Bruce: Sweat, leather, expensive cologne, that dry scent that tells you he’s carrying money in his pockets, scotch, envelopes. he likes to wear the best colognes because he has an image to keep, but when it’s just him he smells the way a father would smell. the batmobile smells like him so when he was dead his kids would sit in the car and just breathe it in so they’d never forget what he smelled like
Dick: Fresh linen, fancy soaps Alfred bought for him, cereal, green apples, new car smell, hair gel, cheap wine, aftershave. he smells like one of those guys who wears ten different colognes to impress women, though in Dick’s case most of the time it’s just the way he naturally smells and it’s intoxicating
Barbara: Lemons, cotton, honeysuckle, that familiar smell all computers seem to have, glossy magazines. she just smells really comforting and familiar, like that feeling you get when you hug your mom
Jason: Cigarettes, sweat, gunpowder, leather jackets, the familiar alleys of Gotham City, freshly baked bread, buttery popcorn, dusty old books, cheap cologne. he’s got a very musky scent, but there are so many different aromas going on at the same time that he smells like an odd mix of all of them
Cass: Jasmine shampoo, pine trees, the occasional faint scent of blood, the rubbery smell of bandages, cut flowers, scented candles, hot chocolate. she doesn’t wear perfume so she smells very natural
Tim: Coffee grounds, printer ink, new book smell, the earthy scent of rain on hot pavement, sharpies. he smells very homey. he doesn’t usually wear cologne, but he smells just as appealing as Dick does without even trying. when you hug him you just want to stay in his arms and inhale his comforting scent as long as you can
Stephanie: Cinnamon, strawberry shampoo, sugary perfume, coca-cola lip smackers, maple syrup, a warm sea breeze. she sprays on ten different perfumes at a time, so when people smell her they’re captivated by how many different aromas are going on at once. when you smell her it’s so inviting it just makes you want to be around her forever
Damian: Batcow’s stables, butterscotch candies, the steel blade of his katana, paint from his artwork, pastel crayons, the earthy aroma of freshly dug soil. he always smells like Alfred’s garden, like dirt and green leaves and fresh vegetables. there’s always the slightest whiff of gingerbread too
self-titled era: shaking hands.old keyboards. friends that talk behind your back. the feeling you get after staying up too late. being sleepy all day but suddenly feeling awake at night. recovery. reaching the end of a tunnel. slowly lifting your head. realizing you can make a better life for yourself. drawing on your skin. burning old photos. abandoned theme parks. art shows. swimming pools.
RAB era: baseball fields. skinned knees. falling down after running really fast. collapsing at the end of a sports match. rained out events. resting in the shade on a hot day. shaved heads. summertime. the last few weeks of school. only leaving your house if you feel that that day is going to be important. sudden bursts of inspiration. finding creativity you never knew before. worrying about everything. the lump in your throat after you’re trying not to cry. things building up. unspoken words. dogs. hiking. cleats.
Vessel: sudden fellowship with others. finally reaching out to your friends. the cold rush of air on your face when a door opens. raising your arms towards the sky. finally getting counseling. screaming, but not knowing why. night terrors. pine trees. a feeling of being lost. lonely in a room of people. soda. carbonated water. pink and yellow and red and gray. smiling over sadness. anxiety. butterflies in your stomach. the smile you get when you begin to realize everything will be alright.
Blurryface: realizing that your friends have helped you, but now is the part of the battle you must fight on your own. blasting music in the car. summer days. hot pavement. empty rooms. moving houses. shouting just to hear an echo. late nights driving. nightmares. graffiti. sirens. doing bad things, but desperately wishing you could do good. doing good but can’t stop thinking about bad things. fighting against the darkness that no one else can see. cracks in the ceiling. basements. spaces where you don’t feel quite real. falling into bed after a long day. the final great battle before the end of the war.
If you ever think your 12 year old self was an idiot just remember this:
one time when I was in seventh grade I decided to walk home from the community center without wearing any shoes. But it was like 98 degrees outside, so obviously the pavement was hot as balls, but I stubbornly continued to walk home barefoot. Long story short I got second degree burns from the pavement and painful blisters on every part of my feet. When I had to explain to my parents why the hell I walked home barefoot I told them that my shoes were hurting my feet. I ended up going to go see doctors, and I wore inserts in my shoes for three years. My parents even considered surgery to fix my feet so that they wouldn’t hurt.
