Tiredofthehumanlife

Tv Shows

The bear masterlist

Billy the kid masterlist

Bridgerton masterlist

Criminal minds masterlist

Stranger things Masterlist

Lockwood & Co masterlist

Ouat Masterlist

Outer Banks Masterlist

Percy Jackson masterlist

Supernatural masterlist

The umbrella academy masterlist

Movies

Bottoms masterlist

Harry Potter master list

Marauders masterlist

Kickass masterlist

The hunger games masterlist

Anime

Death Note Masterlist

Mha/bnha masterlist

Misc.

Back in college, you and Carmen never had enough cash to go out to eat. You usually couldn’t even pull a shitty dinner food. Waffle House was a treat. So on study nights, you figured out that gas station food wasn’t the worst thing ever. It was cheap enough too. Every single time you had to listen to Carmen complain about how it was disgraceful to food. But he still showed up. He still bought his own snacks. 

 You would pile into Carmen’s car. He’d drive you both to the gas station, with his music blasting. You would roll his windows down and wave your hand through the air. Then at the gas station you’d get your snacks, and force Carmen to carry them all. You would pour the slushies for the both of you. You liked to layer red, green, and blue together for yourself, bouncing between the three to make sure it was perfectly equal. And despite how hard you tried to make Carmen expand his tastes, he only liked the pina colada flavor. So you’d go to the counter with a rainbow slushie and a pale white one. Carmen would always make a sniff as he dumped his armful of snacks onto the counter. It would make you chuckle because his face was always burning so bright while you two would pull your cash together. 

 You’d carry your dinner out to the car. Instead of sitting in Carmen’s shitty car, with only one working air vent, you’d both settle on the curb. You’d watch all the cars go by, and eat your shitty dinner. When the sun was down, and the crickets were screaming at you both, that was when you both would properly talk to each other. It was easier to whisper secrets with a dyed tongue, according to you anyway. You enjoyed people watching with him. You’d pick out a person and decide to make up an entire backstory for them as they stepped into the gas station. When you started reaching the bottom of your slushie, you thought about telling Carmen about your feelings so many times. But you never did. Instead, you suck in a deep breath and stood up. You’d stick your hand out to help him up, and then you’d both go back to his dorm and study. 

 Carmen always took a picture of you on those nights. He didn’t always tell you; sometimes they were while you weren’t looking. Sometimes he’d flip the camera around and point it towards both your faces. He’d whisper a half-baked joke to you. It was never funny, but it made you both giggle. And he’d snap the picture then. Sometimes he’d take it while you were looking through the rack of chips, rubbing at your bottom lip in indecision. Sometimes it was when you were glaring over your shoulder at him as you poured his bland slushie. No matter what it was, he sent it to Mikey. 

 Carmen just thought he was showing him that he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t eating alone. He had someone to share dinner with, even though it was a shit dinner. Even though he had unrequited feelings squeezing at his heart. He just had to make sure Mikey knew he wasn’t suffering in college. Mikey always had a joke about it, mocking Carmen for not acting on his feelings sooner. Carmen absolutely never told his family that he had a crush on you. Though that word seemed juvenile for something so devastating. But the day you stopped him in his high school art class was the day your name started to slip past his mouth constantly. Every time you gave him any attention, he had to complain about it. You were just so irritating. 

 Mikey knew because despite Carmen’s hardest rejections, he didn’t stop talking about you. Clearly you were friends. Mikey could tell. You grinned too much in the photos. Even in your glares, you were grinning at him. But you weren’t looking at the camera; you were looking at Carmen. Mikey loved pissing Carmen off by telling him to man up and ask you out already. But after two years, Carmen stopped sending photos. Mikey thought it was because Carmen was pissed at him. When Carmen finally came around for another holiday, Mikey asked. And he felt his heart break for his baby brother when he said you transferred. Right person, wrong time. Mikey slapped Carmen on the shoulder and hummed. Which was a genuine sympathetic statement for both of them. 

 When you did transfer, you focused on your writing more. You didn’t have Carmen to talk to anymore. It made things difficult because you needed to write, but the one person whose breathing could press your pen to paper wasn’t around. So you started the tradition on your own. You’d get your own slushie, usually the pina colada one. You just wanted to pretend Carmen was with you for a little. You settled down on the steps of your university and you’d people-watch. You’d think of backstories for people who rushed past you for their dorms. And that was how you would brainstorm your stories. You thought of your novel’s plot on the stone steps. One night, a man who looked exactly like Carmen tried to walk past you. You stopped him. He paused on the steps, staring down at you. 

All you said was: “Can I get your number?” and in a few weeks you were dating Carmen’s lookalike. And his face made up for all the lacklusterness of his personality and skills.

So years later when the real Carmen asked you out, you couldn’t be happier to jump into his car. This one had working air vents; you appreciated that. Carmen was nervous, obscenely nervous. He kept huffing out air and rubbing his hands over the steering wheel. As he started to pull into the gas station parking lot, you startled up in your seat. 

“Carmen.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Carmen shrugged with one shoulder as he pulled into an empty parking spot. 

“I couldn’t think of anything good as a first date, so I thought we could take a few pages from our own book,” Carmen said. The car settled as he pulled his keys out. You didn’t bother waiting for him to finish unbuckling before you jumped out of your seat. You skidded around the side of the car, chuckling at the sound of Carmen’s door squealing open. You peered over the edge of the trunk, watching him climb out. He was grinning at you as he shoved his keys into his pockets. You jogged across the road, jumping up to the gas station door. Carmen chased after you, looking both ways. You looked over your shoulder. Carmen caught up to you, standing a step behind the door. You smiled as you yanked the door open. 

It had been a while since you had gotten a rainbow slushie. In fact, your ex had the understanding that your favorite was coconut with pineapple. You never confessed that it was really because you wished you had taken a chance to learn the taste of your college crush’s mouth. You felt a younger version of yourself absolutely giddy at the feeling of bouncing between the stations. And your first sip made your heart stutter. Your shoulders dropped in relaxation. It was like you had stepped into a time machine and you didn’t hate it. Carmen’s arms were full with snacks. Not a free hand in sight. You grabbed a second cup for him. You pointed to the pina colada. 

“Still bland?” You asked. Carmen snorted. 

“I’m horrifically bland.” He answered. Carmen didn’t bother telling you that on some nights, he would get sick to his stomach thinking about what he should’ve told you. He especially didn’t tell you that on those nights, his cigarette butts would be soaked in the last drops of his red, green, and blue slushy. You filled his cup to the top and stabbed a straw through the top hole. 

Carmen used his card to pay for it at the register. As much as you hated having to calculate all your pocket change in front of the exhausted worker, you partially missed it. It at least gave you another chance to make Carmen giggle. You liked being close enough to him that you almost knocked heads. Carmen muttered a thanks as he pulled the bag from the counter. You took both your slushies, falling in step with him as you moved towards the door. Carmen stuck his hand out in front of you. You pressed his slushy to his hand. Carmen hummed in appreciation. He turned to the side, pushing open the door with his back. He held it open for you as he wrapped his lips around the straw. You chuckled as you skipped past him. You couldn’t be more excited to sit on the ground. 

You settled down with much less grace than you used to. Six years apparently does more to your joints than you realized. Carmen sat down next to you. He lost his balance, his hand flying back to catch him. His palm dug into the dried-out grass. You giggled, pointing a finger at him. Carmen knew if he was still 19, his face would be burning hot. But he laughed with you instead, straightening himself up. 

“Time is an evil bastard.” He muttered, handing you the bag of snacks. You nodded. 

“Oh, he’s the worst.” You replied. It was shockingly easier to fall back into the pace you had with him before. It was different now; the knowledge that everything was requited changed the sighs you both let out. You could stare and not flick your eyes away when he turned his head. He lifted a finger from the side of his cup. 

“Old guy in the orange sweater.” He mumbled. You looked across the road to find him. He was hunched over, slowly making it to the glass door. His sweat was far too large for him. It reached his mid-thighs, and the shoulder seams slipped off to the middle of his arm. You hummed. 

“Louis.” You decided, looking back to Carmen. He nodded. 

“That’s his wife's sweater,” Carmen added. You mulled it over in your head. 

“He’s on retirement now. The money is running out though, and his rent is rising.” Carmen hummed at you. He pulled another sip of his slushy into his mouth. He swallowed as ‘Louis’ finally made it to the door. 

“He’s trying to find a job that will give him a little extra cash. No one wants to hire him; he doesn’t move fast enough for him to be helpful on the team.” Carmen tried. You frowned. You weren’t paying any attention to ‘Louis’ anymore. He was out of sight, probably getting powdered donuts and a Coke. 

“What makes it worse is: his wife died two weeks ago. He has to find enough money to get her buried. Her family cut her off years ago; they didn’t like who she married. Now he feels guilty because the people who could actually help him afford her funeral won’t because she married him.'

'He’s got a picture of her in his wallet, not of when she was young. It’s her when she was old, in a hospital bed. Other people would say she looks tired and drained. But he made her laugh before he took it, and he loves how carefree and beautiful she looks.'

'When he goes to pay for his peanuts, Coke, and powdered donuts, he’s going to pause and stare at her. The guy behind him in the line will be annoyed he has to wait an extra two minutes. But all Louis can think about is how 53 years wasn’t enough.” You stared at the glass door as you imagined the little old man moving about the store. You could see Louis and his wife’s life together clearly. You could see them smiling and laughing at their first dance as a married couple. You could see her getting sicker with each day. You could see Louis trying to make her laugh every morning and night. You could see him breaking down at the cash register. You could see it all even though the only view in the glass door was the chip aisle. 

Carmen sucked in a hiss. You turned your eyes to him, finding him grimacing. He gave you a weird look. 

“You’re sick and twisted,” Carmen muttered. You gasped in faux offense. You reached over and smacked him on the shoulder. 

“You started it sad! It’s not my fault.” You grumbled. Carmen rocked from your hit, a small smile pulling at his lips. He took another sip, pointing to your next victim. He was definitely in college. He had white wired earbuds trailing into his jean pocket. He pressed an orange vape to his lips before slipping into the gas station. 

“Oh, easy. He’s in college, obviously.” You scoffed. This was the easiest one yet. Carmen rolled his eyes. 

“And?” 

“Mm.” You thought for a minute. You could taste your old self. 19-year-old you would say, he loves video games and Snow Peak peach-flavored Boones. You would’ve said that just to get away from your reality of Carmen next to you. But you weren’t going to let that version of yourself win. You had wallowed so much you had never taken the chance. And because of that, you ended up with knockoff Carmen. 

“He’s in love with his classmate from high school. Head over heels. He just doesn't have the balls to say it.” You finally said. Carmen’s brows shot up. You turned your head and met his eyes. Carmen’s face slowly shifted into recognition. For a moment, he didn’t know who he was talking to. But the look in your eye was the same knowing look you had when people would compliment your writing. You already know, you just want to hear it.  

“Yeah? What else?” Carmen egged. You tilted your head to the side, really thinking. 

“They’ll move away. He won’t know where they went or if they’ll be back. He’s a little sad he missed his shot for a month or two. Then he forgets about it for six years. Until he runs into them again at a gas station and he has to get the words out now or he’ll never say them.” You whispered. You pulled at your slushy straw, stabbing through the different colors. You were silent for a moment.

All Carmen did was stare at the side of your face and wish he had been sitting next to you for those years. He wished he had watched you shift into who you are now. He wished he had said he wanted you before Mikey died. He might’ve held it together just a little better. You would’ve grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him into that church. But he didn’t. He held his tongue. Now he was staring at you, and somehow you were both a stranger and an old friend. He hoped you saw newer, better parts of him, not more broken bits. 

“No,” Carmen said. Your eyes jumped back to him. He had never declined one of your people-watching comments. Even when you started saying people were zombies or vampires. He always agreed with you and asked you more questions. Part of it was watching a stranger grow into someone he knew well because you both just kept adding on. Another part of it was watching your brain work and wishing he could hear what you thought of him.   “No?” You repeated. 

