Based on Diana Gabaldon’s best-selling 8-book series “Outlander,” the time-travel saga follows Claire Randall (Caitriona Balfe), a married British Army nurse from the 1940s who is mysteriously taken back in time to 1743, where she marries a young Scottish warrior named Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan). As she travels back and forth in time, Claire’s heart is torn between two very different men and two very different lives.
Based on the third book in the series, titled “Voyager,” season three picks up right after Claire returns to her “normal” life in 1948, while, in the 18th century, Jamie suffers from the aftermath of his ill-fated battle of Culloden, as well as the loss of Claire. The 13-episode season 3 returns in September on Starz. Check out the teaser trailer below.
Request: From Anon. Can you write a Clint
x reader where she’s fresh out of an abusive relationship and she’s friends
with Clint? I’m not posting the rest of the request as it
will give too much away.
You swore to yourself
that this was the last time, you wouldn’t let this happen to you again, but
just like every time when he started blowing up your phone you felt the fear
take a firm grip of your heart and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you
folded. You just weren’t strong enough
to walk away forever. Standing on the
sidewalk with your bag in hand, bruised and sobbing uncontrollably you called
the only person you could think of, the one who would come get you no matter
where and no matter what time of day.
“Hey beautiful.” He sounded so happy to hear from you and you tried your
best to speak but all you managed was a strangled sob. “Where are you? You in the city? You home?
Tell me where and I’ll come get you.” You could hear the mild panic in
his voice and you managed to tell him before the sobbing took over again. Sinking down onto the sidewalk you waited for
the one guy you could always count on.
Imitation stone vessels, from the Tomb of Yuya and Tjuyu (KV46), Valley of the Kings. New Kingdom. 18th Dynasty. Reign of Amenhotep III, ca. 1387-1350 BC.
These vessels are made of wood or clay and painted to look like stones such as calcite, diorite or red granite- As imitations of real vessels, dummy vessels were designed to provide important substances for the afterlife through representative magic. Now in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
Summary: In which a girl learns to love a fleeting writer
Comments:So, this was supposed to be fluff, but I started writing and it went in a totally different direction so that’s why the summary’s a little different now… Hope you guys like it anyways :)))
He could write paragraphs - trilogies, sagas, novels completed with prologues and epilogues alike - just about how you made him feel everyday.
He hasn’t quite met you yet - just a black rimmed stranger at the back of the campus cafe - but he felt something different in your curled lips and bright eyes. He sees you everyday, silently nodding your head to music no one else heard, watching as your pencil moved in strokes across your page.
You’re a poem he’s yet to discover. Just so perplexed and complicated in its whole, that he’d had to break it up into pieces just to understand why you came to this exact cafe everyday or why you never seem sad, even when the clouds are gray and raging above you. No matter what, you sat with a fond smile, not a care in the world for what happened in the skies outside.
So, nice weather we’re having, huh?
Oh… I didn’t even notice.
You’re a piece just waiting to be read, so unknown and beautiful in ways he wants to the world to understand.
He doesn’t know how to approach you.
But he assumes he’ll take his chances.
“What are you listening to?”
He caught you - and himself, if he’s being completely honest - by surprise. It’s been a few months since he first saw you, barely being able to get a sentence out on the page in front of him with you still in his vision. He never thought he’d scavenge enough courage to walk up to you, shy and awkward in his own way, but on one Thursday afternoon, he was tired of watching you like a book through a shop window. He was ready to meet you. Not just the image he wrote up in his mind.
“Oh, um…” Your words get caught in your throat, barely being able to make eye contact with the boy staring down at you. “I’m actually listening to M-Mounika. Her uh music… helps me relax.”
You smile, shifting the sketchbook in front of you closed. Your hands waves to the seat across from you, inviting the boy you’ve admired for months on end to sit with you. Your heart is thumping in your ears as he drops a small thank you from his lips, shifting awkwardly in his seat.
“Do you think… I could have a listen?”
You nod vigorously, calming yourself before carefully laying the white earbuds in his hands. He takes the music and stuffs them in his ears, moving to the sound booming through his veins. You laugh, watching him swaying to soft the ticks now ringing in his mind, soft words staining his skin.
“I’m assuming you like it?”
“I love it!” He’s smiling so bright that his cheeks hurt, shifting the buds back into your hands. “I-I’m Tom.”
He’s scratching the back his neck, smiling as your name lands on his ears.