I never had the courage to tell them that the reason why I walked barefoot that one day was not because my feet hurt, but because, being an avid fan of Avatar: The Last Airbender, I had wanted fucking callouses on my feet like Toph
A list of my greatest fears in no particular order: Loss of composure. Death by exposure. The collective myth of closure. I’d call it progress but I still haven’t learned to regress any slower. The truth is, I’m not good or enough or getting any better at being good enough. How can you own your own thoughts when somebody else has already thought them? No reason to keep trying, but I do anyway. I struggle anyway. Wake up anyway. Too stubborn to try things a different way. I glued all my shoes to the floor of my childhood room and now I’m too afraid to brave the hot pavement barefoot.
Could you rec me some pynch fics? I always have trouble finding ones that I enjoy thanks 💕
YOU HAVE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE MY FRIEND
so i broke them down into three categories based on how i have them all bookmarked in my favorites. i’m also sure i’m missing a bunch of other amazing fics but these are ones i’m particularly weak for!
Hold On- Rating: T (adam getting a tattoo G O O D B Y E)
astra inclinant, sed non obligant. - Rating: E (okay so this is if ronan was a part of the dream pack but adam still becomes friends with gansey, noah, and blue. there’s some rovinsky but it’s in progress and so i think pynch is still endgame)
Beverly’s voice was desperate and high-pitched. She hiccupped over her own sobs, her hands pumping Richie’s chest. He was completely still, bleeding profusely, and non-responsive. The dark bags under his eyes were nearly black, but Beverly couldn’t tell if they were due to lack of sleep or the merciless wrath of Henry Bowers.
“Please, please, please-” She practically chanted, a disgusting trail of snot gathering at her cupid’s bow, but she refused to remove her hands, “Richie, wake up! You fucking asshole, wake up!”
The pavement was hot under the the beating rays of the sun, although Richie could not feel it. His skin was pale, body thin, lips beyond chapped. Beverly straddled Richie’s stomach, her palms flat against the middle of his ribs.
“C’mon, c’mon - come on - this has to work, Richie. You have to wake up.”
As she heaved over his body, a line of saliva dripped from her mouth. Her vision was severely blurred, blood beginning to seep into her tights and single white sock. She glanced up at her other sock, which was tied tight around Richie’s severed forearm. Beverly shook her head, partly in denial and partly in shock. She slipped, her forehead knocking against Richie’s sharp chin.
“Help!” She called out in despair, her voice hoarse and raw, “My friend - please - My friend needs help!”
And, her hands were on his chest again, pumping rapidly. Her head spun, breathing ragged and pained. A shrill scream startled her, followed by the clang of another bike joining the heap.
“Eddie, slow down - holy shit!”
Beverly looked up, wide-eyed and shaking. Her hands continued to work at Richie’s chest, trying to force his lungs to work again. Bill, Stan, Eddie, and Ben stared back at her, all in shock. Stan hunched over at the sight of Richie’s blood leaking all over the pavement, Bill’s hand immediately meeting his back.
“Don’t just stand there!” Beverly shouted at the boys, spitting and snotting everywhere, “Go! He’s not breathing, go get help!”
Bill and Stan nodded, still on their bikes. They pedaled away as quickly as they could. Eddie stood next to Ben, his bike leaning on the stack. Ben gripped his own handlebars as his bike rested against one of his legs.
“I’m going to get Mike.” He stated in a rush, heading off in the opposite direction.
Eddie watched as Beverly sobbed over his lifeless ex. Her thin, bloody hands pressed down on his chest, quiet pleads falling from her cracked lips. Eddie’s feet dragged him, his breathing becoming more and more rough as the approached the two.
He fell to the ground, his knees splashing in the red puddle that he didn’t seem to notice. His hands cupped Richie’s face, forcing the head to look at him - although, the eyes did not see.
“Rich, wake up,” muttered Eddie, voice cracking as he gave Richie’s cheek a pinch.
Beverly began to cry even harder, her hands and wrists throbbing.