“No.” Carmen shook his head. “That’s not what happened.” He clarified. You didn’t respond. You only watched him.

“I’ve had a crush on you since high school. I thought once we graduated high school, I wouldn't see you again, and it would go away. College happened, and it got so much worse the more I knew you. You transferred, and I thought for sure it would slip away. I thought with time the punching and longing in my chest would finally go away. But for six years there were days where all I could think about was what I should’ve said and what we could’ve been.” Carmen lowered his voice, leaning closer into your space. 

“I didn’t forget about you.” He whispered. Your mouth twisted into a sad smile. Your eyes flickered away from him out of nerves. 19-year-old you would’ve grabbed his shoulder and shoved him away. You would’ve said ‘yeah, whatever.’ You let the moment hang. You let his words settle on your shoulder and slip past the skin of your chest. You looked back to him and nodded. 

“I didn’t forget you either.” You whispered back. Carmen smiled and nodded. 

“I hope not. You were dating my doppelganger. It’d be a real shame if you forgot the original.” He joked. You laughed and knew you couldn’t have a better first date. Especially when ‘Louis’ came back out and an old woman leaned her head out the window of her car. She asked him if he got her peanuts,  and cheered when he held them up. You turned your widened eyes to Carmen. 

“Zombie.” You muttered. 

Carmen was going to call you once he got off work tonight. He was thinking about how he needed to take you out again. Four times over the past two weeks was not enough. As a matter of fact, he was thinking about when it was appropriate to ask you to move in. He thought about which drawers he would need to clear out as he set plates, drizzling puree where he needed to. He was thinking about what color your pillowcase would be as he pinched a small sprig of mint onto a plate. He was thinking about the color of your toothbrush when Richie interrupted him. 

“Cousin! You won’t guess who’s out there.” Richie shouted. Carmen glanced up from the plate. Dear god. It could be his mother. Or his old teacher. Hell, it could be Mike’s fucking ghost. All of which were terrifying. Richie scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Fine, I’ll tell you. It’s your old fling from college!” Richie cheered, a wicked grin spreading across his face. Carmen furrowed his brows. Fling? Carmen never told Richie about anyone in college. He especially didn’t have any flings. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Carmen asked. Natalie joined Richie’s side. 

“Oh, you know, the gas station kid. You guys had like three classes together.” Natalie tried, tilting her head to the side. Richie nodded. 

“You sent us pictures of them all the time.” Richie dragged. Carmen felt his stomach drop. Those were for Mikey. He didn’t consider that he had been showing them around. 

“What do you mean, who is us? I sent those to Mikey only.” Carmen snapped, pulling his attention from the plate. Richie rolled his eyes like Carmen was being a complete idiot. 

“And Mikey showed them to us.” Carmen threw his hands up. 

“And who is us!”   “Well, he showed them to me, and Sugar,” Ritchie stated, pointing at her next to him. Carmen swallowed at the thought of Mikey showing you to his mom. That on its own was terrifying. It felt like two worlds that weren’t supposed to touch exploding. 

“Did he show Mom?” Carmen sputtered. Natalie’s face twisted into disgust immediately. 

“Oh hell no,” Natalie said. Carmen sighed, smacking his hands onto the counter and dropping his head down. Thank the fucking stars. He let out a deep sigh, pretending he didn’t just feel his heart drop out of his ass. He pulled himself back up, peering over the moving heads out the glass window. At first all he saw were strangers, then a bald head moved, and there you were. You sat in the back corner with two women at your table. You were laughing lightly at something and pulling your glass to your mouth. Would your toothbrush be green? What about purple? If it was blue, he’d have to get a new one because his was already blue. 

“Well, what the hell are you doing? Go rekindle your lost love, quit being a pussy.” Richie complained from across the kitchen. The bald head moved in his way. Carmen snapped to look at Richie. 

“Why are you calling me a pussy? What is your fucking problem?” Carmen glared. Richie deadpanned at him. 

“Get out there; your pitiful love life is upsetting me.” Richie stepped around the counter, grabbing Carmen by his shoulders. He started shoving Carmen backwards to the door. Carmen pressed his hands to the front of Richie’s suit. 

“Don’t talk about my love life! I can’t leave the kitchen, Richie!” Carmen yelled, trying to shove Richie back. Richie shook his head, still powering forward. 

“You have to. It’s happening.” Richie stated. Carmen shook his head. The swinging door smacked his back, making him jump. That was closer than he remembered. Carmen’s arms flew out, clawing at the walls. Richie nodded. 

“I can’t go out there!” Carmen complained. Richie pressed both his hands to the center of Carmen’s chest and shoved, hard. Carmen stumbled back into the quiet chatter of the restaurant. He straightened up, yanking at the bottom of his buttoned shirt. Oh, he’s fucked. 

Eyes started to lift as he stood there for longer. He felt his body freeze. They were definitely jumping from their seats and starting to stab him with their forks. Richie slapped a hand on his shoulder. Carmen jumped. 

“Do I have to flirt with them for you too, or can you handle that on your own?” Richie grumbled under his breath. Carmen scoffed, smacking Richie’s hands off him. Carmen turned in the direction of your table, already hating that he was doing this. What if you didn’t want your friends to know about him yet? This had to be embarrassing for you. He had a smear of orange sauce on his sleeve. He was going to get mocked. Oh, you were going to give him that little knowing giggle that called him stupid, stupid little Carmy. He lifted his eyes from the floor, finding yours already on him. He felt his feet get caught in invisible tar. You grinned at him, tilting your head to the side. Carmen finally made it to the edge of the table. You looked up at him, raising a brow. 

He wanted to tell you something special. Something so gentle and witty it left you silent for a second. You pushed your head forward, getting impatient. He couldn’t pull his eyes from yours. He could remember the first day you pointed them directly at him and actually looked. He would have December 14th tattooed into the back of his eyelids forever. 

A quiet cough from the right pulled his attention from you. He looked between the two unfamiliar faces staring at him in confusion. He wasn’t just at your table; he was staring at your friends too. 

“Hey.” He breathed out, awkwardness dragging down the casualness. He felt his insides cringe. He hoped an airplane came crashing right through the ceiling and killed him. 

“Hello.” The two women chimed in. You cleared your throat. 

“Uh, Carmen, this is my publisher and my editor.” You explained, pointing to each one. Your publisher gave him a half grin. Your editor raised a hand, greeting him. You looked back to him. 

“I just finished all the paperwork to get my book published. It will be on shelves in about four months. So they wanted to treat me to dinner; they picked out the spot. I tried to tell our waiter we didn’t need to meet the chef, but he was adamant.” You said. You were giving him a guilty look like you tracked mud into his home. 

“Yeah, Richie. He’s a pusher. It’s good but-” He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Richie. He was watching Carmen from the window, a grin pulling across his mouth. Richie held a hand up, pointing a thumbs up at him. Carmen looked back at you. 

“Pushy.” He finished. You chuckled. 

“Well, yeah. But uh, he knew my name. Have you been telling people about me?” You asked, a small grin pulling at your lips. Carmen hung his head, feeling anxious about- well, everything. 

“No, uh. I used to send pictures of us to Mikey. Just as a- a- whatever. Apparently Mikey has- had shown them all to my family. I didn’t know that.” Camren mumbled. He swears every word he’s ever known slipped away from him. He can’t remember a single thing he learned in college. He briefly thinks that he should’ve learned to kiss you in college. The English language would’ve been nice too because he was making a fool of himself right now. 

“Oh.” You whispered. Carmen felt like he had just face-planted right in front of you. He brought up the least flirty thing ever, his dead brother. For fucks sake, could he kill the mood.

“You sent pictures of us to Mikey?” You asked, drawing his attention from the floor. Carmen nodded. 

“Yeah, he would tell me to-uh-” He glanced to your publisher and editor watching him in fascination. This was some juicy drama. 

“He’d tell me to just-you know- be a zombie,” Carmen mumbled, feeling a deep sigh pull at his chest. Jesus, he was fumbling. You snorted. 

“Like your Uncle Louis.” You added. Carmen felt a wide grin spread across his face. He nodded. You were so smart. He really just wanted to know how every cog in your brain worked. 

“That’s sweet, Carmen.” You smiled, pulling your glass to your lips again. Carmen didn’t think it was sweet. It was probably more creepy. Or he thought so; maybe you were crazy. 

“Food is good too.” You added. You were sane. Definitely sane. At least your taste buds were. He had plenty of people tell him his food was good, but this made his face burn. He snorted, nodding at the floor. 

“Thank you.” He replied quietly. He should’ve cooked for you in college. You’d never end up with knock-off Carmen. 

“Oh, it's delicious.” Your publisher added. He was reminded they were there. 

“I loved the purple thing.” Your editor muttered. Carmen smiled politely at both of them. He turned back to you. 

“I have to go.” He whispered. You grinned. 

“Go.” You approved. Carmen didn’t waste time standing there, turning back towards the kitchen. He got two steps away before your publisher spoke to you. 

“You know him?” She whispered, trying to keep the conversation away from his ears. 

“Oh yeah. We go way back.” You answered. Carmen turned his head back, glancing at you one last time. You didn’t catch it, your eyes on your glass, but he still felt a surge of pride.

When he reached the kitchen again, Richie smacked his hands on his shoulders. Richie rocked him back and forth. 

“When’s the date?” Richie asked. Carmen smacked him away. 

“There is no date. I just said Hi. Mind your own business.” Carmen muttered, moving back to his station. Richie scoffed. 

“That was not Hi. That was way longer than Hi,” Richie countered. Carmen shook his head. 

“We-uh-” Carmen paused, thinking back to the way you grinned at him. He wanted to go back out there and press his lips to yours. Even after four dates, you hadn’t given him that. But he didn’t blame you. He waited years and years for it; a few more weeks would be okay. And he thought about how you handled Mikey. People usually said sorry, which made his eye twitch. Then he had to say no, no, don’t apologize. He thought of how you knew the words he wasn’t saying. He thought of how you didn’t force him into the awkward back and forth of goodbye. You just told him to leave. 

“We talked about zombies.” Carmen finished. Richie paused, glancing around at the curious eyes staring at him. 

“Zombies?” Tina repeated. Carmen nodded. He could hear the gas station lights buzzing over his head. He could feel your hand brushing against his arm as you piled another chip bag into his hands. He could smell the slushy on your breath. 

“Do we not have jobs? Fucking hell!” Carmen declared, turning his focus back onto his work. He called you after his shift to congratulate you on your publishing.

A week later, he was too busy to squeeze another date in. He called you before bed every day that entire week. But today was killing him. Everything was ruined. Everyone was pissed. The whole fucking thing was falling to bits. And despite how awful it was, your message made him huff a pathetic laugh. He sent a short response about how awful it was in the restaurant and made a promise to call you tomorrow. He was going to crash right into his bed tonight and not move until the morning. When every dish was sitting in the sink, and his apron was stained to hell and back, he finally let out a sigh. He needed a smoke. 

He was pulling a cigarette from its box by the time he pushed the back door open. Carmen dipped his head down, pressing the paper between his lips. The flame of his lighter burned the end. Carmen shoved the box back into his pocket and finally lifted his eyes from the ground. 

You were sitting on the end of one of the picnic tables, kicking your feet back and forth. You had a slushy in one of your hands, sipping on the straw. Next to you was another one. Carmen felt his chest seize. You raised a hand, giving him a small wave. Carmen turned, putting his cigarette out on the brick wall. He dropped the unsmoked thing to the ground, making quick work to get to you. You held up the other slushy, wiggling it at him. 

“What are you doing here?” Carmen breathed. You wiggled the slushy harder. Carmen took it from you. 

