know anything about American politics and he didn’t care, either.
The bell over the door jingled as it opened, a merry little sound, and he looked up on pure instinct.
Then he froze.
His hands clamped down around the cheap ceramic coffee mug until the heat burned his palms, and still he held on. The chill was no longer on the outside of him, but boiling up from within, traveling up his throat and turning into the softest whimper.
Luckily, that came just as the chorus of the song hit its crescendo, and the tiny noise he’d made was smothered by she was the one that got away, the one that wrecked my heart…
Hesitating just inside the door was a woman in her midtwenties with black hair that flowed loose down her back like water, blown around by the freezing wind. She had a cell phone up to her ear, wearing tight black jeans that flared out over heavy boots, a thick sweater and the same kind of coat the man who used to be Finn Schneider was wearing over that.
Finn saw her in profile, left side only, her aquiline nose and light brown skin, one green eye - he was sure it would be green, although he couldn’t see from here - and full lips. She laughed, to whoever she was talking to. “Yeah, I’ll call you when I get back on the road,” She said, her eyes scanning over the booths and tables, taking in the sparsely populated little place. “Yeah, I try my best to be. Mmhmm. Love you, too.”
She shifted, shoving the phone into her pocket.
Finn stared at her, years falling away. If she turned her head, he knew she’d be missing one eye. The right side of her head would be bashed in, crushed bone and brain and so much blood. If she turned, he’d see one green eye ringed in a little line of brown, just the one, an empty marble in a broken face.
He never did quite understand what had happened to the other eye.
He last saw her on Robert’s living room floor, a dead body dragged along on a trash bag with her hair a terrible halo clumped with blood and gray matter. He’d listened to the awful, final sound of her body thumping down the basement stairs, disappearing into the dark. Then he’d seen Robert bring up the barrel with little left inside but bones he’d bury somewhere in the wilderness while hunting for new victims.
What had her name been?
Robert had shown him the driver’s license, made him hold it and smear his fingerprints all over the thing. A smiling, pretty woman’s face with long black hair. Nicole Chumani. Age 24, address somewhere in North Dakota.
Robert had commanded Finn to read every detail out so he couldn’t look away from it. Hair, black. Weight, one hundred forty-five pounds, height, five feet six inches…
Only when Finn had broken down into tears inside his cage, Robert disgusted by his emotions, had he taken the license back and driven her body away to be dumped with all the others. She’d been in California, Robert had said cheerfully, to visit a friend who came out here. She’d been to California to have a nice visit, and she’d had one, and then she’d run into Robert at a rest stop at 3 AM when he was hunting.
And then-
She’d been buried in the woods, with the others Robert didn’t keep in his basement. Somewhere in the woods, somewhere along a highway in Wyoming, somewhere no one was ever looking for them.
And here she was, now.
When Finn glanced down at the floor, he could see the blood dripping and puddling there beneath her feet, bits of gray matter floating in it. Bone, like shards of glass, the slight curve of a skull.
“Just you, sweetheart?” The older waitress called out, a woman in her fifties maybe. The dead woman smiled, giving a nod in affirmation. “Sit wherever you like, it’s too late for anybody to be all that picky.”
She laughed in response, and Finn blinked, watching her back as she walked to a booth, pausing just before it. Bloodied footsteps trailed behind her. His heart stilled as he waited for her turn around - to see that bashed-in face, to throw up all over the table and to have only coffee inside of him to lose - and then it began to beat again. The heavy thump of it knocked the air from his lungs.
She turned his way as she sat down and he realized it wasn’t Nicole Chumani at all.
There wasn’t any blood on the floor.
No bone or brain.
He blinked, rapidly, and shook himself like a dog shaking off water.
She didn’t even look like Nicole Chumani, and her eyes were clearly far too dark to be green. Her hair was too long, although didn’t he read once that hair keeps growing for a while after you die? Her face wasn’t broken at all, wasn’t bashed in and destroyed by Robert’s hammer blows. She had two perfect dark eyes.
She glanced over and caught him looking at her - staring - and Finn immediately looked back down at his coffee. The next time he chanced a look, she had her phone in her hands, and he knew what she was doing.
He knew.
She was taking a photo of him, maybe, or just describing him in a text to someone she trusted. Guy staring at me, creepy asshole.
It was only-
She’d just looked like-
He almost asked. Do you remember Nicole Chumani? She went missing in 2003? But of course she wouldn’t, they probably had never heard of each other. How many people lived in the States, that he should assume any one person would know about any other? This woman would have been a teenager when Robert dragged a body across the floor in front of Finn’s face.
It would have been fine, if he had died, and Nicole Chumani had been the one who lived. She would probably have done a better job with her life than he’d done with his.
A plate was set down with a clatter in front of him and he jumped, heart in his throat, eyes jerking up to see-
The waitress, blinking with surprise. “You all right, hon?”
Finn swallowed, once, twice, three times. “I-... yes, thank you.” If he kept his sentences brutally short, he could mostly cover up his accent. Noah told him to, that he needed to not seem like someone who didn’t belong here, but it was hard when he belonged nowhere at all. When he shouldn’t even be alive. When he should have been buried in the basement with the rest. “More coffee, please?”
She nodded, bustling away. His stomach flipped at the smell of the cooked eggs and bacon in front of him, the toast with its little cups of butter and jam. He wasn’t hungry any longer, but he made himself spread the butter anyway, take a bite of crunchy browned bread and salty fat.
The waitress poured his coffee back up to the top, then glanced up at a clock that hung on the wall near the door. “Merry Christmas,” She said, with a solemn thoughtfulness.
“Wh-... what?” Finn blinked.
“It’s after midnight, hon. Merry Christmas.”
“Oh… ah, Merry Christmas, thank you.” He caught himself before he could say danke.
She walked back over to her argument over the President with the other two, and Finn ate some bacon with a tongue that did not taste it, with teeth that were barely aware as they chewed. He could feel the woman in the other booth looking at him, still. Wondering why he had stared at her like that.
There was nothing he could have said to ease her mind, now that she was worried over him. No way to say, look, I’m sorry, but you look just like a corpse I once knew-
He had to stifle a giggle, put a hand over his mouth. Hysterical fear threatened the edges of his vision, settled like a weight against his back, ringed him like the bars of his cage.
He didn’t dare look her way again. Not only because he knew what he looked like, but because he was terrified that if he did, she would be missing half her face again. She would point at him, glaring with her one baleful remaining eye, and ask with a mouthful of missing bashed-up teeth and cracking broken cheekbone what made you so goddamn special? Why did you get to live and I had to die?
And he’d have to say, I don’t know.
He fled into the night a few minutes later, his meal barely touched and a twenty dollar bill left on the table.
The man who used to be Finn Schneider was in Dodge City before he stopped feeling the weight of one single eye on his back.
-
@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlinthesnep @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp
@whumperfully @pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful
#amow winter whumperland 2022#finn schneider#death valley fic#whump#holiday haunting#day 8: holiday haunting#gore#ptsd tw#panic attack tw#Hallucinations#visual hallucinations tw#referenced eye whump#traumatized whumpee#trauma response tw#escaped whumpee#freed whumpee#rescued whumpee
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A real world AU Gothic Romance - part 2/3
Artwork by the amazing @obsidianne-art
Pairing: Ghost Shigaraki X Fem!Reader
Rating: Readers 18+ only
Content Warnings: Dead dog mention, PnO, V/oy with stalker vibes, self-care of an adult nature, mentions of a rich family being jerks to working class Reader
Chapter Two Word Count: 3.9k, Ao3 Mirror
Part I ---❤--- Part 3
Saturday, October 22nd, 2022
Slamming the door of your ten year old car, you ducked your head under one arm and raced through the cold, October rain. By the time the front door banged shut, wet tendrils of wild hair were plastered to your skin. Wiping your forehead, you kicked off your muddy shoes and threw your patched, Carhartt coat over the grand newel at the front of the stairs.