Eddie coughed out a sob, gripping Richie’s face tighter, “This isn’t fucking funny, Richie,” He spoke in a louder tone, “Wake up! Stop messing around!”
Beverly fell slack, her hands finally reaching up to wipe at her mouth and nose. Her face was contorted as she cried harder than she ever had before, her chest aching excruciatingly.
“I’ll give you a cigarette if you wake up,” He tried to coax, “I know how much you love those disgusting cancer sticks - I won’t even get mad at you, I promise!”
Eddie let out a small noise that reminded Beverly of something between a whimper and wheeze, his head dropped to Richie’s shoulder, hands grasping at his arm and bicep. He wept into Richie’s ruined shirt, dark curls tickling his forehead.
“I promise, I promise, I promise - I’ll never get mad at you again. Just, please wake up. Please.”
Eddie’s fingers brushed a piece of wet cloth, his head lifting to examine it. A blood-soaked sock knotted around the middle of his lanky arm. Eddie tugged at the knot, his fingers trembling and numb. Beverly’s hand came down on his.
“Don’t.” She warned, “Don’t look at that, Eddie.”
Eddie gave a slow nod, settling for lacing his fingers with Richie’s cold ones.
“What did he use?” The question came out, though he wasn’t sure if it was his mouth that had said it. He didn’t want to know the answer.
Beverly shook her head, “He didn’t do it himself. It was-” She stopped, her lip wobbling, “- He chased down Bowers. Richie kept picking a fight with him, I tried to stop him but he was just so angry.”
Eddie stared at their intertwined hands, his fingers fiddling with the ring on Richie’s finger. He looked up at Beverly, who was sitting still on Richie’s stomach.
“You stopped,” Eddie pointed out, gesturing to her limp hands , “Why’d you stop? We have to help him!”
“Don’t fucking call me that!” He was screaming, tears streaming steadily down his cheeks, “You’re not Richie, he’s the only one calls me that!”
Beverly began to apologize, but instead let out a yelp as Eddie gave her an angry shove. She fell back off of Richie’s body, elbows hitting the burning pavement. Eddie took her place, placing a leg on either side of Richie and placing his palms on the boy’s chest.
His hands pushed down on Richie’s chest. Even through his shirt, Eddie could feel the cold radiating from his skin, goosebumps rising on his own arms despite the sweltering weather.
“Why’re you so cold, babe?” Eddie whispered, his hot tears splashing onto Richie’s neck, “You’re always warm - I love how warm you usually are. My little heater, you’ve gone cold.”
“Warm up, Richie. You’re okay, you’re just cold.”
“- Eddie, stop, look at me!”
“Cold, cold, cold; my cold boy.”
Beverly heard sirens approaching, the sirens that would hopefully save Richie’s life. Time seemed to pass at ultra speed; large, white trucks with obnoxious, flashing lights stopped mere feet away from the kids, men rushed from the trucks, bringing equipment out with them - Eddie was shouting at the men, purely out of anger and worry. His small hands pushed away anyone who came close, face flushed bright red.
Beverly hooked her arms around Eddie’s waist from behind, jerking him off of Richie. A mask was placed on his face, forcing air into his lungs.
“He’s not breathing - hurry and load him up!” One of the men instructed, climbing into the back and grabbing the end of the stretcher to help pull Richie in.
Eddie fought against Beverly’s arms as she held him. He sat between her legs on the concrete, she cried into his neck as he writhed almost painfully.
“He’s cold!” Eddie shrieked as they drove off, “He’s cold, warm him up!”
Beverly didn’t loosen her grip until the ambulance was out of sight, but Eddie did not move. He sunk into her, his bloody hands netted into his dark locks.
“Warm him up, warm him up, warm him up-” He repeated under his breath like a prayer, “My baby went cold, he’ll be okay after he’s warm again.”