“You said you had a shit day. I wanted to make it better.” You said. Carmen pulled the straw to his mouth, grinning at the coconut and pineapple. You set your drink down. You kicked a leg out past his side. You curved it behind his knee, tugging him closer by your heel. Carmen glared at you as he stepped forward, his hips hitting your knees. 

“With shitty gas station slushies?” He mocked, raising a brow at you. You sat up straight. You looked at him with offense. 

“Uh no. I also brought you this.” You snarked. You raised your arm, slipping your hand behind his head. Carmen’s grin fell. He pulled his slushy closer to his chest. He made sure you had a clear path to him. You leaned forward. Your nose bumped against his cheek before you brushed your lips against his. He could hear his heart hammering in his ears. You started to pull back, your breath leaving his face. Carmen peeled his eyes open. He felt lightheaded. You leaned away from him, your hand dropping from his neck. Carmen sighed. 

For fucks sake. He wanted it so long. He thought about all the ways you could share your kiss, and it was earth-shattering. He thought of how you would taste, and sound, and smell. He thought it was unattainable, and then you actually went out with him. And that’s the kiss you give him? A whisper of your skin against his? 

Carmen set his drink next to yours, freeing his hands. His tongue darted out between his lips like he was worried he still had the taste of smoke on his mouth. 

“No,” Carmen said. Your shoulders dropped, your cheesy grin falling away. Carmen reached out, gently holding onto the back of your neck. 

“Try again.” He whispered. Your face twisted into a much softer look. Carmen tipped forward. He pulled you into him, firmly pressing your lips to his. You slotted them together this time, finally giving the kiss he wanted for years. You pulled your arms up, crossing them over his shoulders. Carmen hummed into your mouth. You moved in sync, your dreams pulling you in the direction you needed. You pressed your forehead to his and tore apart your kiss. You panted against his mouth, keeping your eyes closed in bliss. Carmen’s hands found your knees, pulling them apart. He stepped closer to you, digging his hands into your back. He pressed your hammering heart to his chest. Carmen tilted his head, brushing against your lips. More, please. 

You dropped your mouth back to his, licking at his bottom lip. Carmen groaned, parting his mouth. You pressed your tongue to his. Carmen licked into your mouth, tasting the colors on your tongue he had been dreaming about forever. You dug your fingers into his hair. A bursting feeling of joy bubbled in your chest. You liked the taste of slushy much more when it was coming from his mouth. 

“Hey! Cousin?” A loud voice yelled from behind Carmen. You pulled apart, making Carmen groan. His hands moved to cup your face, shielding you from the onlooker. You giggled in the darkness, rubbing your lips together to memorize the feeling of his spit. 

“What!” Carmen shouted. 

“Who is that? Who are you macking on?” Richie yelled. Carmen scoffed at him, glancing back at you to make sure your face was still covered. 

“Macking? What are you, 98 years old?” Carmen hissed. Richie smacked his lips. 

“Are you a dickhead?” 

“Don’t you have a job, Richie?” Carmen snapped back. Richie let out a loud, annoyed groan and leaned backwards, screaming to the sky. Richie stood back up, flipping Carmen off before stepping back into the restaurant. Carmen turned back to you, slipping his hands away from your face. 

“What were we talking about?” Carmen whispered. You pulled at the bottom hem of his shirt, playing with the material. 

“I used to get your flavor when I missed you. I would sit on the steps of my university, and people watch. That’s how I got my ideas for my writing, especially after you were gone. The first few weeks I couldn’t write anything, and I was worried I never would. Like if you weren’t there, I wouldn’t have anyone to inspire me.” You confessed, pulling your eyes from his shirt. Carmen cradled the side of your head with his hand. He would forever be fascinated by how you could take strangers and write a full story from them. 

“I used to get yours,” Carmen muttered. You gasped loudly, your hands jumping to his sides. 

“You expanded your tastes?” You squealed. Carmen chuckled. 

“Yes, It’s awful. That thing is disgusting,” Carmen lied. You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“You liked it.” You muttered. Carmen frowned and shook his head. 

“Yes, you did.” You pressed him closer by his sides. 

“Awful,” Carmen complained. 

“Come on. Fess up.” You demanded, your hand slipping under the edge of his t-shirt. You pressed your palms against his bare skin, splaying over his stomach. 

“It was alright,” Carmen mumbled. You cheered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips again. 

You were finally introduced to Carmen’s family at Tiffany’s wedding. Which Carmen said was the best option because the attention would be elsewhere so your relationship could slip in easily. You were months in by then, and you were getting ready to move in together. You could tell because Carmen’s clothes were disappearing from half of his dresser drawers. He wasn’t as sneaky as he thought he was. Tiffany said it was fine for him to bring a plus one. 

Richie was the most excited. He started forcing people to cough up cash. He knew it was coming for a while, apparently. He got fifty dollars altogether, and he wouldn’t stop waving the money in Carmen’s face. Natalie gave you a hug that made you feel like you had been a part of the family for years. The Faks tried to get you to send them money for a 'very smart' crypto company. But you spent a good portion of the night swaying with Carmen on the dance floor. Richie pulled Carmen away from you at the beverage table, throwing his arm over his shoulders. 

You didn’t catch a word of it. When you tried to step closer, Richie waved you back. Carmen finally rejoined your side. 

“He said Mikey would be proud that I finally did something about it,” Carmen whispered as he brought his drink to his mouth. Your eyes widened. 

“You think so?” Carmen nodded. 

“He would’ve liked you. He liked what I told him. Which was everything.” Carmen answered. You pulled a cheese cube into your mouth. 

“I’m glad.” Carmen sighed through his nose. You were easy to breathe around. 

“What picture of me are you putting in your wallet?” You asked, handing him a strawberry. Carmen sank his teeth into the red flesh, chewing before answering. 

“Probably one of you in a hospital bed.” He replied. You grinned at him. Carmen took another bite as he fought down a smile. 

You moved into his apartment a few weeks after. You slipped into a routine very easily. You had finally let Carmen into your journal. He was reading every stupid line you wrote about him. You pressed the start button on the dishwasher, heading back into your shared bedroom. Carmen had a leg stretched out across his bed, the other bent up close to his chest. He had your worn journal pressed to his thigh, swirling the ribbon around his fingers. His eyes glanced up over the edge when you walked in. He looked back down at the page. 

“Your fingers slip past my teeth, stilling my tongue like a statue.” Carmen drawled out. He dramatized his voice, shaking his head around. You groaned, climbing onto the bed next to him. You rested your head against his shoulder, staring at your scrawling handwriting. 

“You don’t need to read it out loud.” You complained. Carmen scoffed. 

“Why would I not read out Shakespeare’s competition? Listen to this: Drip your spit into my mouth, up there, oh god, you look so Lordly. That’s just a fantasy I have of me and you.” He pulled his eyes from the journal, pressing a hand to his chest. 

“It’s just so touching. You were obsessed.” Carmen whispered, turning the page. You groaned, yanking the journal from his hands. You slammed it shut, hiding it behind your back. 

“Hey! I’m reading that.” Carmen scolded, trying to reach around you. 

“No more reading, focus on me.” You said, pressing your lips to his. Carmen shook his head, still pawing for the journal. 

“Uh, uh.” You murmured, pulling him into a kiss. Carmen lost his desire for your journal as your tongue prodded past his lips. He pressed his hands into your back, pulling you closer. You flung your arms over his neck. Carmen twisted to press you into the mattress, climbing over you. You pulled your arm back, flinging your journal across the room. Carmen pulled from your kiss, yanking at the hem of his shirt.   You woke up to the moon swirling through the curtains. Carmen’s arm was tossed over your waist, his breath puffing against the back of your neck. You turned under the blankets, tugging them back over your shoulder. You threw your arm over Carmen’s shoulder, hooking your elbow on his side. Carmen huffed in his sleep, digging his fingers into your back. You scooted closer to him, pressing your chest to his. Journal be damned, he made fantasies feel better than you could’ve imagined. The original Carmen was so much better than the knockoff. 

You were actually incredibly patient. You didn’t appreciate the rumor your boyfriend was floating around in your private texts. You could (and have) waited hours for your boyfriend to return home. Usually, a good movie and some popcorn could distract you from his absence. But today was different. Actually, the past three days had been different.

Your skin warmed when there was nothing to cause it. Your body grew tense. You felt like your legs were never stretched out all the way. You felt like your neck was tilted in the wrong direction. No position could make your body relax. You felt like a wave of heat was radiating between your legs. You were plenty capable of handling it yourself. But Tim was oh so much more fun. 

 The only issue was the waiting. You had to wait for him to come home. Then he’d probably want a shower to 'wash crime off' of him. And then he’d probably want to get into his silk pajamas. And then he’d finally join you in bed. You’d have more luck giving a fucking mouse a cookie. You’d been rolling around in the blankets of your bed for the past hour. No position made anything less tense, but at least they were entertaining for a few minutes. 

 The scrape of keys against your door made you gasp. You rolled onto your side. You lounged across the end of the bed, watching the foyer through the bedroom door frame. Tim dipped through the door, his eyes on the floor. He toed his sneakers off, reaching behind himself to lock the door. He dropped his keys into the bowl. He set his large duffle bag by the door, stepping over it to get to the bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 “Hey, babe.” You ignored him as you dug your eyes into his arms. Your mouth parted as he reached up, scratching at the collar of his shirt. The edge revealed one of the hickies you left him, the bruise fading out into his skin. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. It had to be hotter in here than earlier. 

 “Guess what I nicked from the Bat?” Tim chuckled, digging into his pocket. Your eyes dropped to his hand, staring dead center at his crotch. Tim pulled a Batarang from his pocket, holding it by his chest. You followed his fingers as he twirled it around. 

 “Batarang. Pretty sick, huh? Took it straight off his belt; he didn’t even notice.” Tim bragged, setting the metal on your dresser. 

 “Uh huh.” You murmured. Tim hummed in agreement, turning to the dresser. His back was pointed to you. He bent over, tugging open his drawer. Your eyes widened at his ass pointed straight towards you. Tim straightened up, bumping the dresser closed with his leg. He was holding his pajamas. 

 “Okay, I’ve got to get crime off me before I go to bed.” Tim declared, stepping towards the door. Your hands shot out, digging your fingers into the fabric of his sweatpants. 

 “Tim.” 

 “What?” Tim’s eyebrows furrowed at you. You lifted your eyes, pleading with him silently to join you in bed. Tim’s shoulders dropped in understanding. 

 “You cannot be serious-” Tim hissed. You jumped into action, clawing at his hips and dragging yourself closer to the edge of the bed. 

 “Please, Tim. Please. I missed you so much.” You complained, pressing your cheek into his stomach. Tim scoffed at you, his hands digging into your shoulders. 

 “You’re ridiculous!” Tim blurted. He leaned down, keeping you balanced with his hands. He met your eyes. You puffed your bottom lip out. Please work, please work. 

 “This is ridiculous, baby. You have to see that.” Tim whispered. You tipped forward, pressing your lips to his. Tim hummed. He dug his fingers into your cheek, pulling you closer. You tilted your head back just barely. You opened your mouth, running your tongue over his bottom lip. Tim pulled away from you. You held onto his arm, keeping him next to you. Tim turned himself, settling down on the edge of the bed. 

 “This is the fourth time this week and it's Wednesday,” Tim grumbled. His thumb started swiping back and forth under your eye. You scoffed. You pulled away from him, sitting up straight. Tim frowned. He leaned backwards, twisting himself to keep his eyes on you. 

 “Listen, if you don’t want to, that's fine. I can handle it myself. I have hands.” You stated, your tone hardening with all the seriousness you could muster. Tim shook his head, a grin pulling at his lips. He slipped his knees onto the bed, crawling closer to you. He pressed his hand behind your back, tugging you against him. Your body went slack. Your back curved into him, a sigh passing between your lips. Tim dropped his head down. His lips gently brushed against your neck. Your hips lifted and knocked into his. 