“It’s an absolute honour to meet you.”
You didn’t know what you were expecting when you fell in love with a writer.
He was always searching for something. Words in a language he couldn’t read, metaphors hidden in the crevices of your skin. He’d write for hours on end, eyebrows knit together atop his eyes, glasses laying neatly on the edge of his nose. He’d write for hours, but end up erasing it all within a minute because of course, it wasn’t enough, it was never enough.
You’d stare at him from your spot on the couch, gaze lingering on the bags shadowed under his eyes. His eyes are glued to the screen, watching words he’d just written disappear with a simply flick of his mouse, sighing at the one word left staring back at him.
Oh, how was he supposed to describe this to someone who’s never felt it? How was he supposed to describe your eyes, so dark, alluring, bright. Like some paradox that didn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, but did. How was he supposed to explain the way your fingers slid down his arm, pressing your skin against his, feeling every inch of you no one else did. He’d try to stretch words together; make them understand just what he felt every time he woke up to your lips a mere centimetre away, nose touching, eyes staring.
You were more than stories of aimless dreamers with their nose stuck in books, pondering their could be. He couldn’t explain how love was never a could be. It was a meant to be, cross stitched together, ugly, beautiful, loud, quiet, calming, hectic, amazing, wonderful, alive.
It was living, breathing, moving.
It smudged the ink of perfectly crafted words, broke apart once upon a dream and made them happily ever after. Love was all metaphors and things you couldn’t understand but god, you tried, you tried.
You both did and Tom still can’t find the words to describe something wrapped around his fingertips, something so infinitely beautiful.
You watch on, listening to his small rambles. He’s scrambling, he’s messing about, he’s writing, but he can’t find the words and you can’t help him.
Why was it so hard to describe something so real.
He understands now.
He understands why he couldn’t describe the feel of your skin. Perhaps it was merely a ghost, a high that simply fluttered about only to leave him broken afterwards. What do you expect when you love a writer.
Do you expect love letters? Do you expect symphonies sung onto your lips, choruses painted on your eyelids. Do you expect heartbreak? Do you expect forever.
You think you did. Both of you did.
What is it to him now? Is the words you left behind in meshes too fast - can’t… not anymore - Is it in the clothes you left behind, in the smell that poisons his system - I have to go… sorry - is it in the bed you left half empty, is it in the poems you left him. The ones in pieces, the one of hints.
You surely couldn’t love words. You surely couldn’t love a metaphor. He should’ve known as much, he should’ve known he was too complicated to love someone so, so simple in the most beautiful way.
He was too much of a mess, he was too much of a worker, he was too much, too much.
You didn’t know how to love him, and he didn’t know how to keep you.
Perhaps, that was how it was meant to be.
He’s finished his piece.
He stares at it for the last time, seeing the flash of your eyes before you turned away from him - I tried - embedded in every word. He almost laughs at how ironic it all is.
How he describes your touch perfectly - it was fleeting, but infinite. Smooth and innocent. Electricity burning through every inch of your veins - how he described your eyes, your heart beat in sync against his as you laid together through silent nights.
He hates how he knows what love is in words when it already left his life in burning crisps.
He writes like he’s in love; like you never left, like he didn’t feel his heart crack after you stepped on it with your flying steps. He writes like a reader, like the dreamers he used to laugh at, the ones who looked for love in the words that were never meant for them.
Perhaps you were the writer the whole time.
You wrote words in his eyelashes, painting your own paradox in his hands. You read and edited him with every look, with every smile, with every goddamn kiss. Maybe you didn’t know how to love him, so you tried to be him and only ended up losing yourself in the process.
No longer the girl he met in the cafe so many months ago, watching with pink cheeks as you talked for hours. No longer the boy who slipped a note into your bag everyday before you left - if I could talk of perfect, it would my name coming off your lips. No longer the bustling writer who fell in love too fast, too soon, too late.
He sends away your relationship in beautiful words, in the only things he can piece together when he thinks of your voice.
(248-329) - Roman Empress; instrumental in the conversion of her son
Constantine and the Romans to Christianity; revered as one of the most
important women in the history of Western Civilization.
Pulcheria (399-453) - Roman Empress; a major force in Roman politics and ecclesiastical history.
Clotilde (475-545) - Queen of the Franks; instrumental in the conversion of her husband Clovis and the Franks to Christianity.
Theodora (500-548) - Byzantine Empress; one of the most influential and powerful empresses of Byzantium.