Appreciate the small things in life. Appreciate the way the sun filters onto someone’s face for a split second. Appreciate the half smile of a person who’s sometimes too sad to speak. Appreciate the mouthed thank you’s of a person whose heart you’ve touched. Appreciate the conversations that flow as you sit on your bed, cross legged and facing each other. Appreciate the flash of a camera and the little nod someone gives you when they see something you don’t. Appreciate the way they twist their ring around their finger and stare out into the distance. Appreciate the squint of a person who hasn’t felt the familiarity of a laugh in so long. Appreciate the feeling of hot pavement on the bare bits of your back that haven’t been covered by your shirt. Appreciate the rush as the plane lifts you off the ground and to another place that you fancy a lot more than the place you’ve grown so accustomed to. Appreciate the way someone throws side glances at every mirror they pass after they get their hair dyed and the resultant small smile. Appreciate the flitting eyes of people who are in love with each other but are too scared to say anything. Appreciate the stare that lasts a split second longer. Appreciate the warmth in the eyes of someone who genuinely cares. Because soon you’ll realise that you’re made up of tiny, beautiful occurrences.
buttery yellow summer sunrises, soft baby blankets, creaky swing sets, old teddy bears, apple trees, bright blue paddle pools, baby powder, rain on hot pavement, the sound of spoke beads, rosy hot summer sunsets, fevers and popsicles, glowing night lights, an air conditioned grocery store on a hot summer day, the scent of spilled bubble solution, rainbow water balloons, barefoot on a trampoline, farm roads, 2001 newspaper articles, little golden books, classic care bears cartoons
I’m BEYOND pissed
This is what happened at REI tonight with a fake service dog (REI’s near me only allow service animals). I went in with Kasida to get her some boots for the hot pavement. I was putting one on her to make sure it fit after I measured her paw. My back was facing the main aisle and I hear Kasida start to whine. I heard a commotion behind me and stood up. There was a dog lunging at Kasida and if I hadn’t have stood up I would have gotten attacked. Kasida freaked out and backed up and got caught on a basket. It took me 15 minutes to get her unhooked from it. My mom yelled at the guy and asked if it was a service dog and he smirked and nodded his head. I AM ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS. First your pet was going to attack my dog. Second of all its illegal to fake a service dog. Third of all Kasida is a seizure alert dog. My seizures tend to be violent and can become life threatening. Your stupid dog could have made her miss an alert, and if she had and I had a seizure, I’d potentialy be in the hospital or worse. DO NOT FAKE SERVICE ANIMALS. DO NOT HARRASS SERVICE ANIMALS. DO NOT INTERACT WITH THEM.
Sorry for the rant
you are already dating someone else, and during our love potion unit, you get asked to explain what you smell, and of course you’re gonna be smelling things that describe your partner right? uhm, but then why are you explicitly describing me…?
“See ya, love,” Bucky says, giving Dot a peck on the cheek and a pat on the ass.
“Don’t be giving that love potion to another girl,” Dot warns, elbowing Bucky’s side.
Bucky groans with exaggerated pain, like the mild elbow to the side actually hurt him. It didn’t. Steve knows that because he knows that Bucky can withstand a lot of pain.
“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart,” Bucky says with a grin. “You know you’re it for me,” he adds in a smooth voice, putting a hand on her hip.
Steve rolls his eyes from next to them. Bucky’s his best friend, so being the third wheel is better than being left behind; though, sometimes he wonders about that. “We’re gonna be late,” he says, not because he’s that worried about being late, but he really doesn’t want to stand there as the two of them make out. Again.
“Shit,” Bucky says, disengaging from Dot. “Steve’s right, we gotta go,” he says, dropping Dot and grabbing Steve’s arm. “Thanks for letting me know, bud,” Bucky says with this big, lingering smile that makes Steve forget all about how stupid Bucky acts when he’s dating somebody. It’s like he promised back in second year when he started dating Clara — he’ll always be Steve’s friend first.
Steve smiles back. “Happy to,” he says, a and lets Bucky drag him the rest of the way down the dungeon to Potions class.
They’re there just in time, and Professor Slughorn chuckles at the sight of them. “Barnes, my boy! Glad you made it here on time, I wasn’t so sure, you know, when you spend your time between classes with your lady friend.” Bucky shrugs with a smug smile as Professor Slughorn chuckles to himself. “I understand, you see, I was once a young man like yourself, though it seems hard to believe today. Why don’t you take your seat, then? I think you’ll enjoy today’s lesson, and… Oh, Roger, didn’t see you behind Barnes. You can take your seat, too.”
“It’s Rogers,” Bucky corrects, polite but firm, and Steve can’t help but smile at his friend. “Steve Rogers.”