 “I didn’t say I didn’t want you,” Tim mumbled against your skin. You dropped your head back, closing your eyes in bliss. Having such a hot boyfriend really comes in handy sometimes. Tim dragged a hand down the front of your pajama shirt, easily popping the buttons. Tim tilted his head and pressed his nose to your neck. 

 “I’m just worried about your sexual health. I can’t imagine being this needy and impatient-” Tim started. You startled, snapping your head up. 

 “I am not impatient.” You scoffed. 

 “Yes, you are. You didn’t even let me finish my sentence.” Tim complained. You frowned. Tim waited for you to interrupt him again. You glared at him with your lips pressed together. Tim tilted his head, the appropriate time for you to speak passing. Tim finally took your silence as a sign and opened his mouth. 

 “I’m just worried-” 

 “You’re an ass.” You interrupted. Tim sighed, giving you a knowing look. You shrugged. Tim raised a brow. 

 “Are you done now?” Tim asked. 

 “Are you done now?” You pitched your voice to mock him. Tim stayed silent, giving you a dead look. You stared at his shirt, picking at the stray hair on his shoulder. 

 “I’m done now.” You stated. Tim hummed in approval.    “I’m just not sure this is healthy,” Tim grumbled. He dropped his head down and pecked your lips. He tried to soften the blow of his words. You rolled your eyes. 

 “First of all, it’s perfectly fine to have a high libido, you dick. Secondly, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you are disgustingly…” Your eyes dipped down to Tim’s muscles stretching the material of his shirt. You sighed through your nose, peeling your eyes back toward his face. Tim was giving you a knowing look, a cocky grin eating at his teeth. 

 “Stupid.” You finished. Tim glared at you.

“So, it’s really not my fault. It’s more your fault.” You jabbed your finger to Tim’s chest. Your attention dropped to it. You had somehow forgotten the extent of Tim’s rippling muscles in the time he pulled on a shirt this morning and right now. You pressed your palm to his chest, petting his shirt down. You could feel his muscles raising and lowering with each breath. His chest jerked as he flexed. Your hand bounced away from him, the memory that he was real and alive startling you out of your daydream. Tim snickered at your reaction. You snapped a glare up to his face. 

 “You’re a total asshole, Tim. I don’t like you anymore. You should go take your shower.” You crossed your arms over your half-unbuttoned shirt. You turned your nose up at Tim. Tim groaned. He tipped forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

 “Come on. I’m just being silly with you. You don’t need to be embarrassed.” Tim whispered to your warming cheek. You shook your head.

 “Nope. You don’t like me anymore. You think I’m disgusting. You think I should move out because I’m so gross.” You scoffed, shaking your head in disappointment at him. Tim scoffed, pulling his mouth off your face. 

 “I do not.” 

 “Exactly, you do not like me. You think I’m awful. You think I’m worse than Joker. You think I’m so ugly. You can’t even think about touching me.” You complained, dropping your head back on the bed. Tim glared down at you. Tim’s hands dipped to your shirt, pulling it out from under your crossed arms. 

 “I think about touching you all the time.” Tim countered, pushing one of your buttons through your shirt. You glanced down at his hands. You hummed and turned your nose up at him again. 

 “You think I’m the ugliest monster ever.” You muttered. Tim pushed another button out, getting closer and closer to the bottom. 

 “I think you’re the most stunning, funny, and smart person I know. Aside from myself.” Tim whispered. He lowered his head, pressing a soft kiss to the column of skin he was slowly revealing with your shirt. 

 “You think me needing you is so disgusting I need to contact my doctor.” You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. Tim didn’t pick up his head. His hands found the second-to-last button. He trailed his mouth down, kissing the space above it. 

 “I want you to be as healthy as possible so you can always feel good,” Tim argued. He pushed the button through. He poked his tongue out, drawing a wet line down to your last button. 

 “You don’t even like me anymore.” You whispered. You didn’t care at all what words were coming out of your mouth. All you could focus on was Tim’s tongue on your body. 

 “I love you so much I can’t go a minute without thinking about you. I’m always dreaming about you.” Tim found your last button. He kissed at the space under your belly button. He lifted his head. He looked at your face as he pushed your shirt off your shoulders. You closed your eyes at the cold of the room hitting your chest. You pulled yourself from the mattress, meeting his lips. Tim pressed his tongue past your lips. His hands pulled at the back of your shirt, slipping it off your arms. You hummed in approval. You dropped your head down, breaking your kiss. Tim huffed for air as you brought your mouth to his neck. 

 “Not mad at me anymore?” Tim asked. You could hear his cocky grin even as you pulled away from the hickey you were refreshing. 

 “Would you just shut your mouth and get to fucking me?” You grumbled. Tim nodded, pulling your leg from the sheets. He dug his fingers into the band of your pajama pants. 

 “I think I can manage that.” 

The first thing you felt was small lines pressing into your scalp. Your brows furrowed. You dug your arms under your pillow, burying your face further into it. You inhaled deeply. The flowery perfume of roses yanked you from your sleep. You couldn’t place your finger on it, but you swore every other morning you’d smelled something else. You peeled your eyes open, staring ahead of you. 

 A pale pink carpet stared at you. It was so bright but equally muted at the same time. You couldn’t quite place if it was more pink or purple. You lifted your eyes, finding the wall covered in a floral wallpaper. Small pink roses were tilting this way and that. On your nightstand was a circular clock, also pink. A large rectangle was cut into the wall, opening into a small closet. It was packed full with tea-length dresses, all different shades of pink. You slowly raised your head, glancing around the room. 

 It was odd. The colors seemed to pull both familiarity and…where the hell am I? 

 You twisted in the bed, sitting up in the pink sheets. The bed was made on one half, not yours. The top cover was a fluffy comforter with even more flowers. There were two dressers across from the bed, both made of polished wood. One had cologne and a dark blue dish. The other was covered in perfumes and makeup and a large pink shoe box. A large standing mirror was next to the pink dresser, pointed towards your nightstand. You couldn’t see anything out of it. There was a window on the other side of the bed, the floral curtains still pressed together tightly.    You yanked at the covers, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You looked down at the carpet to find two light pink slippers waiting for you. You stepped over them, fumbling out of bed. You stood up straight, kicking at the slippers. They slid against the carpet and retreated under the bed. You looked up, freezing at the sight of you in the mirror. You were dressed in a pink nightgown, the fabric dropping to your ankles. Your hair was curled into rollers and wrapped with a pink silk scarf. You gasped, clapping your hands to your face. Never in a million years- a bright flash of light caught on your left hand. You yanked it from your face, staring down at it. A giant diamond was perched on top of your ring finger. You grimaced, yanking at it. It took some twisting, but you were able to pull it off. You dropped the gold band onto your nightstand. 

 You rushed to the edge of the bedroom. You grabbed onto the curtains. They flew open, revealing the side of a bright pink house. A white picket fence separated you. You backed up, fumbling over the edge of the bed. You scrambled over the top of the covers. You dropped yourself off the bed, heading straight for the bedroom door. There was something wrong. This is all very different. These surroundings were not the usual for you. You were missing a certain smell and a certain look. You wrenched open the bedroom door. You stood frozen in the doorway when you were met with more pink wallpaper. This was a different pattern, no flowers, only stripes. 

 You edged forward, looking both directions. The right led to one door at the end of the hallway. It was wide open, showing a bright pink bathroom with shining tiles. Even the toilet was pink. 

 “What the fuck.” You jumped at the voice, looking around for the perky wife it came from. You froze when you found yourself alone. You pressed a hand to your mouth. 

 “Is that-” Your stomach dropped when your lips moved with the bright voice. You did not sound like that. You especially did not sound like that right out of bed. Or, you thought you didn’t. It sounded like you took daily walking-on-sunshine pills. Like if you threw up whole cupcakes and rainbows would come out. You turned your head to the right. There were two more doors lined up next to yours, and then the hallway spit out into an open room. 

 You didn’t bother with the other doors; you just needed the exit. You surged forward, rushing against the pink carpet. You gripped onto the corner edge of the hallway, staring at the pristine furniture. Pink couches and a pink box sitting on a small pink table. You grimaced at it, tilting your head to stare at the odd little thing. What on earth? 

 It was very small. It was more in the shape of a square than a rectangle. The front of it was a dark shade of gray, shining in the light.    Fucks sake, is that a TV? Why does it look so small and rounded? You yanked your attention from it, finding an arched doorway on one of the pink walls. It opened into a warm orange light. The arch framed the shoulders of a man. He was sitting in a wooden chair, the edge of a newspaper peeking over his shoulders. You could only see him through the door. The floor under him was a dusty pink tile. A white button-up was stretched over his shoulders. He turned his head to the side as he flipped the page of his newspaper. You straightened up at the sight of his side profile. He turned his head again, pointing the back of it to you again. 

 “Dean?” You mumbled, stepping a bare foot onto the plush carpet. He turned his head, meeting your eyes. Dean raised a brow at you as you slowly advanced towards him. 

 “Where have you been?” He asked. His tone was harsh. You pulled back. That felt out of the norm too. You felt the image of Dean’s shoulders hunched over and covered in a brown jacket pull behind your eyes. You could see him turning his head and a grin the size of Saturn passing over his face. You squinted as his face was washed over with a bright shine of sunlight. 

 “Bed.” You answered. Dean glared at you, turning back to his newspaper. 

 “Well, I guess we’re getting a late breakfast today.” He grumbled. You stepped through the doorway. You froze at the sight of children sitting at the table. One was a little boy who didn’t look much older than five. He was twirling a fork around his fingers. The other was a small girl who looked about three, smacking her hands against the table top. You rounded to the other side of the kitchen table, staring at the three pairs of green eyes. 

 “Who’s fucking kids are these?” You asked, pointing your finger at them. Dean sucked in a breath, snapping his eyes up at you.

 “A good wife would not curse in front of her children,” Dean stated, anger flaring in his nostrils. You swallowed hard. You traced over every inch of Dean’s face. You felt your stomach settle at the look of him. You felt your brain swirling, but your stomach cooing at you. It was like your brain was telling you to run, but clearly this was a man you trusted deeply. You brought your hands to your face, rubbing at your eyes. 

 “Sorry, Dean. I don’t know, I’m just really groggy today. I must’ve taken something last night; I don’t know.” You confessed, feeling like you were losing your mind. Everything felt unfamiliar. Everything smelled weird. There was a hint of bleach and roses in every room; it was driving you crazy. Dean clicked his tongue. 

 “Where’s your ring? Don’t tell me you lost it again.” Dean asked. You dropped your hands from your face, staring at your finger. You rubbed at the spot. It felt like your skin needed to be soothed from missing the gold. 

 “No, it-” You paused as you tried to think of a winning lie. You let out a little giggle, holding it up to your face. “It kept getting caught in my hair when I was doing my curlers last night. I’ll put it back on once I’m done with breakfast.” Dean’s face split into a smile, a small chuckle slipping out again. You sighed, tilting your head to the side. You turned back to the unfamiliar kitchen.

  You started with the sink, turning on the pink faucet. You dipped your hands under the water, pumping soap into the palm of your hand. You sighed. A small part of you was leading you through this kitchen. Your body knew where things were. You must’ve had some crazy dream last night; you were still stuck in it. You were at home and safe. You glanced over your shoulder at your family. Recognition finally pulled at you. Johnny and Mary, after Dean’s loving parents.

It was such a tragedy when they died in a car crash. Leaving 17-year-old Dean to take care of 13-year-old Sammy. You grinned. Gosh, what was wrong with you? You loved your babies. Johnny was in soccer, and he was doing well. You were teaching Mary to sew so she can- I should teach her to hold a gun. She needs to protect herself from what’s out there. You scoffed at yourself, rolling your eyes. 

 There’s nothing out there. Except maybe Russian spies. You giggled to yourself. You were so silly. You turned back to the sink. Your stomach dropped. You felt ice running through your heart at the sight of watered-down blood coating your hands. You ducked them back under the water, scrubbing roughly at it. The red was swirling around the pink drain.