Olga of Kiev (890-969) - Princess and Regent of Kievan Rus’;
instrumental in the conversion of her grandson Vladimir the Great and
Old Rus’ to Christianity.
Margaret of Scotland (1045-1093) -
Queen of Scotland; founded churches, monasteries, hostels and towns;
called “The Pearl of Scotland”.
Matilda of Canossa (1046-1115) -
Imperial Vicar and Queen of Italy; countess, duchess, and marquise;
noted for her military accomplishments; called the “Honor and Glory of
Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179) - German nun, writer,
composer, philosopher, mystic, visionary, and polymath; mother of German
botany; founder of scientific natural history in Germany.
Maud of England (1102-1167) - Holy Roman Empress, Queen of Germany and Italy; called the “She-Wolf of England”.
Eleanor of Aquitaine (1122-1204) - Queen of France and England, Duchess
of Aquitaine; the most powerful woman in western Europe during the High
Clare of Assisi (1194-1253) - Italian nun and founder of the Poor Clares; first woman to write a monastic rule.
Trota of Salerno (12th century) - Italian physician and medical writer; wrote the Trotula texts on women’s medicine.
Gertrude the Great (1256-1302) - German nun and mystic; the only female saint to be called “the Great”.
Isabella of France (1295-1358) - Queen of England; called the “She-Wolf of France”.
Joanna of Flanders (1295-1374) - Duchess of Brittany; noted for her military accomplishments.
Bridget of Sweden (1303-1373) - Swedish nun and mystic; one of the most popular saints in history.
Alessandra Giliani (1307-1326) - Italian anatomist and prosector; first woman to practice pathology.
Elizabeth of Bosnia ( 1339-1387) - Queen of Hungary and Poland; one of the most powerful monarchs of her time.
Julian of Norwich (1342-1416) - English anchoress and mystic; first woman to write a book in the English language.
Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) - Italian nun, mystic, writer, and
patron saint of Europe; one of the most influential women of the 14th
Christine de Pisan (1364-1430) - Italian poet,
essayist and biographer; court writer for the Royal court in France;
wrote 41 works.
Margery Kempe (1373-1438) - English mystic and writer; wrote the first autobiography in the English language.
Jadwiga of Poland (1373-1399) - Queen of Poland and Grand Duchess of
Lithuania; first female monarch of Poland; instrumental in the
conversion of Lithuania to Christianity and the union of Poland and
Joan of Arc (1412-1431) - French heroine and national symbol of France; defended France during the Hundred Years’ War.
Margaret of Anjou (1430-1482) - Queen of England; personally led the Lancastrians during the Wars of the Roses.
Isabella I of Castile (1451-1504) - Queen of Castile, Leon, Aragon and
Sicily; completed the Reconquista of Spain and financed Christopher
Caterina Sforza (1463-1509) - Countess of Forlì and
Lady of Imola; noted for her military accomplishments; called the
“Tigress of Forlì”.
Isabella d'Este (1474-1539) - Marchesa of
Mantua; one of the leading women of the Renaissance; called “The First
Lady of the world”.
Catherine of Aragon (1485-1536) - Queen of
England and Princess of Wales; instrumental in the English victory at
the Battle of Flodden.
Teresa of Avila (1515-1582) - Spanish nun, mystic and writer; one of the most popular saints in history.
Catherine de’ Medici (1519-1589) - Queen of France and Duchess of
Brittany; patron of the arts; the most powerful woman in 16th century
Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots (1542-1587) - Queen of
Scotland and France; one of the most famous figures in Scottish and
Artemisia Gentileschi (1593-1653) - Italian Baroque painter and first woman accepted into the Florentine Academy of Fine Arts.
Elena Cornaro Piscopia (1646-1684) - Italian mathematician and first woman to receive a doctoral degree from a university.
Laura Bassi (1711-1778) - Italian scientist and first woman professor
to be appointed at a European university; called the “Walking Polyglot”.
Maria Gaetana Agnesi (1718-1799) - Italian mathematician and
philosopher; first woman to write a mathematics textbook; first woman
appointed as a Mathematics Professor at a University.
Head of Amenhotep III, from the Temple of Amun-Ra, Karnak
New Kingdom, 18th Dynasty,
Reign of Amenhotep III, ca.
height: 38 cms, (clay lined with stucco & painted). Egyptian Museum, Ground Floor, Room 12.