Making a fake mouth with your hand, you mimicked a nasally whine. “Do you really need to go in and out so many times? You’re letting the cold in! Jayden-Breydon-Ashton-Trenton will get pneumonia and his lungs will be damaged. If my perfect child can’t win at every sport known to man because of you, I'll sue! My husband’s a lawyer! Our congressman will hear about this!” Your tool bag thumped to the floor as you trudged up the stairs grumbling to yourself. “Yeah, and your Karen nonsense is gonna pay quadruple time before I go out at seven on a Saturday cause your dumb brat flushed his plastic army men down the toilet. Again!”
As you turned the final step, your dominant hand’s pointer finger caught on the rail, forcing the already injured digit back a painful 190 degrees. A stream of violent curses poured from your mouth, dripping onto the antique banister with enough acidic bite to melt the finish. Peeling off the plastic Pokémon bandaid, you glared at the inch long slice down the inside of your knuckle.
“Friggen yuppie bedroom communities and their cookie cutter, spliced together McMansions!” you grumbled, slamming a flat palm into the bedroom door. It banged open, bouncing off the newly installed spring stopper before sliding to a halt. Ripping off your coveralls, you tossed the filthy, muck soaked mess into the plastic basket marked “Work Clothes” in half erased black sharpie. “Small wonder the plumbing is always clogged. The builder did such a junk job that crap rolls up the pipes! Another Bryane Homes special!”
Flinging your undergarments to the creamy, hex tile floor, you flipped on the shower, listening to the old pipes thump twice before water finally emerged. Air in the lines again, huh? Looks like this weekend you'd be leak checking everything that "master plumber" did, again. The previous homeowner sure didn't know how to find a handyman.
Stepping past the glass door into the recently remodeled shower of beige stone, you snagged your favorite body wash and mopped the stink of the day off your skin. The splash of water on the stainless drain grate mingled with deep sighs, ventilation fans, and the clunk of your skull on smooth tile.
"I hate humanity!" you groaned, burying your head in your hands.
After completing your nightly routine, you opened the bedroom door, letting the warm, humid air fill the cold, dry room. Hard rain pelted the windows, rolling in thick droplets down the dark glass. Thunder rumbled in the distance as you padded naked and barefoot across the oak floor. You snapped on the small table lamp near your bed and headed for the wardrobe.
The royal purple, babydoll chemise slipped onto your body like a glove. Lacy, princess seams and triangular cups were lined with smooth raylon for discreet, but suggestive coverage. Trimmed with tiny satin bows, the mesh back hugged your curves before dipping into a graceful, flowing skirt. A ruffled hem hung two inches below your crotch line, showing off soft thighs and tiger-striped stretch marks. Tugging on cute panties, you climbed into smooth, cool sheets and pulled the flimsy microfiber comforter over your shoulders. The bedside light snapped off. Heavy lids drifted shut.
The tritone blast of a train whistle rattled through the windows. With a groan, you pulled your flat pillow over your head and buried your face in the mattress. Steady click-clacks accompanied the dull roar that poured in on the blustering winds. Eye twitching, you looked up just as lightning flashed across the room. Caught in the bright glare, red eyes glowed in the mirror.
Hold up, what?!
You sat bolt upright, clutching the cheap blanket to your chest. The pounding of your heart drowned out the next thunder clap. You squinted at the looking glass, but there was no sign of anything but the bathroom light.
Aw crap. Duh. The bathroom!
The bedside lamp clicked back on. With a frustrated snarl, you trapsed across the room and flipped the wall switch, snuffling out the CFL above the toilet. Tugging the door shut, you cast a wary glance at the old mirror. Still nothing there. Shaking your head, you crawled back into bed and flicked the table light off again.
Fifteen minutes after the train blew past, you lay in bed, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. Though softening droplets made for relaxing background noise, itchy eyes and a wild imagination refused to let you rest. Counting down from one hundred proved useless.You’d tensed and released your entire body muscle by muscle, twice. Four-Seven-Eight breathing did little to ease your racing mind. You swallowed, realizing the one thing you hadn’t tried yet.
Oh yeah right! Like you could get off when those burning eyes were seared into your brain!
Rolling over for the fiftieth time, you spotted the murky outline of the mahogany secretary through the shadows. Huh… Well, if sexy thoughts were too awkward, maybe picturing something cute and heartwarming would do?
You groaned, pressing your palms to your dry eyes. Throwing off the covers, you walked to the old writing desk and flopped down the front panel. The key clicked in the latch. You extracted the picture of the Shimura children and their dog before heading back to bed. The bedside lamp flipped on. Your hand traced the edge of the old photograph.
“Geeze, you both were really cute kids.” You pursed your lips, checking the date. Tidy, pencil lead scrawl read: 1884. “Ugh… The poor dog only made it a year?! Screw that puppy puncher!”
You laid the photo on the nightstand, before flopping back onto your bed. As you curled onto your side, half-stuffed blankets cupped your cheek. You yawned, picturing the sweet smile on the little boy's face. Warm, dark eyes beamed with joy as he clutched his new friend like a treasure. You hummed, grabbing a roll of the comforter and dragging it to your chest. If you closed your eyes, you could almost feel soft fur and excited panting, as if you were the one with a puppy in your arms. The steady thump of rain on glass reminded you of a fast paced doggie heartbeat. Buried face first in your fantasy, your breathing slowed. Tired limbs grew heavy as your brain floated away.
“I hope you did okay after everything, Tenko,” you murmured into the blankets. “I wish I could have met you.”
Racing through the pounding rain, you braced a hand over your eyes. The light of the grand house ahead pierced the blurry haze, guiding you up the gravel drive. Slick kidskin boots took the stairs two at a time. Wet hands shoved slimy strands of ruined hair behind your ears. Cold precipitation soaked through your waist-hugging wool coat. The fashionable bell sleeves of the short, double breasted jacket did little to protect your blouse from the elements. Water dripped from the poofy edge of cream silk bishop sleeves. You tugged out the long pins that clamped your toque hat to your head. Rain had flooded the dark beaver felt. The tiny brim sagged low like your mood. With as much dignity as you could muster, you straightened the deep purple kick pleats of your wool skirt before rapping on the door.
Kerosene lamplight spilled out onto the porch as a tall, imposing butler in a double breasted suit stared down at you. “May I help you?” he asked.
You squinted to make out his features, but even holding a lantern, his face was obscured by shadow. Swallowing your nerves, you rolled your shoulders back. The wet plip-plop from saturated silk ruined the image. Still, you raised your chin. “I am terribly sorry to bother you, but my bicycle tire went flat just before sunset. I must have gotten turned around in the lane during the storm and now I’m hopelessly lost. May I stay here until morning?”
“Kurogiri,” a gravelly voice growled from the front parlor. “Show her in.”
“Of course,” the butler replied, bowing at the waist. He held one arm out, gesturing to the open door. “Please, come this way.”