You blinked and it was gone again. You twisted your hands in different directions, checking each inch of your skin. You let out a gasping sigh, drying your hands off on the pink towel hung under the cabinet. You turned off the water. You felt yourself slinking back behind your skin, letting your body move on its own. You thought back to the blood. Maybe you were starting to see things. 

 You dipped your head into the fridge, pulling out the carton of eggs. You didn’t think about the fragile shells as you smacked them against the edge of the counter. You were losing it. Did you have a fever? You dropped the sloppy eggs into a pink bowl, pressing the back of your free hand to your forehead. No. You shook it off, taking a deep sigh. You looked to Dean; his eyes were still on the newspaper. You felt a memory of him laughing at something you said, but his face was covered in dirt. You furrowed your brows. You stared at the eggs as you whisked a fork through them. Why would a financial advisor be covered in dirt? 

You went to a picnic, and you guys rolled around, you guess. You dripped the eggs into the pan, sizzling on the stove.  Dean hummed from the table.   “Eisenhower says he will seek a second term.” Dean quoted from the paper. You glanced up. What did he look like? Why couldn’t you remember the president’s face? 

“Oh.” You replied. You pitched your voice up, like a mother coddling a child who showed them a pasta frame. Dean hummed again, the sound of the newspaper turning following it. 

“So glad he’s going for another one. I’m not sure I could handle someone who wasn’t as smart as him in the chair.” Dean praised, reaching forward to sip from his coffee. 

“Smart?” You whispered to the pan. You felt your shoulders stiffen at the sound of Dean humming in question. 

“I didn’t realize you liked the president so much.” You mumbled. Dean scoffed at you. 

“Like? I love him. He’s finally fixing our country.” Dean raised his voice like he was cheering at a concert. You let out a small giggle. Right. You felt breath brush your ear. You stared at the pan as the eggs sizzled. 

"Fuck those stupid fucking fat cats in the Oval. All those assholes are lining their pockets. They don’t care about The People. They are the exact opposite of what America stands for. Every politician is a liar." You bristle at the sound of Dean whispering to your ear. You closed your eyes, letting his voice wash over you. You could smell copper and gunpowder. You felt Dean’s hand holding the back of your head. 

"There’s a reason why they say charming liars would make good politicians. It’s all a facade. They want oil. They invade countries just for the cash. But they’ll be damned before they fight their own battles. They’re all immature toddlers in a sandbox. Who ends up paying for their tantrums?" Dean whispered. You felt your head turn to him. 

“The dead children in military costumes.” You replied. Dean nodded and grinned at you. His hand left your head, patting your cheek as he left. You turned your head from him, catching sight of a bed covered in dusty brown sheets. It reminded you of the- “What?” Dean asked. Your eyes snapped open, finally catching the smell of burnt eggs. You gasped, yanking them from the oven. You dropped them onto a glass plate, grimacing at the brown color. 

“I said-um-” Dead children in military costumes. What did that have to do with the smell of blood and gunpowder? A brown bed. Dean looked different. 

“It smells weird here.” You mumbled. 

“Well, it smells like that because you burnt the eggs,” Dean grumbled. You shook your head. 

“No. I don't-” You lifted the armband of your nightgown, tilting your head down. Roses. 

“I don’t smell like this.” You declared, taking a step back from the oven. Dean set his paper down, raising a brow at you. 

“Then put on perfume,” Dean said. 

“What’s our anniversary?” You asked, glancing around the kitchen. Dean sucked his teeth. 

“We’ve talked about you trying to do these weird tests on me,” Dean complained. You shook your head. You couldn’t remember your wedding. When did it happen? You can’t even begin to picture it. Was it Summer? Or winter? Who came? 

You felt a warm hand grasp at yours. You tilted your head back, staring at Sam. He gave you a gentle smile. 

"We’ve got you. Stick close and keep your chin up." He whispered, squeezing your hand once before dropping it. You dropped your head back down, staring at a machete. 

“Where is Sam?” You sputtered. Dean stood from his chair, his eyes widening. 

“Sam?” Dean asked. You felt anger surge inside of you. 

“Your fucking brother, Dean! Your dumbass baby brother! Bitch! Jerk!” You yelled, shaking your hands about. Dean gaped at you. 

“Sam has been dead for years. You know this. You went to his funeral.” Dean gently pressed you, like you were a rabid animal trying to bite at him. 

“When was our wedding?” You asked. Dean frowned at you. 

“Maybe we need to call Doc. Do you want me to call Bobby?” Dean asked, reaching out for you. He gently cradled your hands in his. 

“Bobby.” You whispered. Dean nodded. 

“Yes. Doctor Robert Singer, he can get you fixed up.” Dean mumbled. He pulled you to his chest, petting down the back of your rollers. 

“He can get you all the pills you need. He’ll fix that pretty head of yours up in no time.” You closed your eyes and tried to picture Bobby’s face. You smelt alcohol. Whiskey. And the smell of pie. You furrowed your brows as you drifted into another memory. 

"You idjits really piss me off, you know that?" He grumbled. You snickered, pulling another bite of your apple pie to your mouth. 

"Yes, yes, we love you too." You joked. Bobby glared at you, but under his beard was a small smile. You knew he was kidding. Dean set his cleared plate on the coffee table, turning his head to face you. His eyes dipped to your plate before bouncing back to you. You snatched your plate away from him. Dean laughed, reaching forward. He wrapped an arm around your waist, yanking you back down onto the couch.

You felt Dean tighten his arm around you. You jerked away from him, shoving your hands against his chest. Dean stumbled back a step. 

“Bobby’s not a doctor. Sam’s not dead. We’re not married. You’re fucking crazy.” You mumbled, taking a step to the side. You pressed yourself against the kitchen counter, edging out of the kitchen. 

“But Mommy, we love you!” Johnny cheered from the table.   “I am not your mother. John was an awful parent.” You said, finally reaching the doorway. Dean lunged for you, pouncing out of his spot in the kitchen. Your feet moved before your brain did. You swung through the house, slipping past corners and through doors. It was all so unfamiliar, but you knew where to step. You cried at the sound of Dean’s shoes chasing after you. You glanced over your shoulder, finding him skidding through the living room. Your chest slammed against the front door. You yanked it open, keeping your eyes on Dean as you ran out of it. You felt sun on your face as you stepped out into the front yard. 

Every house around you was a copy of each other. The white picket fences, the same paint job, the same garden. A red-headed woman stood in front of the neighbor's house. She was dressed in a pink polka dot dress, the waist cinched in. The bottom flared out in a triangle. She was frozen in place, holding a pie to her chest. 

“Oh, what the hell.” You whispered, rushing past her. Your feet froze when she yelled your name. She stepped out of the driveway, standing straight in the center of the road. 

“Aren’t you happy here?” She asked, puffing her bottom lip out. 

“Doesn’t he make you happy?” You stared at her face, your mouth parting. You took a shuddering breath, slowly stepping backwards. 

“I thought you loved him.” A new voice piped up. You spun around, finding a blonde woman with her hair piled into a bun. She was in the same dress, holding a pie. You tilted your head to the side. 

“Jo?” you asked. You glanced at the redhead, recognition finally hitting you. 

“Charlie?” You furrowed your brows. Dean rushed out of the house, stopping at the end of the driveway. He raised his hand, waving you towards the house. The women dropped their pies, the pink ceramic dishes shattering next to your feet. They dipped their free hands under your arms, lifting you from your feet. You kicked, trying to make them lose their grip. It was like they were made from steel. Their faces twisted into wide grins. Their cheeks were turning red with all their cheer. You let out a pathetic whimper, dropping your head back. 

You woke to the pinching of your rollers under your head. You peeled open your eyes, finding the pink ceiling. You lifted your left hand, pointing the back towards your face. You found the big rock glaring at you. You sighed, flipping onto your side. You stared at the flower wallpaper in defeat. 

Something was wrong with you. You were getting visions- delusions. They weren’t memories as you thought. You were the wife to Dean and the mother to Johnny and Mary. Named after Dean’s parents who died in a car crash when Dean was 13, and Sam was 17. Or…

 See, you couldn’t even remember your own husband's brother. When was your wedding? You felt the vague memory of Sam squeezing your hand in comfort before the doors opened to the church. Church? You thought it was a barn; you could’ve sworn you remembered the smell of hay in that memory. You remembered looking down at your wedding bouquet. It had white lilies. Or were they red roses? No, it was both. 

You hope Bobby could fix you. It couldn’t be much fun with a wife like this. You thought for sure Bobby handed you a gun once. You could feel the metal in your hands and his calluses. You definitely could feel his hand pointing yours toward glass bottles. Or... did he hand you a medication bottle? 

You thought you met Jo in a bar. But maybe it was a church. No, there was the smell of cigarette smoke. And smoking was banned in- well, no. Smoking wasn’t banned. God, the whole thing was twisted around. You deeply inhaled, trying to let the roses wash over you. Roses and bleach. 

You stayed frozen in your bed as your children and husband meandered about it. Johnny would bring you a jar to open only to grumble on his way out when your eyes wouldn’t focus on him. Mary would shake her juice cup at you, whining for apples. She’d burst into tears when you couldn’t tear your eyes from the wallpaper. Dean would squat down in front of you, scolding you. Over and over and over again. Bad wife this, bad mother that. Proper women do this. You couldn’t hear any of it well enough to actually listen to it. You could feel a foggy memory pull at the base of your neck. 

The smell of mildew and old spray paint. 

When you blinked, on the back of your eyelids was an image of bright graffiti tarnished by dirt and age. But you couldn’t make any of it out. Once you opened your eyes again, all you smelled was flowers. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there. Maybe days. You could vaguely remember Dean tucking into bed behind you twice. But you couldn’t place if that was all the times he had, or if they were something you imagined. You had very little energy. You only seemed to have enough to roll around on your half of the bed. You could flop onto your back when Johnny begged for your attention. You could twist your back to Mary when she smacked her cup to your side table. 

You would care, if you were sure they were real. As far as you could tell, they were another vision. Or delusion. Maybe the real Johnny was sitting in his room. Or maybe the Real Johnny wasn’t even in the house. Or maybe he was in front of you. All you knew was that you couldn’t help them. Your body had become useless, no more than a prison. You always woke up on your side staring at the wallpaper. You always fell asleep smothered in your flowered sheets. 

Mary waved her empty pink bowl in your face. You blinked slowly, smelling mildew again. When you opened them, Mary threw her dish at the floor. The pink shattered across the carpet. You didn’t move or react. Why would you care? If it was real, it wasn’t like you were walking there. If it wasn’t real, you had nothing to clean. Mary groaned and stormed out of the room. You blinked again, fighting to peel your eyes open. Spraypaint. 

Dean crouched in front of you. You could hear his voice rumbling, but you couldn’t make out the words. You knew what he was saying. Bad wife. Bad mother. You pressed your eyes shut, turning over onto your other side. You saw the graffiti move, showing you a gray and dirty ceiling before you opened your eyes and stared at the other side of your bedroom. The pink flowers started to bob on the walls. Like they could hear a song you couldn’t. You felt your head press into your pillow harder than before and realized you were bobbing. Dean’s hands were pressed into your shoulders, trying to wake you up. You didn’t react. Bad wife. Whatever. 

A different face popped down to your level, breaking your line to the wallpaper. Your eyes stayed glazed over before a hand snapped in front of your eyes. You could hear mumblings of talking. You couldn’t make out a word. You closed your eyes to protect them from the hand, slowly opening them again. Mildew. Your eyes focused on the face in front of you. Your eyes narrowed in on the mouth as it rapidly fired. A bead of sweat slipped from the corner of his nose, slicing through his lips. You trailed your eyes up the sweat, finding his eyelashes. He shook his head back, knocking his hair away from his face. Your eyes caught on the movement, finally finding his whole face. 