This clay head shows Amenhotep III with the face of a young man, almost in the Amarna style, with large almond-shaped eyes. Consequently, this head can be dated to the end of his reign. He wears the Blue War Crown, decorated with many small circles, while a uraeus can be seen at the forehead.
…if you don’t. You can’t make your heart feel something that it won’t.
a Tony Stark series; author: @clareae | chapter 01
genre: romance, action
word count: 1387 words
summary: Reader and Tony found comfort in each other while they were trying to mend their own broken hearts.
a/n: Welcome to the first chapter of my first series! This story is inspired by one of my favourite songs, I Can’t Make You Love Me by Bonnie Raittand it begins after The Winter Soldier and before the Age of Ultron, meaning there will be no Bucky, Wanda, Pietro, and Vision for the first few chapters. I hope you guys enjoy this series involving reader and Tony, but note that you won’t see that pairing until a few chapters, so meanwhile enjoy some Steven and reader fluff!
You liked the air conditioning on full blast even though you’ll end up freezing at night and pulling the duvet up to your chin. As per usual, when the sun was just about to rise, you reached out across the king-sized bed and felt a warm presence on your fingertips. You shifted across the bed and lifted his right arm before snuggling yourself under to it to find warmth from the cold air, resting your entire body against him. It took Steve a second to respond, but he was always the light sleeper that he’d notice every move you were making. He pulled you closer against his body and rubbed your back, sending warmth across your frame; he knew that you wouldn’t want the air conditioning to be turned off because then you’d feel too hot to cuddle him and he wouldn’t want the morning snuggles to stop.
The two of you fell right back asleep until the sun finally rises and JARVIS had the windows slowly lose its dimming night-effect as the sunshine grows brighter.
Steve’s lips made its way from the top of your head, to your forehead, down to the tip of your nose, and finally pressed them against yours.
“Good morning,” he greeted you.
“No…five more minutes,” You groaned and mumbled, needing more sleep after an incredibly long and tiring week filled with endless work.
Steve chuckled, slowly running his hand up and down your back, occasionally wiggling his fingers on your waist to tickle you, causing you to laugh.
“It’s too early,” you protested with a smile you couldn’t suppress, finally opening your eyes to look at him. His blue eyes were best view when the sun is shining, causing you to notice the bits of green freckles to those blue hues.
A few moments later, the two of you were the first to sit on the chairs around the kitchen island, enjoying your breakfasts while teasing each other. One by one, everyone emerged. Tony would be the first; usually he was grabbing some junk food before heading to sleep.
“You know life is great when your mornings are filled with watching a 95-year-old man and a girl about seven decades younger than him play footsie with each other,” Tony commented sarcastically as he snatched the two stripes of bacon from your plate. Both of you learned to just shrug it off, knowing that he was joking–probably just jealous because even though he and Pepper works just as hard as the two of you, they have less time for each other.
He went off to bed and that was when Bruce would usually walk out of his room, tugging his long sleeves before pouring himself some of the coffee you left in the coffee maker. Nat was next, followed by Sam. The two of them helped themselves to some coffee before Nat headed to Clint’s bedroom to drag him from his ‘nest’. They’d cook themselves breakfast and all of you threw remarks at each other and made fun of each other before it’s finally time to shower and get ready for whatever it is you had to do that day.
Steve had just came back home from a mission and that means he gets some time off before he has to work again if there is no emergency that needed Captain America. You were excited about the day you two are going to have, but it was not to last as expected.
“Cap, you need to see this,” Sam came out of nowhere and handed him an iPad while the two of you were lounging in front of the TV.
You peeked into the video footage that showed a masked figure walking in the middle of the street with a lot of people around him. Without even looking at it, you already knew who it was. Bucky had been a part of Steve’s life since before you even met him, obviously. The day Steve met Bucky was one of the hardest days for the two of you; Steve had to send you to a safe house to avoid anyone ever looking for you in case they know about you while he was accused of betraying the country. Right after that, Steve went on a nonstop search for his long lost best friend who he didn’t even know was alive.
Of course, Steve would come home every now and again to get some rest after searching for Bucky tirelessly along with Sam, but on those days he would spend his time still making sure that he has eyes everywhere looking for Bucky.