Leaving puddles with each step of your button-up ankle boots, you trod soddenly into the next room. Sumptuous scarlet wallpaper patterned with geometric golden rings glowed in the dim yellow light of the brass and glass wall sconce. A high backed, Rococo revival sofa set sat atop a plush, hand knotted wool rug. Across a throne of golden floral brocades, the evening paper lay tossed aside. You followed long, slender ankles up black merino trousers to a smoking jacket the color of pinot noir. Single breasted and well fit, its shawl collar was trimmed in deep ebony velvet. Instead of buttons, two ornate frog closures nipped in at the waist. White collar unbuttoned to his throat latch and leaning against the window, the master of the house peered at you with burning red eyes. Flowing waves of silver-white hair cascaded around his heart shaped face. When you froze, he scratched the side of his dry, peeling neck and grinned at you.
“Retro suits you,” he teased.
Dumbfounded, you stared at the handsome twenty something.
With a hum, he rose to his feet and moved a plush, small stool nearer to the fireplace. “Kurogiri, prepare a hot bath.”
The butler snapped his heels and headed up the stairs, leaving you dripping on the not-so-old wood floor.
Your host patted the rich, tufted upholstery. “Take off your coat and get warm before you catch the flu.”
Horrified, you waved your hands. “I’m soaked! I’ll ruin your furniture!”
Rolling his eyes, he stalked across the room and snatched up your wrist. “You made it this far barging into my life, why worry about it now?”
As howling wind rattled the bay windows, you shivered.
The slender man pushed you down onto the plush seat, plucking the buttons of your tightly fitted coat before you could protest. He shook it out, spattering water across the ivory carpet before hanging it over the back of a chair. “See?” he demanded, pointing to the pristine rug. “It doesn’t matter here.”
“Here?” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “What do you mean?”
He snorted, flopping down on the sofa. Resting his pointy elbows on his knees, he smirked at your over folded hands. “It’s just a dream. You can’t ruin anything.”
"A dream?" You peeked around him at the elegant impressionist paintings on the walls. Through the open door, you spotted a square based, bone china vase on a familiar mahogany table. Startled eyes flicked back to the man before you. "Hey wait a second, this is—"
"My home," he finished with a taunting sneer. "I lived here long before you did."
You narrowed your eyes, scanning up and down his features. "Who are you?"
With a scowl, he pointed to his nose. "Seriously? You're the one who asked to meet me, idiot."
As he threw himself back in the chair, the kerosene lamplight faded from his face. Dark waves and almond eyes dragged the picture of the little boy to the front of your mind. You lept to your feet in excitement.
"Tenko?! Tenko Shimura?!"
The man before you cringed like he'd been smacked with a brick. Grabbing your arm, he dragged you down to his level. "Don't call me that! That's not my name!"
Wobbly, worn out legs threatened to pitch you forward into his lap. When your knees buckled, panicked hands caught the wooden frame of the sofa. With his face only an inch away, brilliant red irises reminded you of living rubies. Though his brow hair had been burned away and the skin under his eyes looked painfully dry, the adorable mole on his right chin made your heart skip. Your breath caught in your throat. The tiny scar on his left lip curled with his sneer. Blazing heat splashed over your skin, surging up into your head like three glasses of sherry.
Oh crap… he was stupid hot!
"O-oh!" you stammered, forcing a pinched laugh. "I'm… er… um…" Your eyes rolled away from his pointed stare. "Sorry."
With an irritated sigh, he loosed your arm and scratched his neck. "Just don't call me Shimura again, got it?"
"Of course! I'm really sorry!" Swallowing down the stone in your throat, you fiddled with your fingers. "I would have changed my name too, given the circumstances."
He tossed you a proud smirk. "I knew you would understand."
A pointed cough echoed from the door. "Master Shigaraki," the butler called. "The bath is ready, as you requested."
Freshly aware of exactly how close your face was to your host, you jolted backwards. The heel of your boots caught on the plush carpet. Just as you started to slip, Shigaraki wrapped one arm around your corseted waist and pulled you into his chest.
"Shall we go upstairs?" he purred in your ear.
Okay… now you were wet for an entirely different reason.
Step by step, the master of the house led you up the walnut treads towards the far bedroom. He smelled like feral cumin-musk and spicy cloves. As you passed the master suite, you raised a curious brow.
"That was my parents’," he explained, pulling you along. "I never wanted to sleep in the same place as that man."
"Oh…" you murmured, following him into the northern bedroom. "That makes a lot of sense.”
In your-er… his sleeping quarters, the gothic revival bed set and elegant writing desk sat in the same spots as their present-day counterparts. However, the warm amber stain looked much less yellow than in your time. Beyond the pocket bathroom door, polished marble tiles led to a gilded porcelain soaking tub. Steam poofed into the cold air, curling up past cream silk papered walls delicately trimmed with gold leaf. Dried lavender potpourri scented the room. A fluffy towel lay neatly folded on the mother-of-pearl pedestal sink.
The fingers on your corset dipped down to your hips as he loomed over your shoulder. Warm breath tickled your ear. "After your bath, you can apologize properly for your mistake.”
A coy smile curled onto your lips. “Define properly?”
Two fingers gripped your chin and turned your face to his. Red eyes drifted shut. “Take a guess.”
Shigaraki's lips tasted of wine and copper. With a moan, you leaned into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands drifted to the buttons on the back of your wool skirt. It slumped to the floor, pooling around your ankles. A soft tongue stroked yours. You met his motions with heated enthusiasm. Deft fingers plucked the fasteners of your wet, ruffled blouse until it slipped from your shoulders. Tangling his hand in your stays, he tugged your s-curve corset and its cover free. Your thumbs hooked under your drawers and petticoat, throwing them to the ground. Kicking them away, all that remained between you and him was a thin, silk chemise and one pair of stubborn, button-up boots.
“How on earth do you people even get to the good part?!” you demanded, squatting to fight with the brass closures.
He cackled. “A little excited are we?”
You reached up and cupped the bulge in his trousers. “You’re one to talk," you fired back with a naughty wink.
The pale man groaned, snatching your wrist into his strong grip. His cheeks flushed pink. “If you want to make it to that bath, stop now," he rasped.
Raising an eyebrow at him, you flashed him a saucy smirk. “Bold of you to assume I give a rat’s about the bath.”
All at once, Shigaraki dragged you to your feet, smashing his lips against yours like he intended to eat you alive. As you giggled, he broke the kiss and marched you back into the bedroom. “Wagtail,” he growled, tossing a pillow on the floor.
Settling yourself on your knees, you pawed at the front of his pants. “I don't know what that means, but I like dogs.”
Fortunately for everyone involved, his pants had far fewer buttons than your stupid shoes. You fumbled with the frog closures for only a moment before shoving the velvet smoking jacket out of the way. Untucking his long shirtwaist, your fun screeched to a halt when you encountered long underwear.
“What the actual—” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “So much for a strip tease!” Faking a pout, you tugged on his shirt. “Help a horny girl out?”
With a snort of laughter, Shigaraki quickly shuffled out of his complex layers. By the time you got your damp chemise and stupid boots off, his stiff cock finally escaped its elborate prison. Thumb and forefinger forming a ring grip, you gave him a few experimental strokes. When he tossed his head back, white waves haloed his face. You bit your lip, savoring the ethereal beauty of his fair complexion against those haunting crimson irises.
A firm hand cupped the back of your head. “Now you slow down?” he demanded between pants.
Tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear, you lowered your lips to his weeping, flushed tip. “Calm down. I'm just savoring the moment.”
When your hot mouth slipped over his salty head, the man above you gasped. Hollowing your cheeks, you bobbed your way down, inch by inch. Your tongue stroked the thick vein on his underside, trailing up to the small piece of tissue just below the spongy crown. Flicking the sensitive skin elicited a throaty whimper.
Shigaraki’s strong fingers curled tighter into your scalp as he loosed a garbled curse. “More,” he demanded.
You smirked at the expletive before diving back down.
Taking his generous girth deep into your mouth, your tongue lolled around the edge of his shaft. Your free hand slid up his soft inner thighs. Rolling his balls between your fingers, you shivered when musky precum coated your tastebuds. Harsh pants from above urged you on.
As you worked him further into ecstasy, each stuttered thrust crept closer and closer to the soft roof of your mouth. You angled him away from your gag, swallowing down thick saliva. It didn’t help. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth, leaving him coated in slick. Wet clicks accompanied choked whines as you worked him to the back of your throat.
Shigaraki squirmed in your hold, guiding you into a relentless pace. Your jaw ached as his swollen cock forced you to spread your teeth wider. Tears welled at your lash line. His filthy moans stoked the heat between your legs. All at once, he stiffed, his hard grip clamping down on your skull.
With a hoarse gasp, he spilled himself down your throat.
Flying up in your bed, you banged your chest as violent coughs wracked your body. By the time you cleared your sore throat, all you could smell was stale, salty breath. You groped for the clock on your night stand. Red LEDs read 3:39am. Your thighs shifted against each other. Wet need stained your panties.
“Not fair!” you whined, slamming your fist into your limp pillow. “Of course I wake up before the good part!”
Flopping back onto the mattress, you rolled onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut. How long you laid there, staring at the back of your eyelids was impossible to say. However, while the digital numbers rolled upwards, sleep danced further and further away. The cravings from your wet dream still burning in your skin, you whimpered and slipped your hand between your legs.
That was when a rip of pain reminded you of that nasty slice on your finger.
Cussing violently, you flipped on the table light. Sure enough, fresh crimson seeped across the previously clotted wound. Throwing off the covers, you gripped your bleeding finger and shuffled off to the cold bathroom. Thrusting your hand under the tap, you gingerly cleaned and dried the injury. The mirrored medicine cabinet rattled open. You peeled a brand new Pikachu Band-aid from its packaging and slapped it over the damaged digit. Closing your eyes, you leaned on the ceramic sink. It was no good. Sharp stabs from your hand couldn’t compete with the hypersensitive need crawling up your core.
As your fingers curled into the thin, cheap towel, you knew what you had to do to fall asleep.
From his glassy vantage point, Tomura watched your pursed lips and frustrated stomping with a pleased sneer. Dragging the flimsy Walmart towel from its mount, you trudged back into your bedroom and threw it on the sheets. Though the light snapped off, he could still see as clear as day. With a raised brow, he watched you ball the fabric under your hips and flop over onto your stomach.
As you began to grind yourself on the towel, a long deceased cock sprung back to life.
One palm flat against the cool bedding, your free hand tugged the stretch lace cup of your slinky nightgown aside. Soft fingers tickled your bare breast before tweaking the pert nipple. You shuddered, loosing a slutty moan.
Leaning against the surface of his mirror, Tomura shuffled himself out of his clothes and gripped his shaft. Watching you roll your body against the rough cloth sent a spike of pleasure through his belly. Erotic creaks from his old bed left his mouth bone dry. Your blood plumped lips and half lidded eyes made for fertile fantasies. Swiping some of the pre-cum from his slit, he began to match your pace.
As you worked yourself further and further into depravity, the show before him left Tomura feverish and panting. He watched your legs curl and slacken as you tried to find the right pressure. A few irritated grumbles accompanied rustling bed sheets. When you finally hit upon a position that made your body clench, he heard filthy pleas spilling for your lips.
“Please,” you begged, your hips vibrating against the rough fabric. “W-want your cock so bad!”
Liquid heat blazed through his veins as he fisted his swollen length. Stoking the fire with each pump, he chased the feverish sensation with single-minded desire. The sound of your eager cries and sight of your fingers teasing the pert nub propelled him forward. Hazy eyes watched your body tremble as he pictured himself balls-deep in your velvety cunt. It should be his hand teasing your tit. It should be his fingers making those slutty noises spill from your puffy lips. He clenched his teeth, losing himself in thoughts of your soft body clamped around his swollen cock.
It was then that a raspy inhale accompanied the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
“Shi-Shigaraki…” You whimpered his name, burying your face in the mattress. “Mmmm gonna… gonna—”
All at once, he exploded over the glass. Limp body leaning on the frame, he drank in the sight of your heaving chest and dazed smile. He watched you shove the towel to the floor and snuggle into the pillow. As your breathing slowed, one overpowering, addictive thought filled his brain with intoxicating lust.
He had to hear you call his real name over and over in that same, needy voice.
Taglist:
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@rekoii @down-with-the-shigness @softkao @night-shadowblood-writes2
#shigaraki x reader#tomura shigaraki x reader#shigaraki tomura x you#shigaraki x y/n#shigaraki tomura x reader#ghost x reader#shimura tenko x reader#tenko shimura x reader#bnha x reader#mha x reader#fem!reader#bnha shigaraki#ghost shigaraki x reader#gothic romance#bnha shigaraki tomura
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Lucas Is a Part of You That Loves You
Title inspired by
"Your anger is the part of you that knows your mistreatment and abuse are unacceptable. Your anger knows you deserve to be treated well, and with kindness. Your anger is a part of you that LOVES you."
apocalynds via Twitter 12:22 PM · Jun 7, 2020
Written for the TSS Fanworks January Remix event, inspired by Rage by @reptilian-with-scallions
~~~
The orange paint on His door was cracked and peeling. Bits would flake off on Self Preservation’s gloves each time he knocked and no matter how carefully he worked with Creativity to scrape away the old paint and lay down a fresh, glossy coat, by the following morning it always looked like this. Cracked and faded, with the splintered wood peeking out from beneath the ruined enamel.
It was too early in the morning to consider waking Anxiety, if he’d even managed to fall asleep at all. The thin purple light spilling out from underneath his door didn’t shift or flicker with movement, so whether sleeping or merely listlessly drowning out the worries with MCR, Anxiety had finally stilled.
Creativity was dead to the world, curled in a ball on the stained stone floor of his bedroom, his heavy chains both imprisonment and comfort as they lay draped over his chest and back like a lover’s embrace. He’d howled all night with night terrors, rattling the picture frames lining the hallway until Self Preservation’s teeth ached and his empathetic tears ran dry. He’d finally settled into a mumbling, twitchy sleep just over an hour ago, and Self Preservation was grateful the youngest of them might get bit of rest now before Kids Bop Creativity roused him for a new day.
He knocked twice on the heavy wooden door, reinforced and guarded at the seams with iron plates so nothing could seep out. There was no response, so Self Preservation slipped through, closing the door behind him with a relieved sigh.
With any luck, even Logic was still asleep at this early hour, and certainly Heart was. Whatever bit of His essence that leaked out into the Mindscape would diffuse into a surface irritability, easily excused as the morning grumpiness of a night owl, and just as easily soothed by a few kind words and maybe a cookie from Heart.