You thought of a machete in a barn. You furrowed your brows. 

“Sam?” You whispered. He froze. He looked out of place in all the pink. He was wearing brown and plaid. He wasn’t in a suit. And he was alive. Which was new. 

“Yes.” You caught. You sighed. So, you finally died. You were finally let loose from the Bad Wife Bad Mother life. Mary and Johnny could get a new mommy. You wouldn’t smell roses anymore. 

“Is this heaven or hell?” You asked. Sam paused, reaching out for your face. He smacked your cheek lightly like he was trying to keep your attention. 

“Worse,” Sam muttered. His hand slipped under your arms, lifting you from the mattress. His hand pressed into your back as he pulled you onto your feet. He dipped his head down as he swung your arm over his shoulders. Your feet were cold as he set them against the pink carpet. 

“Where are Mary and Johnny?” You mumbled to the floor. You were starting to feel bad about the dish Mary broke. Sam stiffened under you. It made his shoulder higher, entirely out of your reach. Your arm slid from his neck, your balance swaying. You tipped to the side. Sam quickly caught you before you hit the cold carpet. He tugged you up, pressing your chest to his. Your head dropped back, catching sight of your bed upside down. 

Only the sheets weren’t pink. It was a rotten twin mattress set to a rusted bed frame. There were no sheets. There were no roses. Where was your wallpaper? You caught sight of handcuffs locked to the bed frame. You could only twist and turn because you weren’t in a rosy queen bed; you were in a twin with your hands locked in place. Sam straightened you up, tipping your vision back up. 

“Where am I?” You asked. Your eyes slipped over the sides of Sam’s shoulders, finding tall concrete walls graffitied. You suck in a deep breath. 

“It smells like mildew.” You muttered pathetically. You felt tears pulling at your eyes. Sam grumbled and pulled you back to his side, stumbling away from the bed. You could hardly keep your focus on what was happening. All you knew was that you were moving where Sam took you. You didn’t see any children. 

“Almost there,” Sam whispered to you. You huffed, dropping your head to your shoulder. This was tiring. You just hoped when he set you down, you weren’t back in the pink sheets. Loud boots stomped toward you. They echoed on the concrete walls. You lifted your eyes, catching sight of Dean’s face. His eyes were blown wide, his eyebrows furrowed. You could remember the look he gave you when you burned his eggs. You whined and hid your face in the sleeve of Sam’s shirt. 

“Not a bad wife.” You whispered to the fabric. 

“Dude?” Dean’s voice said. It was different, a little rougher. You pressed your nose to Sam’s shirt. You inhaled. Cologne and gunpowder. Like a night after the fourth of July being masked with cheap 4-dollar spritz. 

“I don’t know, just hold the door,” Sam replied. 

“Good mother.” You thought of Mary’s little eyes filling with tears when you couldn’t give her the attention she needed. 

“Good wife.” You could hear the squealing of Johnny’s laughter. Sunlight hit your skin. You lifted your head, leaning into the warmth. Sweltering summer heat washed over you, but you didn’t mind it. You could smell trees and grass. You could see the Impala waiting for you. Dean rushed forward, swinging open the side door. You heard Johnny’s laughter in the hinges. Dean pressed the passenger’s seat down, giving you an empty path to the backseat. Sam leaned down, herding you into the back. You slid in clumsily, dropping your head to the leather seat. 

The voices of Sam and Dean drifted away as you settled into the warm sunlight spewing in from the back window. You sucked in a deep breath, feeling the leather reach all the way down to your lungs. 

"We’re up to three missing, Dean." Sam snapped from the front seat. Dean scoffed behind the wheel. 

"Well, there’s not much I can do about that when I don’t know what this damn thing is!" Dean hissed. He turned the wheel as you rode into the diner parking lot. You watched the 'I' in 'Pizza' flicker as Dean parked. 

"But we can research right now if we just go back to the Motel!" Sam grunted, pulling his laptop bag from the floor. Dean groaned loudly, filling the car cabin with his annoyance. He turned his head to you, his face softening. 

"Babe, are you hungry?" He whispered. Sam rolled his eyes, dropping his head back in annoyance. 

"Yes." You answered. Dean snapped his head back towards Sam. 

"All the more reason we need to eat now. Not later. Get out of the car, Sammy." Dean declared, pushing at Sam’s shoulder. 

Your head fell to the side, your foggy eyes turning to the driver’s seat. Dean was staring at you with the same pursed eyebrows and blown eyes. Anger- you furrowed your brows. Dean frowned at you, tilting his head to the side in-

Concern. He was worried. 

“What’s your name?” He asked. You mumbled your name. You turned your head, finding Sam looking over the edge of the seat at you with the same look of concern. 

“Who’s the president?” Sam asked. Dean snapped at him, slapping his arm. 

“Eisenhower?” You tried, cringing at it as it left your mouth. Dean looked at you, his mouth falling open. 

“No, It’s that fascist asshole T-” Dean started. 

“What’s 2 plus 2?” Sam cut off. You lifted your head. 

“Do I have children?” You glanced over their shoulders out the windshield like your children might be jumping on the hood. Sam scoffed. 

“God, I hope not. One of you is annoying as is.” Sam mumbled. 

“We sure can practice making ‘em, though,” Dean answered. You dropped your head back in relief. 

“And, just to be clear, we’re not married?” You pointed your eyes at Dean. He let out a chuckle. 

“No, we can practice our honeymoon, though.” Dean giggled. He reached over the back of the seat, smacking your knee. Sam groaned. 

“You’re disgusting.” Sam mumbled. You nodded. 

“And unfunny,” you added, looking up at the car hood. You let out a sigh at the sound of your voice. 

“I sound normal again.” You muttered, closing your eyes in appreciation. 

“I’m not crazy.” You raised your left hand, opening your eyes. Your hand was bare. Thank god. 

“Oh, you’re definitely crazy, babe,” Dean replied, slamming the driver's door shut. Sam kept his focus on you as Dean pulled out from the abandoned warehouse. 

“A Djinn took you. This was one of those that loves the taste of fear. He’s toast now; the poison should wear off eventually. You can clean up once we get to the Motel. We’ll head out in the morning.” Sam explained. You nodded as he spoke. You looked to the road, glad to see more colors than one. Sam turned back towards the front. 

“Glad you’re not dead, I guess.” Sam grumbled. You scoffed a laugh. 

“Yeah, whatever,” you grumbled back. You inhaled again, loving the smell of anything other than roses. Dean glanced back at you. 

“Yeah, no more wandering off on your own. I’m blowing my fucking lid if you get kidnapped again.” Dean scolded. But this was different. You weren’t bad, like the other one would’ve said. He was giving you a grin while he did it. It was play, but he meant it. He wanted you safe. You gave him a small smile, finally letting the pink world wash away from you. Dean looked back to the road. 

After a shower at the motel, you lifted the sleeve of your shirt, pressing your nose to it. You sighed at the smell of copper and gunpowder. 

“And you loved Eisenhower." You added. Dean laughed loudly from the motel bed, scribbling down onto the free notepad. 

“This is hilarious,” Sam noted from the small table pressed against the wall. You shook your head. 

“Oh! And you were a financial advisor. You only wore suits and white button-ups.” You added. You shoved your tarnished and torn clothes into your duffle bag. You planned to throw them away once you found a trashcan bigger than the wastebasket in this hotel. Likely at the next gas station. Sam chuckled at that, pressing his hands to his mouth. The thought of Dean in a suit was the funniest thing he heard all week. Dean nodded at you, writing down what he could. He’d have to log this in his hunting journal, but he was laughing too hard to use legible handwriting. 

“Oh, and Sam was dead.” You tacked on. That killed the mood, their laughter dying down. Sam frowned at the table, more upset he didn’t get a funny job than him being dead. 

“And Mary and John died in a car crash when you were seventeen. And you named our two children after them, Mary and Johnny. And everything was pink.” You finished. You were pretty sure that was it. Dean pulled his eyes from the notepad. The humor from his face had fallen. You sucked in a breath. 

“And my wedding ring had a huge diamond on it.” You hoped it would break the sour mood up a little. Sam huffed a flat laugh. 

“Dean affording a diamond is pretty funny,” Sam muttered. Dean snapped his head at Sam. 

“Hey! I could totally get wedding rings!” Dean hissed. Sam raised a brow. 

“But could you buy them?” Sam pointed out. Dean deflated. 

“Nightmare Dean could. Think about that.” You joked. You pouted your bottom lip out, mocking a sympathetic look. Dean scoffed at you. 

“Nightmare Dean was a pussy. He was a total fascist republican; he’s the worst kind of American. Nightmare Dean couldn’t possibly begin to understand the complexities of classism.” Dean stood from the bed, dropping his pen and pad to the brown sheets. He advanced towards you, dipping his hand behind your head. 

 “And he was a dick to you, which in my, not Nightmare Dean, book, means he should be shot dead,” Dean whispered, tilting his head down to catch your lips. You grinned into his mouth, pecking at his lips. You dug your fingers into the soft cotton of his plaid shirt. Dean pulled you closer, breaking your smile. He properly pressed his lips to yours. You hummed to him. Sam groaned from the other side of the motel room. 

“We have to start getting separate rooms.”  Sam grumbled. 

You couldn’t imagine being Clark. Not for a second. You couldn’t imagine working all day at the Daily Planet only to spend even more time wounding yourself over and over again to save one city. You couldn’t imagine knowing the whole time you’re putting your life on the line, people are shitting on you. What’s worse is that he can never go home. Kansas, yes, but to his actual home planet? Absolutely not. It’s dead. He only has Kara as a connection to his home. She was the only person who could tell him about their home. He didn’t get to live life as a Kryptonian. He only got a human life. Human life was well known as the worst experience ever. 

 Clark was making you dinner, his back hunched over the stove. He seemed too big for every part of your apartment. He was humming to the playlist he started when he walked through the door. His head was rocking back and forth to the beat. You were sitting on the kitchen island behind him, watching him as he moved around. He leaned over, snatching up the pepper. He shook it over the pan, whistling. You pointed your foot out, tapping the small of his back. Clark jumped but didn’t pull away. He set the pepper back down, reaching behind himself to grab your ankle. 

 “Clark.” He hummed in response, turning to the side. Clark raised his brows at you, keeping an eye on the pan. 

 “Do you have another name?” You asked, leaning back on your palms. Clark opened his mouth, shaking his head. 

 “Kent?” He tried. You rolled your eyes. You deadpanned at him. 

 “No, like one from your birth parents.” You added. Clark’s lips pointed down. He turned his shoulder to you, facing the pan again. 

 “Yes.” 

 “Do you want me to use it?” You watched the muscles of his back move and curve under his band shirt. He shrugged. 

 “I don’t know. I haven’t really had someone call me that. Except Kara, but she prefers the B-word.” You hummed. You couldn’t imagine having only one other person use your name. Or at least one of them. 

 “Would you enjoy me using it? Would it be weird?” You questioned. Clark’s shoulders bumped up again. You frowned. Clark refused to give you a proper answer. You whined. Clark spun around at that. His eyes widened in fear. 

 “What’s wrong?” He whined back. Your frown deepened. You looked away from him. 

 “Well, I just thought maybe you’d want me to use your birth name. I don’t know. I only know two Kryptonians, Clark. You’re not giving me an answer, though. You’re just giving me ‘I don’t know’. I don’t want to do it if you don’t want me to. I don’t know! I feel stupid now.” You ranted, throwing your hands up. You shook your head, turning your face away from him. Clark held onto your chin, pointing your face back towards his. He lightly pecked at your frown. When your mouth stayed pointed down, he rapidly kissed at it until it twisted back up into a smile. 

 “Not stupid. You’re not stupid at all. I promise.” He whispered to your mouth. You hummed, grinning into his mouth. 

 “Okay?” Clark asked, pulling away from the kiss. 

 “Okay,” You grumbled. Clark nodded and turned back to the stove. 