Sam had already filled Steve in with every information he has about the footage while you were in deep thought. You knew this meant that Steve was going away again; but you do not know when he would lose Bucky’s trail again, or find an empty apartment that Bucky once lived in, or even maybe finally catch on to Bucky. Sometimes he’ll leave for three days, other times a week, and rarely, the whole month–maybe more. As Sam left to get ready, Steve had already turned his head to look at you.
He knew you were disappointed. You didn’t spend Thanksgiving together, nor did you spend Christmas, and the New Year’s. You were hoping you could spend Valentine’s Day together–cheesy as it might–but you just wanted to celebrate a day with him. A day where you both can get a day off from work and just concentrate on the relationship you have been building for almost a year. You looked back at him with a sad smile.
“I have to go,” he simply said, noting the sadness in your eyes.
“I know,” you sighed. There was really never stopping him; there was never even a debate on whether or not you’ll let him go.
You stood up and he stood up too, making your way back to your bedroom to help him get ready with his gear. He’d change to his suits while you pack some fresh clothes and some essentials. While you fit his white t-shirt in his bag, you smiled at the thought of the first time he let you pack for him.
“(Y/N), at this rate you’re going to break my only bag,” he chuckled, looking at you trying to zip up his overloaded bag as he strapped up. “What are you even packing in there?” Steve asked, walking over to you and opening up the duffel bag before he broke into a laugh.
“What? I don’t know how long you’re going to be gone for and I just want to make sure that you have enough clothes. Pretty sure you’re not going to have enough time to do laundry or send your clothes to dry cleaning,” You defended yourself.
“Sweetie, I’m not going on a vacation, I don’t need that many jackets,” he chuckled as he pulled out two out of the three jacket you brought him. “Or pajamas,” Steve added again while he also pulled out the pajamas you brought him.
“I told you, I know you’re not going to do laundry so what if your pajamas is dirty or your jacket gets mud all over them? Better safe than sorry,” you shrugged, putting the clothes he took out back inside his wardrobe.
“I’m going to be in my suit the whole time, so-” Steve paused mid-sentence and pulled out a couple laundry bags. “What?” He laughed.
“I thought you were going to have dirty clothes, so you have to separate them,” you explained yourself while you laughed along with him. Steve pulled you into a tight hug.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said.
He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he paused. “But I do have to go. I gotta find him,” Steve said.
You wanted to make him stay, but you knew you can’t be selfish with this so you turned around and hugged him back. “I know,” you simply said. “I just want you to be careful, that’s all,” you lied–well not really, you do want him to be careful but you also want him to just stay.
“I love you,” Steve kissed you. “I’m going to be back before you know it,” he promised you.
Dean x Reader Warnings: none I think Word Count: 1387
“Get back to the car,” Dean growled.
It was just you and Dean on the hunt. Sam was stuck back at the motel with a broken arm, courtesy of the previous hunt. Dean had deemed him unfit to fight, leaving it to you two to hunt down a ghost that had been terrorizing a small town in Wyoming.
Things weren’t going as you guys had planned. The ghost was a hell of a lot more aggressive than you had anticipated, knocking you aside with little effort. With the wave of its hand you crashed into the wall of the dilapidated house before scrambling to get back up.
“I said get back to the car dammit!” Dean yelled, cocking his gun. There was no way in hell you were going to leave without a fight, but Dean’s hard glare sent you running. The bones were supposed to be around the house somewhere, so you grabbed the shovel you had brought, along with the salt and kerosene and booked it.
In no time flames roared before you, the bones burning into nothing but ash. You gazed into the fire, the warmth radiating off of it almost making you forget why you were there in the first place.
You turned to see Dean limping towards you, leaning on his shotgun for support. You rushed to him, holding his weight up as he shifted. “I think I should be asking you the same question.”
You helped him hobble closer to the fire. With a sigh of relief he ran a hand through his hair.
“One heck of a day huh?” Dean stared into the fire as you glanced up at him. You drew your lips into a thin line before nodding. Hell yeah it has been, you thought but if it weren’t for today you wouldn’t be standing there with Dean.
Looking back up at him you watched in admiration as his features softened under the light of the flames. The fire seemed to illuminate his eyes, making them almost glow, and the light freckles on his face reminded you of the stars that decorated the sky above. They seemed to create their own constellations, and it was only you who really noticed. And that small smile, the one he reserved for moments like this, curled his lips up just enough for you to get a glimpse of the Dean you always wished to see.
He constantly had his walls up, guarding what he could, but when he felt truly safe, those walls would come crumbling down. Right now for instance was one of those rare moments his walls were down, and you were grateful that he felt safe enough to lower them.