The room was dark and hot, warmed by a young lifetime of repressed rage. Indignation had hardened the floor and the walls into galvanized steel, slippery, the only friction granted by thick, spiky bolts driven into the floor at irregular intervals. It was littered with ripped papers, the shredded remains of his clothing. The walls were cracked cinder block, insulating Him from Creativity on one side and Anxiety on the other.
The room was otherwise empty of furniture or decoration. Orange light flashed from one corner and Self Preservation moved closer, hands down at his sides and breathing evenly, fighting the defensive anger swirling through his veins at the sight of his dear friend.
He was awake.
“Deceit,” He growled from his seat on the floor.
“You don’t need to call me that. My name is—“
“I don’t fucking care what your name is!”
His shout cut Self Preservation’s skin to ribbons for a microsecond before the Mindscape healed him. When it was over and He seethed from his corner, the wet rattle of his breaths the loudest sound in the room, he dusted off his sleeves and straightened his capelet. “Feeling better?”
“Fuck you,” He growled.
Self Preservation took that as a ‘yes.’ “Your clothes… “ He picked up a scrap of orange flannel. “Your clothes have seen better days.” He tilted his head, then snapped his fingers, dressing Him in a fresh outfit, a thick orange and blue plaid flannel over a ripped The Clash tee shirt, black Carhartt’s, and steel-toe construction boots.
He kicked the wall, and dust and crumbled cement rained down onto the floor. “Nice,” He muttered.
“Leave it to me to find a way to protect you even as you insist on throwing your body at the walls,” he purred, fingering the rusty red stain on a shredded sock. “Are you hungry?” he asked, snapping his fingers again. A bright yellow plate appeared, laden with grilled cheese sandwiches cut in triangles and two steaming mugs of tomato soup. He nudged the plate closer and watched the faint orange glow of His eyes consider the offering.
“Whatever,” He shrugged, gaze lingering on the soup. “We don’t actually have to eat, you know. We just want to.”
“And who am I to say what you want doesn’t matter?” Self Preservation asked, picking up a mug and dipping a cheesy, toasty wedge into the soup.
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed your anger?” He quipped, devouring half a wedge with one bite.
Self Preservation smirked up at Him over his mug. “Do they really?”
~~~
Self Preservation set down his lantern and hefted the iron key ring, the heavy loop large enough to slide half-way up to his elbow. Lock after lock, he turned the key, jiggling the last one just right to fit through the rusted keyhole. He’d stopped bothering to treat it with metal lubricant, it never worked anyway. He pulled with both hands and the door to His room creaked open with a grating screech. Creativity’s nattering in the room next door grew louder. His room was next, but that wasn’t where the urgency lay.
There was no need to rush. Self Preservation had only two Sides to care for now.
Lantern in hand, he secured the keys to his belt and started down the dripping stone stairs. They spiraled in a wide curve and every step echoed against the ancient-looking stone walls. There were sconces installed every few feet, but they remained dark when Self Preservation tried to light them off his lantern. He even tried to conjure a light in its place, but each time, the torches fizzled, lasting only seconds.
The darkness swallowed up the light he carried and he looked back, the heavy door still propped open. It seemed to swallow up all the energy in the staircase, even His Rage and Self Preservation’s conjuring abilities.
The small lantern would have to suffice.
If he needed to, he could open the door again, but he’d be little use to Creativity until he’d rested for the night after that effort. He’d learned that the hard way the first time the door slammed had shut behind him. Despite his fatigue after summoning the power to force open the door that kept Him locked up, he’d gone straight to Creativity’s room. Once inside, he’d gotten caught up in his own intrusive thoughts, unable to determine fears from reality. He still wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been trapped there before Creativity realized what had happened. It might have been days.
Judging by the state of Thomas’ apartment when he'd next checked on him, and the dozens of empty Monster drink cans littered around his computer, it might have been weeks.
After several minutes of walking, Self Preservation heard His voice. “Come to rub it in, too?”
“Of course not,” Self Preservation murmured, keeping the irritation from his voice as he touched the keys hanging off his belt. There was only one other Side in the Mindscape who could unlock that door.
Despite the suppression, His eyes shone brighter, the sickly, somehow cold orange glow casting sharp shadows over the crumbled cinder blocks at their feet. For whatever reason, when Virgil was accepted and the Mindscape shifted and twisted, boring this tunnel thirty feet underground, the broken remains of His old walls remained. Each day, He pummeled them to dust with whatever tool he’d conjured that day. Sometimes a chainsaw. Yesterday had been a sledgehammer.
And each night, the Mindscape healed them back to the broken bits they’d started as, permitting neither a complete renewal nor an obliteration of his old walls. It only made Him angrier.
“What did Patton say when he was here?” Self Preservation said with some difficulty. Patton was his friend, his oldest friend. For the longest time, it seemed, it had just been them. But then Rage happened and…
No amount of friendship could span the divide between them on this topic. He’d spent years attempting to convince the Heart that the darkened corners of Thomas’ psyche were meant to stay dark only long enough for him to mature and fully internalize his morality. Until he could learn to accept and love all of himself, even the parts that weren’t bubbly and cuddly, even the dark parts of the so-called ‘Core’ Sides they so desperately hid from him and from each other.
Accepting Virgil, really and truly accepting him, making him feel safe enough to reveal his name, giving him their trust and love, that was all meant to be the first step.
It appeared, though, that instead of reaching back with a hand to help the Others up into the Light, he’d shared enough information, directly to the other three and indirectly through Thomas’ self doubt, to make him slam the door and push his Rage and Creativity further away.
“What did he say?” he asked again, snapping and spreading out a thick orange wool blanket. He snapped again, and a plate of grilled cheese and tomato soup appeared before Him.
He ate an entire piece before answering, finishing in three bites. Self Preservation snapped again and a tall, sweaty glass of iced sweet tea appeared before each of them and He grunted His thanks.
Self Preservation took small bites of his sandwich, holding it with a napkin to prevent marring his new gloves. He waited quietly while He guzzled the sweet tea, then wiped His mouth with the back of His hand. With another snap, the glass was refilled and He slowly sipped His second serving, tapping at the drops of condensation on the outside of the glass.
“The Heart tried some bullshit about Anxiety just being scared and needing his ‘famILY’ close,” He gagged. “ hat’s why Thomas accepted him before me and Creativity.”
There was a flash of a muted orange in His eyes and He rubbed bloodied knuckles from where He’d punched the cracks in the stone floor. It occurred to Self Preservation that He had probably expected a very different reason for Patton’s first visit in over five years.
“You thought he’d come to invite you to meet Thomas,” his voice was low, with a trace of empathetic pain.
“No,” He insisted, eyes darting away from him. “Fuck the Heart, fuck the Light Sides!” He stood up and started slamming his fists against the wall. “Fuck! All! That! Noise!” With a roar, He pulled and one of the stones came loose. He threw it across the room—Self Preservation did not miss how He’d thrown it away from him.
“Gimme your lantern!” He snapped. Something shone through the hole He’d just created, a flickering glow that seemed to match His eyes. “Maybe it’s glass! How’s that for some symbolism, huh?” He waved his hand as though he could push away the dust hanging in the hot, stagnant air.
Finally, the air grew clear enough that the lantern did more than illuminate a thick cloud. He reached through and tapped.
It was steel. Polished, shiny steel.
He Raged. He threw chunks of cinder block at the walls and Self Preservation ducked, covering his face and letting the shrapnel his against his head and back. Red splatters bloomed at the edges of his gloves and at his collar. His hair grew dark patches when his bowler hat was knocked off by a larger piece, leaving his head vulnerable.