“Yes, well, that’s fine,” Professor Slughorn says. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“You think he’ll ever learn my name?” Steve asks Bucky as they head to their seats.
“No,” Bucky says, “but you ever considered that may be a good thing? His dinner parties are tedious as hell. You know he sat me by Brock Rumlow last time, of all people? I hate Brock Rumlow, the asshole.”
“I know,” Steve says. “You didn’t shut up about it for about two weeks.”
“It was that bad,” Bucky says, pulling his textbook from his bed.
There’s a lot Steve could be jealous of Bucky about, but Professor Slughorn’s adoration for him isn’t one of them. Slughorn’s kind of a prick, and while Steve would like to be invited to his fancy dinner parties, Bucky will always slip an extra dessert into a napkin to bring back to Gryffindor Tower for Steve. They’ll usually spend the rest of the night huddled in Steve’s bed, gossiping about the people at Slughorn’s party and all the stupid stuff they did during the night.
Honestly, Steve really likes those nights.
“You know what we’re doing today?” Bucky asks, trying to find the page for last night’s homework. Of course, it only takes him a second, because he actually does all of his homework and reading, unlike most everyone in class. Somehow, Bucky is the nerdiest guy he knows, which is unfair given that he’s also the hottest guy he knows, and he somehow manages to make it work.
“Slughorn said it would be a happy surprise last time,” Steve says.
“I’m intrigued,” Bucky says.
“More like aroused,” Steve mutters. Bucky elbows him, and Steve yelps a little. Brock Rumlow glares at them from the other side of the room, and both Steve and Bucky shoot him a big grin, because they’re assholes, then dissolve into giggles.
“Everyone,” Slughorn says at the front of the room. Steve manages to calm himself down, but Bucky keeps giggling like the ass he is. Steve nudges his side, which just makes Bucky giggle more, but since Bucky is the apple of Slughorn’s creepy eye, Slughorn just ignores it. “Today, I’ve got a special surprise for you.” He lifts the lid off of the cauldron at the front of the room with a grin. “Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world.”
There’s a chorus of “oohs” from around the world. Brock says, “Jasper, maybe you’ll finally get a date!” loudly. Jasper swears at Brock under his breath.
“Keep calm, everyone,” Professor Slughorn says with a chuckle. “And no one will actually be giving anyone else any of this. It’s powerful stuff — not to be messed with. Now, can anyone tell me the properties of a properly brewed batch of Amortentia?”
They talk for a little while about the potion and how to brew it. Steve zones out a bit because, honestly, he’s not too great at Potions. He’s only here because Bucky asked him to take the class with him once they got their OWL scores and qualified. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here here.
“That’s right,” Professor Slughorn says. “The potion will smell like whatever it is that attracts a person most. Maybe we should have a demonstration…” He pauses, eyes surveying the room. “Yes, I think Mr. Barnes, one of our resident lovebirds, should be our guinea pig,” he says with a wink.
Someone in the class wolf-whistles. Bucky’s eyes go wide. “I’m alright,” he says.
“Don’t be shy, lad! Come on up and take a whiff.”
“Go on up,” Steve says with a grin. “I always wanted to know what it is that Dot smells like,” he says.
“You suck,” Bucky says as he stands up and heads to the front of the room.
“That’s it,” Professor Slughorn says as Bucky reaches them. “Step forward and take a good long whiff, then tell us what it’s like,” he says.
Bucky nods stiffly, then sticks his head into the pearly fumes of the potion. All at once his posture becomes more relaxed. “Wow,” he says quietly. “It’s… it’s like the smell of a riverbank, or hot pavement in the summer. It’s black cherry soda and fresh Irish soda bread with raisons. It’s fresh sheets in Gryffindor Tower and…” He trails off, then goes ramrod straight. “That’s it,” he says.
“Very descriptive, Mr. Barnes! And specific. It must be nice to be a young man in love,” he adds, with a chuckle.
“Can I sit?” Bucky asks.
“Of course, my boy!”
Bucky looks up and towards the table, and of course he sees Steve. Steve, who has been staring at Bucky this whole time, practically open-mouthed.
And Bucky runs out of the room.
Because Professor Slughorn is Professor Slughorn, he makes up an excuse for Bucky running out and laughs it off. Brock Rumlow laughs a little less kindly, but Steve barely notices.