During your little reverie, Dean glanced down at you, catching the way your eyes lingered on him. “You okay?” Worry laced his voice, as he knew the faces you made when you were thinking. You gave him a small smile before nodding. “Yeah I’m okay,” you whispered.
Back at the motel, long gone was Dean’s warm embrace, replaced by the hard exterior he usually had up. The car ride had been uneventful, the impala breaking down about halfway through your drive back home. Dean had jumped out of the car almost as soon as it had stalled, yelling and cursing about how he just wanted to get back to the motel to sleep. You had watched from the car as Dean raised his good arm to shake his fist at the night sky before popping the hood open. He spent a good half hour trying to fix the car before you finally found your way back to the motel.
“You guys alright?” Sam sat up from his place on the bed, eyeing your sullen expression and Dean’s limp.
“Just peachy,” Dean fake smiled. “I think my arm’s popped out of its socket.” His low gravelly tone pierced through you, the exact opposite of what it had been when you stood together before the fire.
You pursed your lips while Sam tended to Dean, slipping away to the bathroom. You peeled your shirt off, grimacing at the way the sweat and dirt seemed to cling to you. Your body ached and the day seemed to finally take its toll on you. Oh what you’d give for a nice cup of coffee right now. Sadly, on your way back to the room, you found that the motel’s only coffeemaker was conveniently broken, and Dean was way too tired to drive a few miles down to the closest coffee shop. Settling for a soda from the sketchy vending machine, you hoped the little caffeine in it would help keep you from passing out in the shower.
Stripping off your clothes, you were almost excited to get into the shower. You never liked walking around all bloody and dirty, especially when you were tired because it just bothered you all the more. Pulling aside the shower curtain you went to step in, but a light knock at the door stopped you and you quickly pulled your shirt back on.
“Yeah?” You called out.
“Can I come in?” Dean’s muffled voice came. You quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your waist.
“Yeah,” you sighed.
Dean peeked his head in before slipping in and shutting the door quietly. You stood by the sink, watching him. “You okay?” He asked, worry once again evident. You almost scoffed. Did you look okay?
“I’m fine. Why do you keep asking?” You snapped.
Dean’s face fell and he seemed to be at a loss for words. “I-I uh sorry. I just thought… you know what? Never mind,” he scratched at his neck before turning to leave.
“Wait…I’m sorry. Just tired is all,” you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Are you okay?” you prodded. “You’ve asked me twice today Dean.”
He scuffed his foot on the ground and laced his fingers behind him. He was the spitting image of a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
“Uh yeah, of course I’m okay.”
“You can’t fool me Dean. I know something’s up, spill it.”
Looking down at the ground, he only shook his head. “Come on. What’s wrong?”
Dean slowly approached you, not meeting your eyes as if he had done something wrong. It was your turn to be at a loss for words as he came in closer, pressing you against the small sink.
“Just worried is all. That ghost earlier threw you pretty hard.”
You smiled up at him. “You know I can handle it. I’m fine now anyways. Maybe a little bruised, but I’m fine,” you reassured.
He slowly pulled you into a hug, his hands finding your waist and your arms around his neck. You leaned into him, his scent enveloping you with the scent of well, Dean. It was a mixture of beer, sweat, and something unmistakably Dean. You weren’t quite sure how to describe it other than the fact that it was almost intoxicating. And for some reason, you just wanted more.
Tucking your head into the crook of his neck, he rested his head on yours. Aside from his killer glare and bad assery, Dean Winchester was like a teddy bear. The guy couldn’t get any softer than this.
“You’re really warm…” you thought aloud.
“What?” He chuckled.
“You heard me Winchester. You’re warm,” you reiterated, pulling away to look up at him.
Again his green eyes seemed to glow, the same way they had in front of the fire. Except this time you were the reason why they glowed. Dipping his head down his lips caught yours, throwing you into a hazy state of excitement and confusion. He tugged lightly at your bottom lip before pulling away to pepper kisses all over your face. You giggled as he placed one last swift kiss to your nose, before slowly pulling away to look at you.
You again admired the freckles that you had seen so many times before. The way they seemed to form their own little constellations made you wonder if Dean realized how much he meant to you. Your eyes widened when you realized you had thought aloud. His lips pulled into a small smile as he pulled you in again, “not as much as you mean to me.”