But Self Preservation stayed. He lost track of how long this episode lasted, but finally, it was over. He sat, panting in the corner, His own hands bloody and smeared with a dark, muddy paste.
Self Preservation approached slowly. “Lu—“
“Just fucking go,” He interrupted, voice flat. Defeated. Even His eyes were faded. “Go away.”
He stopped in his tracks and gave Him a hard look. He wouldn’t look back. After a while, Self Preservation snapped away the mess, but left behind a soft orange blanket and a pillow. He patted them gently when he set them in easy reach. “In case it gets cold down here.”
“You know it won’t,” He muttered, angry, frustrated, useless Rage pouring off of Him.
“I know,” he whispered, then turned to leave.
~~~
“You let him out and not me?” Hands in fists at His sides, He stood and stared up at him from the bottom step, as far as the Mindscape would let Him go now. He once was able to get all the way to the top step and bang and howl against the door. Now, an invisible wire held Him back, keeping Him within the strict bounds of His room.
Self Preservation stepped inside, tugging off his gloves before snapping, a thick orange blanket appearing in the cleanest part of the room. “Extraordinary problems require extraordinary solutions,” he said, curt, as he sat on it.
“I’m not fucking stupid enough to believe Remus suffered more than me down here! He wasn’t even locked up anymore after Logic and the Prince rescued his sorry ass.” He sat down in a huff, arms crossed over his chest before he picked up a piece of grilled cheese. “Something you were too chickenshit to do.”
“‘Logic and the Prince’ were at risk of being sent down here themselves,” he said quietly before sipping his soup. He stared back, eyes narrowed in skepticism until He noticed the bare skin and scales on Self Preservation’s hands.
“You’re not bullshitting me,” he finally said, wiping crumbs from his mouth and taking a long draw of his sweet tea. “What the fuck is going on up there?”
“Thomas doesn’t have You,” he growled, then sat further back from his friend. Self Preservation’s gloves allowed him greater freedom to sit closer to Him. Without them—and the ability to deny even his own anger at His imprisonment—He too easily fed his rage. “There was… an incident. Thomas had a decision to make and…” He shook his head. Roman was meant to use him as the foil, the bad guy, to use him as an excuse to decide the case in favor of satisfying Thomas’ true desire to go to the callback.
He didn’t do it. Perhaps he was already feeling the strain of his tenuous position. It was an open secret in the Mindscape that Logan and Roman had worked together to free Remus from his shackles. Each gathering of the 'Core' Sides left the air thick and heavy, waiting waiting waiting waiting for the other shoe to drop. Self Preservation couldn't blame Roman for making what felt like the safest decision.
Even if it had been the wrong one.
No-one took the bait to pull Logan into the debate, either. Despite all of Self Preservation’s taunts, despite literally impersonating him, they allowed him to sideline fucking Logic from a major decision about scheduling. Self Preservation looked up when He nodded. Clearly He’d heard plenty of Logan’s thoughts on the matter. Likely Roman’s, as well. Self hatred was still a form of anger, just twisted against the person it was meant to defend.
“By revealing Remus, we were able to demonstrate the necessity of both Logic's and ‘Safe’ Creativity’s roles,” he said, fidgeting with a loose scale.
“Was it worth it?”
Self Preservation looked up. Now that his vision had adjusted to the light, the tear streaks trailing down His cheeks were obvious. He snapped his fingers, conjuring another iced tea, the one bit of physical comfort he could provide his friend and not put the entire Mindscape in jeopardy.
“I hope so.”
~~~
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His shout was loud enough to rouse Janus from his stupor. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon and the entire night with Thomas. After checking in on Him, Janus had crawled into bed and let exhaustion take him. He blinked blearily at the clock. It was lunchtime. The others would all be in the Core Mindscape. Even Remus would be there now, guzzling pickle brine and pretending to eat deodorant sticks.
“You are aware it’s the perfume in soap you’re allergic to, don’t you?” Janus had asked him one morning when he’d come down to visit, a triumphant grin splitting his face. "The same perfume in actual deodorant?"
“Yeah, I know that, Jannie,” he cackled, sprawled on Janus' bed with his head hanging off the edge.
Janus set down his tea and stared at the Creative Side. “And aren’t you afraid they’ll notice you aren’t breaking out in hives from eating that?”
“Lo Lo’s already noticed and he doesn’t give a fuck, so…” he laughed and bit off another huge chunk of marshmallow fondant, swallowing loudly just as Janus took another sip of his bergamot tea.
Remus hadn't been down to see him in weeks.
With a groan, he shoved away the covers and pulled on his gloves and capelet, donning his hat just as the door closed behind him. Across the hall, His dingy orange door hung open and Janus felt quickly at his belt for the keys. They were gone.
“That’s not what I asked you!” His shout echoed up the stone stairs. He sounded even further away than He usually did. The wedding had been terrible for everyone, but most especially Him. Janus had returned to find him bound and gagged. He’d managed to loosen his ropes a bit, but his fingers burned when he tried to remove them completely. Dammit, Thomas!
Janus raced down the stairs, making no effort to quiet his approach. There was another voice, quieter, broken with tears. Janus had expected to find Patton, sobbingly explaining why He had to be locked away. Instead, orange light glinted off a tall, slouched form dressed in a bright white tunic. In the dim light, the sash cut diagonally across his back looked like dried blood.
Roman.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed. Janus straightened, surprised at the acid in his own voice. Yes. Yes, he was still hurt by Roman’s comment. The shame in the Prince’s eyes told him his wound still stung, to. Fuck, he'd been lucky Remus had thought it was funny.
“I’m here,” Roman huffed, pulling himself up straight and hiding his eyes as though that would be enough for Janus to miss his tears. “To demand that L—”
Janus only had to raise his hand, fist loosely closed to halt the Prince’s words.
“I’m here to tell Him to leave me alone,” he finished, stamping his foot. “That!” He pointed to his polished boots. “That’s why!” Roman turned to Him, pointing with a shaking hand. “I did not give you permission to influence me this way! We have no connection and I want no part of your games!” He lowered his hand and folding his arms across his chest, shoulders squared, then took several slow breaths before continuing in a moderately calmer voice.
“I am Thomas’ hero and heroes don’t behave like schoolyard bullies.” He glared at Him. “Stay out of my head.”
“I would not be able to influence you without your permission, Princey, you know this…” His voice was low and smooth. Seductive.
“Stop it,” Janus snapped, drawing both of their attention. “Roman,” he offered an ungloved hand and waited for him to take it. The last of Roman’s walls crumbled on contact and Janus pulled him close and held him like a child as he cried. Rocking him gently, Janus turned them so Roman wouldn’t see Him glaring as he soothed the crying Prince.
“I’m sorry,” Roman mumbled against Janus’ shoulder. “I shouldn’t’ve lashed out at you.” He sniffled and Janus conjured a soft yellow handkerchief and offered it with a soothing little coo. “You were trying to help Thomas and I—”
“You were trying to help Thomas, as well. Just like the rest of us.” Janus finished quietly, meeting His eyes, implicitly including him in ‘us.’ “That’s what we’re all doing.”
~~~
Janus had been crouched in front of Him for nearly twenty minutes before His bright orange eyes finally focused on him. “I see you’ve found your window of opportunity,” he said, holding out a glass of iced tea with a long straw for Him to sip.