All Steve can think of are the smells that Bucky listed:
A riverbank, hot pavement, black cherry soda, Irish soda bread, fresh sheets in Gryffindor Tower.
And Steve thinks of their summers together in Steve’s ma’s apartment, playing on the hot streets and watching the river pass them by before going home to drink black cherry sodas and to eat his ma’s Irish soda bread, an old family recipe. He thinks of all the nights they’ve spent together, sneaking into each other’s beds in Gryffindor Tower and keeping each other awake with comic books or gossip.
Those smells don’t describe Dot at all.
Those smells describe Steve. Those smells describe Steve and Bucky and the life that they’ve lived in each other’s pocket.
Steve finds Bucky after class in his bed in Gryffindor Tower, the curtains drawn. He’s taken off his robes and sits in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, hugging his knees close to his chest. His face is red, and his eyes are bloodshot like he’s been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he says as soon as Steve finds him.
“For what?” Steve asks.
“Making you carry my stuff up here,” Bucky says, surprising Steve.
Steve laughs and dumps Bucky’s bag down on the edge of his bed before climbing in himself. “How’d you know I’d bring it?” Steve asks.
“That’s just who you are,” Bucky says, curling in closer to himself. He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he says again.
“For what?” Steve asks, quiet.
“You know why,” Bucky says.
“It’s no something to be sorry about,” Steve says.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went up there,” Bucky says. “I thought it’d be generic shit, like the smell of roses or cologne.”
“I thought you did the reading,” Steve says.
Bucky looks up at him and glares. “Professor Slughorn didn’t assign any reading on this potion,” he says, cold.
Steve can’t help but laugh. “Okay, okay!” he says when Bucky keeps glaring at him.
“I’m so embarrassed,” Bucky says.
“It is a kind of shitty way for everyone in class to find out your crush.”
Bucky groans. “Was it so obvious?” he asks.
“That you weren’t talking about Dot, sure, since she’s a Ravenclaw and all.”
“Fuck,” Bucky says. He looks up. “Thanks for being cool about this,” he says, voice cracking. “I just… I didn’t ever expect for you to find out at all, let alone like this.”
Steve shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says. “Can’t say that I expected it, but you’re always surprising me.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Anyhow, you ran out before I could sniff it. You wanna know what I smelled?” he asks.
“Sure,” Bucky says. “Torture me.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Anyhow, I sniffed it and the only thing I could smell was that terrible body wash your ma sent you the time she went shopping in the Muggle supermarket.”
Bucky looks up. “The Old Spice?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.
Steve nods. “Yeah, you used the whole bottle even though it was kind of nasty because you didn’t want her to be sad.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says.
“And that’s like… all I smelled for about twelve solid seconds.”
Bucky swallows. “Are you making fun of me?” he asks, practically croaking.
“No,” Steve says. “It was the Old Spice. Once that stench faded, it was some other things: that old jean jacket that you let me wear sometimes, sugar mice, old musty books. Then, it was just you,” he says.
Bucky looks up. “Are you joking?” he asks.
“I’m serious,” Steve says. “I… I never thought you felt the same way. Never. If I did, I would have let you known a lot sooner.”
“I love you,” Bucky says. “I always have.”
Steve grins. “Me too,” he says. “And I have a few ideas on how we can mess up these clean sheets,” he says.
Steve groans. “You’re the worst. Such a nice moment and you ruined it.”
“Don’t worry,” Steve says, “we have a lifetime of moments ahead of us.”
Bucky grins. “Yeah,” he says. “We do.”
And then he leans in and gives Steve the first and best kiss of his life.
The wind plays the angel trumpets and our feet slap on the hot pavement. It was July that time and baby’s breath was still stuck in our hair. Even far away we heard the waves toppling over one another to caress the sand. We hold seashells to our ear like telephones, waiting for the sea to speak.
“I can taste the honeysuckle and lime, the olives and the granada. The rubies dangle from my mouth and slide down my throat with passion.”
Summary: Snapshots of Sam and Dean’s life together.
Tags/Triggers: none (I wrote something without smut. what???)
Dean glances across the small yard. “Yeah, Sammy?”