 “I would enjoy it if you did start using my Kryptonian name. I think it’s very sweet that you want to do that.” Clark answered. You hummed. 

 “Well, what is it?” 

 “Kal-El.” It slid off his tongue quickly, zooming right past you. You grimaced. Oh boy. 

 “Kahale?” You tried, your tone hesitant. You curled your shoulders up towards your ears, preparing for the emotional blow. Clark’s head dipped down, his shoulders shaking. You frowned, worried you had struck such a sensitive nerve that he started crying. 

 “Clark?” You begged. Oh God, you made him cry. You furrowed your eyebrows, feeling your worry tense behind your eyes. Clark let out a muffled laugh, slipping out from behind his shoulders. You scoffed. You whined again, dropping your head back in irritation. 

 “It’s not funny, Clark!” You groaned. Clark turned around from the oven, his giggles freely flying out now. 

 “It’s not funny! I’m not laughing!” He giggled. You groaned again. Clark’s hand found the back of your neck, gently pulling your head back up. He made you face him again. He was still beaming and snickering. 

 “You are laughing. I can see you laughing. It’s not funny.” You complained. You frowned at him. Clark buried his smile, trying his hardest to keep his laughs down. 

 “I’m not laughing. It’s not funny. Do you want to try again? I can help.” He giggled out. You glared at him. 

 “Yes. Go slower.” You grumbled. Clark nodded. His hand left the back of your head, cupping your chin again. 

 “Kal-El.” He dragged. Clark stifled another laugh. He pressed his eyes closed, taking a deep breath to push it back down. He opened them again, meeting your glare. 

 “Kahlel?” You tried, cringing at it as it left your mouth. Clark bit his cheeks, souring his face as he held his laughter back. He shook his head.    “Kal.” He pointed at his mouth with one hand and pressed his other pointer under your chin. 

 “Kal.” You mirrored. Clark grinned. 

 “Yes. -El.” He finished. 

 “-El.” Clark nodded happily. He surged forward and pressed his lips to yours. He popped back, cheesing happily at you. 

 “Exactly. El is my family name. Kal is my name.” Clark explained. You nodded. 

 “Kal.” You tried again. Clark smiled, humming in approval. “You made it harder on purpose.” You grumbled. Clark scoffed at you. 

 “I absolutely did not.” Clark protested. 

 “Yes, you did. You’re evil, Kal. Completely evil.” You whispered. You leaned forward, bumping your chest into his. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your nose into his. Clark groaned, digging his hands into your shirt. 

 “I like it,” Clark mumbled. 

 “Oh, really? Mr. Kal-El,” You muttered, brushing your lips against his. Clark nodded, grinning into your mouth. 

 “Let dinner burn. I think I need your help in the bedroom. Mr. Kal-El lost his glasses.” Clark surged forward, capturing your mouth with his. He tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss. His tongue poked at your bottom lip. You parted your mouth, letting his tongue meet yours. Clark’s hands pulled at your knees, tugging you closer. You snorted, breaking the kiss with your laugh. He parted your knees, pressing you closer to him. Clark dipped his head down, trailing gentle kisses down the side of your neck. You tugged your fingers through his curls, leaning into his mouth. 

 “Kal.” You moaned quietly. Clark groaned loudly, parting his lips to drag his teeth over your skin. Clark pulled away from you and pressed the oven's power button. It beeped in protest, offended by the abandonment. You parted your mouth in confusion. 

 “Clark? What are you doing?” You asked. Clark didn’t answer you. He dug his hands into the underside of your thighs. You grinned at him, locking your legs behind his back. Clark pulled you from the counter. You quickly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding on tight for your life. Fuck him and his stupid Kryptonian strength. 

 “Clark.” You unenthusiastically scolded. Clark gave you a grin, pecking a kiss to your cheek. 

 “Lost my glasses, babe. I need your help.” Clark mumbled. You scoffed. 

 “Whatever, Kal.” You grumbled. Clark bounced you in his hold. You screamed in a moment of weakness, horrified by falling out of his arms. Clark giggled as you clawed at his shoulders. 

 “I’ve got you.”

 “It’s not funny.” You grumbled. Clark kept his hands under your thighs, keeping you close to him. 

 “No. It’s not funny.” Clark giggled. 

Two and a half years ago, your very first novel was written. It was a romance, but it was the swirling, gentle kind that didn’t involve an abusive biker mafia boss. You pulled the good parts of yourself out and put them in the main character. You made something that was beautiful. You didn’t mind that it wasn’t exactly a smash hit. You weren’t getting billions of sales, but the people who did read it loved it. And your publishers wanted more from you. You wanted more from you. Your days had hit a lull, though. Your keyboard seemed to twist into something untouchable. Like it grew ten feet tall and glared down at you. You couldn’t even start to climb it and reach the first letter. Much less write something enjoyable. 

 You tried to find inspiration out of your house. You’d sit in the park and watch all the couples and eavesdrop on conversations. You’d take walks down the street, looking at advertisements and regular day-to-day people. You searched for inspiration in your own reading. You looked for it in museums and art. Nothing came to you. It was all boring. 

 You hoped maybe you needed a scenery change. So you packed up your laptop and headed down to a cafe. You settled into the corner, peeling open your laptop. You stared at the blinking cursor as the barista prepared your drink. You hovered your hands over the keys, focusing on the feeling of the cafe. 

 The warmth of the coffee shop prickled at his skin. 

Prickled? Cold prickles. Not warmth. That makes no sense. Is this your first day writing holy-You eyes shot up at the sound of your name being called. You stood from your table, leaving your laptop behind. You pulled your coffee from the counter, turning back around to head towards your seat. Only your eyes caught on the cover of your book. You paused. 

A big, hulking man was hunched over a small table. His back was to the window, the sun framing his large shoulders. At the part of his hair was a small patch of white. His face was scarred, but the pale lines didn’t cut through his beauty. It seemed almost like his face was carved with the scars in mind. They fit his face and made him look…

What’s that word? Reminds you of aubergine. Almost stunning. Not amazing, that’s too childish. Oh, what is that word? 

He lifted his eyes, meeting yours. He curved an eyebrow. You felt doom crawling up your back and digging into your shoulders. You were being a creep and staring. Either you silently move away, pack yourself up and leave, or you start a conversation. You took a step closer. 

“Enjoying the book?” You asked, glancing down at the page he was on. He looked about halfway through it. Your lips quirked at the sight of pen and highlighter covering the page. He was annotating your writing. The man glanced down at his book. He let out an awkward laugh, the points of his canines flashing. Hot. 

“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Have you read it?” He asked, pulling his eyes back to you. You stared at the cover. What have you gotten yourself into? You technically have. 

“Oh yes, a year or two ago.” You stated, feeling your face start to burn. His brows furrowed. He tilted his head to the side. 

“I thought it came out this year.” He questioned. His hands started flipping through the pages to find the publication date. You jumped. 

“Oh! Um- I got it early from one of those Goodreads giveaways. They give a couple people the books before the publication.” You covered. You were digging a hole and digging it fast. The opportunity to hear someone’s real thoughts was pushing you ahead. Especially because he was hot. His hands stopped flipping through the pages, returning to his last page. He nodded. 

“That’s pretty cool.” He stated. He sounded genuinely impressed. 

“It was signed too.” You added. Which was true. You had fucked your signature up so bad you couldn’t imagine anyone but you having it. The man looked up, his face twisting into a cringe. 

“Doesn’t mean as much when it’s an unknown, does it? That would be cool if it was like-” He paused, tilting his head up to think. “Jane Austen or something.” He finished. You tried to ignore the twinge of pain that hit your stomach with the word ‘Unknown’. 

“Well, that would be very impressive; they’d have to bring her back from the dead.” You chuckled. He grinned at you, letting out a small laugh. 

“That’s a bad example.” He mumbled, pulling his bookmark from the table. He pressed it between the pages, closing his book. He turned all his attention to you. You felt your chest warm; this stranger was giving such a sign of devotion. To put your book away for a stranger? Obscene. He might as well have stripped down in front of you. 

“What’s your favorite part?” You asked, drawing his attention back to your book. He thought quietly, wringing his hands on top of the table. He hummed. He turned his head from you, staring out the window in thought. You bounced on the balls of your feet. Jeez, your writing was so awful he couldn’t think of a single good part. His eyes snapped back to you. 

“The letters. They’re incredibly moving and very clearly show their devotion,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear over the chatter of the cafe. You nodded. That was your favorite part too. 

“People don’t write love letters anymore.” You wistfully said. You truly missed love letters. You hadn’t gotten one, but you wished they were a part of society again. The man nodded. 

“They really don’t.” He mumbled. You pointed to the book again. 

“What’s your least favorite part?” You asked. You really wanted to know. You could use his input on your second novel. 

“The main character.” He didn’t have to think for a second this time. You were starting to regret this conversation. He had to think so hard to find his favorite, but he didn’t have to consider anything to find his least favorite. 

“Too annoying?” You asked. Yes, well, you were considered annoying sometimes, so clearly the character based on you must be too.  He furrowed his brows, glaring at you. 

“Not in the slightest. The issue I have is that they’re too perfect. There are no flaws. Real people aren’t like that. I understand it’s fiction, but it’s disappointing. It’s such a beautiful book that kind of falls flat because the main character is kind of two-dimensional. The book has this stunning message of unconditional love. It falls apart because it’s easy to love someone perfect. Real people aren’t like that. They’re horrifically flawed. They’re assholes sometimes; they blow up; they have things wrong with them. This character is like if the author made someone fall in love with a robot.'

'I can tell they’re capable of writing people with flaws because the love interest does. They just didn’t use that skill on the main character. But I guess I’m thinking about it too hard.” He rambled, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. Your eyes dipped to his arms, following over the dipping and rising ocean waves of muscle. You sucked in a breath, looking back to his eyes. He’s right, of course he is. You didn’t give them any flaws. You worried that if you added the shitty parts of yourself, every reader would hate them. Your character was perfect, and that’s how you wanted to publish them. A simple character had to be better than an unintentionally hated one. 

“You’re right. The main character is a little two-dimensional. You’d be great in a book club.” You said, pulling your coffee to your mouth. You stared at him over the rim of your drink. He watched you from the corner of his eyes. 

“I don’t know about that.” He mumbled. He dropped his eyes to his lap, almost like he was flustered. You stared at his hair, zeroing in on the white streaks. At first, you thought it was bleached, a very good bleach job. But he didn’t have any black roots. So, unless he bleached it last night, it was natural. 

“Do you have vitiligo?” You asked, your eyes still examining his scalp. He lifted his head, making you meet his eyes. 

“What?” You lifted your hand, gesturing toward your head. 

“Your hair. Vitiligo sometimes causes white streaks in hair. It looks natural; you don’t have any roots.” You furthered, dropping your hand from your head. He scoffed at his lap. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He grumbled. You hummed. Weirdo. A hot weirdo. You gasped as the word came back to you. You snapped your fingers. 

“Alluring. That’s the word I was looking for.” You muttered. The man stared at you as you started to mutter about amazing aubergines. You slipped away from his table, dropping back into your seat across the shop. You set your coffee down. 

An alluring man with hunched shoulders sat in a coffee shop with a well-loved paperback book twisted in his hands. 

That’s almost something. It's a good opener, maybe. He’s hot; that's made clear. The book has been read before, and he twists his books around. He’s hunched; he’s a little shy. You have something. You glanced over the edge of your laptop to find the man staring at you. His mouth was parted like you just called him a bitch. You tilted your head to the side, asking him a silent question. He pressed his mouth together, patting his hands against the table. 

He’s been playing eye tag with the only other person in the shop engrossed in a novel for the past thirty minutes. 

The man stands from his seat, taking his book with him. He advances on your table, sitting across from you. 

“You left.” 

“You’d make a great detective.” You mumbled, dropping your eyes back to the screen. 