“And what else have I got, exactly?” He smiled ghoulishly with the straw between His teeth. “Roman’s got a new man in Thomas' life to romance. Remus, too, if we’re all gonna be fucking adults about it. Virgil’s got something else to worry about, and Patton’s just trying to hold it all together.” He finished the glass and Janus snapped, refilling it. He drank like it had been a week since his last sip.
“You’ve got me.”
He spat out the straw and leaned as far forward as His ropes would allow, eyes boring into Janus’. “Don’t fuck with me and say things you don’t mean in here.”
Janus waggled his bare fingers. “Does it look like I can lie?”
Tears sizzled at the corners of His eyes. “When?” He asked, almost a whisper. It was the quietest Janus had ever heard Him.
“Right now,” he nodded. “Hang on,” he murmured and retrieved a small golden switchblade from his pocket. A two-headed snake glinted at one end as he sliced through His ropes, then offered his hands.
“Are you sure?” He hesitated before touching Janus’ bare skin. “I’ve never…”
“I’m sure,” Janus nodded, grunting with the force of His unfiltered power when their hands touched. Rage sizzled through his veins. “Fuck! ”
“I can—” He started to loosen His grip but Janus held firm.
“No. No, I need to feel this for what we’re going to do next.” Janus closed his eyes. Thomas had returned home, and had just set down his phone. Good. “Thomas!” He called, pulling him down into a dream state and into the lower Mindscape. “Thomas you’re needed here.”
Upstairs in his living room, Thomas slumped over, head pillowed on the armrest, snoring. He awoke in His room, curled on the dirty stone floor. “What? Where am I?” He leapt to his feet and finally noticed the two Sides with him. “Janus, where—” He stumbled back, saved only by Janus’ arm snaking out to catch him. “Who’s this?” he whispered, staring at Him. Bright orange eyes stared back.
“Thomas, this is Lucas, your Anger. Your Rage.” Janus held tight to Thomas’ hand, keeping him close. Lucas’ room began to brighten. “Thomas, Lucas is a part of you that loves you. It’s past time you met.”
#Lucas Is a Part of You That Loves You#ts orange side#ts lucas#ts janus#ts remus#c!thomas#ts roman#other sides mentioned#canonish#references Shackled and Creativity Freed#remix of reptillian-with-scallions' story Rage#imprisonment#food#swearing#hopeful ending
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Blanket-lined Carhartt denim chore coat with appliqué from 1998 Nintendo bedsheets created by Green Acre Exchange. 🍄⭐️
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random musings from my drafts on style:
I take a certain amount of joy in arranging my outfits and cross referencing and matching shades so that they all comes together in one lovely visage. one of my favorite parts of planning for any event has always been deciding the outfit- how to select and style it appropriately. at one point I got really into the YouTube/fashion blogs/reddit side of it all which I still find somewhat interesting but I realized it’s not so much trends that I care about but the process behind what we wear. style can both complement and extend your sense of self. I still thinks trends can be fascinating to observe over time and what they transmit about the State of Things (hemlines relating to impending recessions, the popularity of androgynous styles speaking to a more nuanced understanding of gender, the commodification of the working man’s tools a la carhartt, etc.), but I’m not rushing to change my wardrobe every couple of months because some influencer said Chelsea boots aren’t in anymore. that’s the lovely aspect of fashion and what you come to realize as you get older: you dress best when you dress for yourself. it can seem like a silly little adage but it is a nice one to have in your pocket. for example, I’ve learned that I really value structure in my outfits, so no matter how hard I try to pull off the oversized and amorphous shearling coat look, it just doesn’t do it for me. and that’s fine because I can use the principle of the trend and apply it elsewhere in a way that does make me feel comfortable and good.
there are of course valuable rules of thumb which I find helpful when it comes to looking more deliberately polished. people ask me what I use and where I get things from to which I usually want to respond that it’s not the source that matters (barring of course the ethical fashion debate which is a whole other can of worms) but what it is. you’re looking for excellent construction and attention to details (reinforced seams, no loose threads, padding, etc), coordination with the rest of your color palette and closet, and complementing the setting (seasonally appropriate, formal vs informal etc). for example if you’d like a wide leg trouser silhouette, in the summer you’d opt for a light colored lined linen pant with brighter colors and in the winter you’d go for a wool blend with appropriate footwear and outerwear. perhaps that’s where the more conservative side of style comes into play but I do think some of the rules have stuck around because there’s some merit to it. at the very least I derive a measure of comfort from looking more polished and deliberate in a society that’s endlessly critical of appearances.
and then there’s the issue of branding and quality which is a slippery slope because the whole concept of quality is now mired in conversations about over consumption, terrible labor practices, ethically dubious marketing policies, greenwashing and so on. it got really overwhelming at some point so I withdrew from it for a while and now I find myself returning to the methodology behind our clothes: why we love certain colors during the seasons, the elegance of the way raw silk drapes, the cut of a coat and how it rests on your shoulders. i am privileged to be able to deliberate over my clothes- I can choose them and arrange them as needed.
growing up my aunt loved to make our formal clothes: she would take our measurements, source the proper fabric, find matching accessories, and take them to the tailor to get sewn. and then we would have fitting sessions in the living room and she would walk around scrutinizing the dress, pinching and pulling on the fabric and hem. If the sleeves were too itchy or the length too long, it would go back to the tailor or she might whip out her sewing machine and adjust it right there. it could take weeks to months for an outfit to materialize to her perfection, but it usually ended up being the nicest dress I’d ever worn.
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Adam Kimmel’s Carhartt Collections Fulfilled a Boyhood Dream
In 2011, Adam Kimmel’s first Carhartt collection debuted at Barneys New York, select other retailers nationwide, and internationally. Known for his Italian-style tailoring and relentlessly luxurious minimalist aesthetic, it seemed like Kimmel took a bit of a detour with this partnership with the stolid workwear company.
Carhartt, Inc., has offered affordable, well-made, heavy-duty pieces for more than 130 years. But what seemed like a detour was more of a full circle: Kimmel remembered wearing and loving Carhartt since childhood. So he easily found the common denominators between his high-fashion AK menswear line and what he called the “American heritage” brand: integrity, quality, and a thoroughly masculine edge.
Jay Bell, then Barneys’ vice president and merchandise manager, made the initial overtures that resulted in the collaboration. It was Bell who first saw the creative possibilities and connected Carhartt and Kimmel as a merchandising win for Barneys, as well.
Romancing an American heritage brand
This first collaboration with another clothing brand gave Kimmel, as he put it, an opportunity to “expand my business in a romantic way.” It became one in a series of thoughtfully implemented creative endeavors highlighting cultural influencers—for example, Snoop Dogg, Beat-era art magazine Semina, and “artificial realist” artist George Condo—whose distinctive styles and immediately recognizable viewpoints vibed with Kimmel’s own.
For Carhartt, this very special partnership signaled its first stateside venture into designer clothes after pairing with noted European brands. Kimmel put a lot of effort into showing Carhartt they were dealing with a fan with total respect for their product, someone whom they could trust when putting their brand in his hands.
For his Carhartt launch, Adam Kimmel created more than two dozen pieces in classic, comfortable fabrics like denim, cotton twill, moleskin, and flannel. He offered a quilted moleskin jacket, moleskin pants, a canvas artist’s coat lined with brushed cotton, and other distinctive outerwear items. There were shirts constructed from denim or flannel, and the color palette centered on the designer’s favored neutrals, as well as indigo and royal blue.
Another of the stylistic innovations for Carhartt was to switch up its classic wave-shaped logo from crimson and gold to blue and red.
Throughout, the designer focused on sleekening the cut and softening the texture of the fabrics he used. He transported the basic ethos of his AK brand, whose pieces were fashioned in Italy from the finest Italian-made fabrics, to Carhartt’s facilities in the United States.
“Honest value for an honest dollar”
These pieces mirrored the workwear themes that distinguished most of Kimmel’s collections under his own brand, but featured affordable price points starting from about $70.
He had always been impressed, Kimmel told an interviewer from Dazed Digital, with Carhartt’s “quality and durability.” The company’s thoughtfully designed extra touches, including reinforced riveting, disaster-resistant fabrics, and heavy-duty threads, extend the life and wearability of their heavy-rotation garments for years. A dozen years after his first Carhartt collection appeared, the elegantly sturdy pieces are holding their value on upscale resale clothing sites like TheRealReal.
In 1889, in Dearborn, Michigan, Hamilton Carhartt founded the company that now bears his name. His motto: “Honest value for an honest dollar.” He’d started out in furniture, but a conversation with a railroad engineer led Carhartt to realize there was a market for the kind of tough, durable work clothing that railway and other workers needed. From half a dozen staff and two sewing machines, Carhartt expanded his business thanks to the industrial build-out, in steam and steel, of a growing nation. He also dressed farmers and ranchers—anyone who needed sturdy, element-resistant pieces for working outdoors.
The very bearable lightness of being
In his second collaboration with Carhartt, Kimmel’s quirky humor—and that of his model, photographer Ari Marcopoulos—leapt off the page that recorded their “A Day in the Park” photo shoot.
Kimmel constructed these designs around the classic looks of park rangers and state troopers—two public service jobs for which he holds a lot of respect. After stopping by Kimmel’s office and putting on the iconic ranger hat he saw there, Marcopoulos became one in a long line of Kimmel friends and creative influences to serve as muse. The dark green flight coat Kimmel shaped from duck canvas fabric fit Marcopoulos with the designer’s trademark fine tailoring.
While he designed his initial Carhartt collection for Fall/Winter 2011, Kimmel was able to bring a more delicate touch to the second edition for Spring/Summer 2012. He lightened up the fabrics and gave the whole a more refined, elevated touch. To create the backdrop for the clothing, he brought in Paintallica, the “gutsy and tough” artists’ collective whose carvings adorned display windows at Barneys, among other venues. It’s that gutsy toughness that Kimmel wanted to define that season’s pieces.
Today’s Carhartt brand, still based outside of Detroit and still family-owned, continues to signify value, fitness for purpose, and style. And Adam Kimmel’s Carhartt collection—like each of his runway collections and artistic collaborations—continues to inspire passion in new fans, thanks to his precise eye for how to best infuse fashion into function.
Read the full article
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Monmouth caps and awesome hats
Those of you who know me in person or on facebook may know that last year, Mistress Elsa got me into the deep dark black hole wonderful world of knitting monmouth caps! I started this as a way to fidget when nervous and burn up some scrap yarn, but this has definitely spiralled out of control with 112 hats made and two (in different sizes) sitting on the needles. I've made a variety of colors, sizes, and patterns, including developing a pattern for the Ansteorran and Vindheim stars on the crown of the hat. I've found this ongoing project rewarding, especially since I started giving the completed hats to my baroness to distribute at her own leisure. There's something pretty magical about seeing your creations in the wild. I do not see this project ending anytime soon.
I have a small number of garb projects in time out for their sins and crimes (mostly, not working exactly the way i want them to right then and there). Foremost of these are my lined Rus Coat and the Neapolitan dress. The neapolitan dress is an experiment in creating a kirtle entirely from scraps of other projects, and the gores just happen to look an awful lot like neapolitan ice cream. the rus coat is in time out as the liner, mill ends of the fleecy liner carhartt uses in jackets, is not cooperating with the outside shell and i got frustrated by fitting issues. this will be picked up again when i feel more confident and less stressed about being warm.
My current ongoing project is creating an ottoman outfit from the ground up. I made a supportive gomlek which fits well and stress tested it at Pennsic. My next step is a zibin or entari, and I think i have just the right fabric picked out for each. I get excited about starting new periods bc I want all the pretty headwear, but have to restrict myself to only starting a new period when I've finished 1 full outfit for the one I was last working on. My pink and orange rus was finished in time for vindheim's 4th coronet tournament, so on to turkish!
the final project on my immediate docket is a new cotehardie and surcote to wear for the medieval fair of norman. For mental health and physical health reasons, I will be putting the fictional character of Margery Arkewright, greatest shepherdess in Avalon, on the shelf for a couple of years and will in the meantime join a court. I'm currently looking at Elizabeth de Burghersh, Baroness Despencer and as a result, need to make fancier garb. I've got the polysatin shell from some old blackout curtains I intend to line with a light linen and make my cotehardie, and some lovely bronze and black curtain material i'd like to make a surcote from. If I'm a little short on either material, I'm planning on doing a simple particolor between the two. Since we're trying to make more of a push for heraldic wear among the court of Edward III and his family, I looked into what arms might have been associated with her. She married into the Despencer family, whose arms are...something, alright
luckily, from what I can tell it looks like she inherited the barony of berghersh in her own right, and the associated arms are something I can work with
If everything works out, I'm considering a strip of red silk around the cuffs of the cotehardie with the lion embroidered at the wrist? If i have enough pretty red fabric (i may have a cheap velvet somewhere...) I may put a strip of velvet at the bottom of the surcote with the lions repeated around the hem. Just gotta fancy it up a little, ya know?
All that being said, that's my current WIPs, plans, and updates. I need to make some more garb for some locals so they're not fighting in denim and so they have more outfits to wear to different events.
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literally not joking at all, a few years ago I was shopping around for winter coats and thought, you know what, it gets so cold here I can't wear milsurp anymore, it's so unreliable, you get something you think is a winter coat and its a light jacket, I'm done. and so my options were ski coats and carhartt so I was looking online and thought "eh idk, $80 for a used carhartt jacket, a bit steep." if only I knew. and now everyone is wearing it. I wish I had gone for it back then I could claim accurately that I was OG or whatever. but I did it first in my mind. I swear to God it was only rednecks and crust fund kids who wore carhartt until like last year. I hope also that it falls out of fashion very soon so the prices go down again, trends come and go like nothing so I'm sure in a year old carhartt shit will be just that again. something only rednecks and crust funders wear. and I'll be able to afford it because I genuinely like the coats. I have like an off brand carhartt coat I wore all winter because it was cheap and pretty good quality. I don't really give a fuck and it could be my coat for the rest of my life but I love the blanket lined carhartt winter coats. those are seriously like the most beautiful thing ever.
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My snow pants arrived! With my flannel lined gloves, knit mittens, sorrel snow boots, silk longjohns, flannel lined tights, alpaca wool hat, and mohair socks, my winter gear set is nearly complete!
All I’m missing is good, heavy carhartt coat, which I should get for Christmas. I’m ready for this friggin’ blizzard.
(Honestly I should buy more mohair socks too. But I’m already infinitely more prepared than I was last year when I had to borrow snow clothes from my sister and mom.)
#fury's life#snow!#predictions for snowfall have been all over the place#minimum of 1 in. to a max of 8 inches#but there will be snow for Christmas#and it will be COLD
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