He liked to bend books to his whim. He got to lay claim to an entire universe and twist and pull it however he liked. Which was how his universe had treated him. Its twists and yanks left trailing scars across his skin. 

“My name is Jason,” Jason mumbled. You lifted your eyes, tracing over his face again. 

His cutting green eyes trailed across the pages. 

You hummed in response. He frowned at you, pinching his lips together. 

“What’s yours?” Jason pressed. You pressed your laptop screen down, breaking down the wall between the two of you. You leaned forward. You pointed your finger at your name sprawled across the cover of his book. Jason looked down at your hand, his eyes widening. He looked back up at you. 

“You’re joking,” Jason stated. All the humor in his voice was gone; he was begging you to say yes- you were joking. You pulled the book from his hands, flipping to the back cover. You held the small black and white picture of you next to your face. Jason groaned, dropping his face into his hands. 

“This is embarrassing.” He mumbled to himself. You hummed, closing your book again. You slid it across the table. 

“It’s okay.” You tried. Jason shook his head in his hands. 

“No. I totally insulted your writing to your face.” Jason grumbled. He pressed his hands into his face, completely mortified. You sighed. 

“You were right. I didn’t give the main character flaws. You gave me good analysis. I appreciate it, seriously, Jason.” You reached out, gently pulling on his wrist to reveal his face again. He gave you an embarrassed look, hiding his lips inside of his mouth.  

“I can’t believe I did that.” He whispered, staring at the cover of his book again. You smiled at him, watching him carefully. You were incredibly grateful he was reading his book in this coffee shop. 

“I’m glad. I think I beat my writer’s block.” You almost giggled. Jason huffed. 

“I’m mortified. I don’t think I’m living this down.” Jason muttered. You rolled your eyes. 

“Let me make it up to you. We could maybe get dinner.” You ventured. Please say yes. Say yes. You could spend only one evening with him and still write a whole book. Clearly something about him was pushing all the buttons you needed to be inspired. He was hot and smart. That’s not a frequent combo. Jason lifted his eyes, his eyebrows shooting up. He nodded quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason stumbled out. You hummed. You moved to pull your phone out. The bell above the cafe door rang; another incredibly muscular man stepped through the door. His face was solid as his eyes swept over the people. His eyes landed on Jason, his face lighting up. He lifted his hand, waving back and forth. 

“Jay!” He shouted, making the quiet cafe-goers grumble. Jason clammed up, his shoulders tightening. 

“Oh, my god.” He mumbled. Jason pressed one of his pens into the cover of his book, sliding it towards you. 

“I have to go.” He said. You hummed, peeling open the front cover of his book. You scribbled your signature on the cover and left him your number. You slid it back to him. Jason snatched it up, making quick work of the cafe. He herded the loud man out of the cafe. You could see them arguing through the window. You grinned at the sight of Jason pressing the book to his chest.

part two is in the works pls don't demand it in my comments it is coming soon be patient please i really love the support i really do but it's getting discouraging trust jason will be loved on soon

When you first moved in with Jane, you realized quickly that she was an incredible woman. Every Saturday she spent down at the roller rink. She took you with her sometimes, and she finally got you to stand up straight in skates. She loved sherbert, specifically rainbow. Jane loved puzzles. She would get a new one every Saturday after the rink, and she’d spend the whole week filling her free time with the tiny pieces. Once she finished them, she’d coat them in glue and hang them in her room. Her favorite color was purple. Her bedsheets were purple. All of her pajamas were purple. Her house shoes were purple. Some of her pots and pans were purple. All of her bath towels were purple. She loved comedies. She hated horror. She loved popcorn, and she loved sharing even more. 

 She always let you hold onto her when you went skating. She let you have some of her sherbert. Jane would leave the puzzle on the table and would wave you over every time she sat down with it. She’d offer the finished puzzle to you. You had a few hanging in the living room now because you couldn’t bear to take any puzzle from her. Once she learned your favorite color, she started covering you in it. She got you pajamas that matched hers in your favorite color. She got you hair scarves in the color. She got you a new bedspread. She loved to make you shared meals. Jane loved watching movies with you and sharing a bowl of popcorn. 

 Her friend invited her to come see him at his new job. He bought her two seats at Medieval Times and told her to bring someone with her. You were sure he thought she would bring someone from their shared friend group. Jane didn’t see it that way; she saw that she got to take a friend. And you were her friend. She screamed when she got home, yanking you off the couch. Jane jumped up and down. You joined her jumping, happy she was happy. Then she told you this Saturday instead of the roller rink she was going to Medieval Times, and so were you. 

 You were sat in the Red and Yellow section. Which was lucky because apparently, according to Jane’s squeal, it was her friend’s section. As the knights started to prance out on their horses, you realized this show was not for adults. It seemed to be exclusively for children. Which might’ve been a realization you should’ve come upon in the lobby when you were surrounded by children. You were lucky enough to get a front row seat. Jane’s hands shot out for you, digging into your arm. You glanced down at her purple nails wrapped around your arm before looking up to find the knight of your section riding out. Your mouth parted.    His horse was gray but black faded up from its hooves. It was covered in a yellow and red coat blanket? Lord, the horse wasn’t the interesting part. He was. 

 He had brown curls sticking out from behind his ears. He was holding up a yellow and red flag, the fabric waving as his horse trotted forward. The crowd cheered so loudly you almost flinched. You were frozen in place as his face curled up into a cocky grin. His eyes shined as he reveled in the cheers. His smile revealed the metal of his braces. His head turned, his eyes searching over the red and yellow section. Jane released your arm, waving her hands in the air to catch his attention. His smile tripled in size once his eyes caught on her. He couldn’t wave back, but he clearly recognized her. His back turned to you as his horse faced the center. You stared at the curve of his shoulders. Your eyes traced over the swirls of his curls at the base of his neck. 

 He started to pull away, heading back into the stables. You watched him as he left, following his body. His thighs were spread across the sides of saddles, covered in shiny tights. You wished you could jump over the table and dig your nails into them. You stared at him as he trotted away. Once the doors to the stables shut behind him, you felt your breath return.    The restaurant seemed three times louder than it was before. You tore your eyes away from the stable doors; your head turned to face Jane.    “That’s your friend?” You asked, your voice weaker than you remembered. Jane looked to you, her brows furrowing in concern. 

 “Yes, Dustin. He’s very sweet. His horse was pretty.” She said, turning back towards the center. You felt like you were dizzy. 

 “He was pretty.” You mumbled. 

 You really didn’t catch a single part of the plot. Every time Dustin was out of the stables, you couldn’t hear anything. All you could focus on was how he moved. You had no idea what was going on at all; all you knew was that you had to get Jane to start bringing her friends over. You could only hear the muffled sound of Jane’s voice as Dustin turned his horse to the side, holding a handful of flowers. You stared at him as he raised his arm, flinging a flower over your head. You stared at his hands, watching how every finger moved. You thought of his hand running up your back and brushing your hair from your neck. You thought of the pads running under your eye. Or how they would feel tracing over your side, or down the trail of hair under your belly button. Jane smacked your shoulder, startling you out of your daydream. A flower was pointed at you; the bloom was a white curling carnation. 

 Your eyes snapped up, finding Dustin grinning at you as he held it out. As your eyes clicked together, you felt a giddy grin spreading across your face. You reached out, plucking the flower from him. He straightened up his horse, turning his back to you again. You stared down at the flower in your hands. You turned to Jane. She was smiling at you. 

 “You like him.” She stated bluntly. You shrugged, a cheesy grin breaking across your face. 

 “He’s alright.” You whispered. Jane smirked, seeing through you. 

 “He’s single,” Jane added, turning back to the show. The knights were playing some dumb game with rings, but all you cared about was how Dustin shook his head back to get his curls off his face. 

 “Yeah?” You asked, keeping your eyes on him as he gently rubbed his horse’s mane. Jane nodded. 

 “Do you think he would like me?” You furthered. Jane grinned, nodding faster. 

 “Absolutely.” 

 Dustin lost. It was a bit embarrassing, actually. The red and yellow knight was out cold in his first round of jousting. Obviously you knew it was fake and staged, but you kind of wished he had won so you could look at him more. The show got quite boring once he was hidden in the stables. 

 You were hazy even when the show ended. Jane held onto your elbow, leading you out of the building. You startled away from the daydream of Dustin as the sun hit your face. You sighed as you felt the warmth pass over you. You glanced down at the ground, watching the sidewalk slip under you as Jane pulled you towards the car. You crouched down as you walked through a patch of grass. You swept your hand over the green blades. 

 “I missed you,” you whispered to the grass. Jane stared down at you, raising an eyebrow. 

 “You’re a bit odd,” Jane muttered. You glared at her. 

 “You’re a bit odd.” You grumbled. Jane frowned, her lips twisting down. You hated that look, especially on Jane. 

 “Which part of me?” Jane’s voice was too fragile for your heart to take. You shook your head. 

 “No. I didn’t mean it. You’re not odd.” You backtracked, still brushing the grass. 

 “Oh,” Jane said, her voice hardening back into her usual joyful self. You gave her a soft smile, standing back up. 

 You learned something new about Jane, a few days later. She was a schemer. You came home from work, only to find your roommate lounging on the couch with your knight in shining armor. Though now he was in casual clothes. He was in jeans and a sweater with shapes thrown across it. You widen your eyes, staring at Jane in question. She grinned, pulling herself off the couch. 

 “Dustin came over for movie night,” Jane said, clapping her hands together lightly. You gave her a small grin. She noticed your stress, pulling you into a hug. She squeezed you tightly, pressing her cheek to yours. 

 “He’s going to love you. Just be you.” Jane whispered into your ear. You melted into her hug, pressing your cheek to her shoulder. She pulled back, gently rubbing your arms. You smiled at her gratefully, so overwhelmed with love for your friend. 

 “We’ve run out of popcorn,” Dustin called from the couch, holding up the bowl. Jane bounced away from you, taking the bowl from him.    “I’ll get it,” Jane said, skipping into the kitchen. You slowly sat down on the couch on the opposite side from Dustin. You gave the television a small bit of your attention, but really all you could think about was how close Dustin was to you. 

 “So-” 

 “How-” 

 You both paused as you tried to speak at the same time. You turned your head, meeting his eyes. You let out an awkward laugh. Dustin shook his hand out towards you. 

 “You go first,” Dustin said. You felt your face warm at his eyes on you. You looked away from him, glancing back at the TV. 

 “So, being a knight must be fun,” You said, hoping he thought it was funny. You hoped he didn’t think it was pathetic like you did. Dustin let out a small laugh. If you hadn’t seen him in a suit of armor, you would’ve called it a giggle. 

 “Yeah. It is. Usually though, I don’t find out my best friend has a stunning roommate.” Dustin mumbled, his face flooding red as he reached the end of his sentence. He clearly wanted it to be cocky and confident. But he was picking at the lint of his pants and pressing his lips into a flat line. His cheeks and ears were bright red. You felt your face break into a grin. 

 “Yeah? Do you have a picture or something?” You quipped. Dustin snorted. 

“I have one right here.” He nodded, pulling his hands from his lap. He held two L-shaped fingers up, caging your face in a square. You looked down at your lap in bashfulness. 

Jane was right. He did love you. It was astonishing how quickly he grew from your roommate’s hot friend to your boyfriend. Jane didn’t mind at all. Two of her favorite people were spending even more time with her. Dustin would come over to watch movies with you both. He’d throw his arm over your shoulders and peck your head. Jane was just happy she had more people to share popcorn with. She loved watching movies with friends. 

Dustin would bring you flowers. He usually got you a bouquet with white carnations included because he got really sappy about them being the first flower he gave you. He’d bring Jane a chocolate croissant. Which she enjoyed more than the possibility of flowers. You always put the flowers in a vase on the table so you could both enjoy them when you did your puzzles. You couldn’t be happier that your incredible roommate had an extravagant friend. Especially because he couldn’t be a better boyfriend.