“Look! Lights?” Sam points a child-chubby finger into the air. His tiny arm is silhouetted against the darkening sky, and Dean squints into that weird time of dusk when things are visible until he looks right at them. They seem to disappear into the night when he looks too hard.
“Um, I don’t know much about cars but I don’t think Baby is supposed to be making that sound,” you said, Dean already veering over to pull onto the side of the road.
“It’s probably the fan belt slipping. I knew I was trying to be fast and didn’t put it on right,” said Dean, sighing as the rain came down around you. He twisted around in his seat, hoping you’d thrown his raincoat back there. You knew it was at home, still in the laundry basket after getting last week’s hunt out of it.
“Storm’s going through fast. We could just sit here,” you said. He glanced outside and turned the engine idle, sliding to the middle of the bench and pulling you next to him.
Dean put the radio on low, slouching back into the leather with one arm around you. No one said a word, wanted to be the one to break the peaceful atmosphere that had developed. You got so relaxed you almost fell asleep on top of him.
After an hour the clouds finally pulled away but Dean didn’t. He sat a little while longer, watching the steam come off the hot pavement, playing with the ends of your hair.
“Can I help with the fan belt?” you asked, spotting another smile on Dean’s face just as this one started to fade away.
Listening to hesitant alien is like coming home when you didn’t know you were away from it, it’s like smelling something familiar but not being able to place it, it’s like when the weather is rainy but sunny, it’s like houses with wood paneled interiors and plush orange carpets, it’s striped shirts and perfume and hot pavement and the sound of distant sirens. It’s so many different feelings and thoughts and experiences packed into one album that it’s just incredible
Nursey met Dex when they were just kids, 14, and Dex was clutching his backpack like he thought someone was going to steal it on the steps of Andover. Nursey was a legacy student, so he wasn’t nervous about getting in (the fact that no one else looked like him here put him on edge, he knew better than to curl up in on himself and give people a reason to attack him for being “antisocial” or “angry” even though he was just nervous like every other prospective student) so he latched onto Dex with a “hey man, be chill, act like you belong and they won’t know the difference” and Dex melted right into Nursey like he took all the stress right out of him.
15 and Nursey gets into Andover for his sophomore year of high school, and he thinks he could spend his whole life laying on the quad with Dex, the sun shining through the leaves that were just starting to turn the same orangey-red as his hair. Dex looked up into Nursey’s eyes and understood for the first time that old cliché about seeing galaxies in someone, and Dex could lean into Nursey’s calm composure the same way that Nursey could be sparked by Dex’s fire. They both felt complete, and that was more than either of them could have ever dreamed of.
16 and Dex is different when he comes back from summer vacation. He has bruises on his ribs and he’s coiled like a spring, and he snaps at Nursey when he tells him to “chill” (because that’s always been what worked before) and he’s started carrying an old catholic cross and going to mass, and once Nursey tries to hold him and Dex pulls away and Nursey can see the tears-what is he supposed to do? He’s not an asshole who pushes people to do things they don’t want to do, and if Dex is pulling away, he doesn’t know how to fix any of it, so Nursey lets it go, let’s Dex go, and tries not to think about what he’s missing.
17 and Dex drops out of Andover. Nursey graduates at the top of his class, and gets a hockey scholarship on top of an academic one from the Samwell English department. He writes about a lot, about the hot pavement of New York in the summer, the chill of the pond at Andover in February, the soft buds that poke their way through the mulch in springtime, and not a single word about fall.
18 and Nursey sees Dex, clutching his backpack on the steps of Faber, looking so nervous, so young, like he was just a kid again, and Nursey walks up to him, and does the one thing that always worked-he tells Dex to chill, and he means the same thing he always did. Let me help. Let me hold you. Let me be there.
lunchables, dirt-caked sneakers, hot pavement, back to school commercials, animal cracker boxes, the smell of woodchips after rain, popsicle stained tongues, sidewalk chalk, scraped knees, “summer 2005” on a tie-dye bouncy ball, ant traps, rooftop fireworks, bug spray odor, windowsill crickets, chlorine-and-ice-cream-cold, sleepy rainbows, a barbie diary full of stories
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Word Count: 1749
Description: In which a curly haired boy adorned in all
black, falls for the laugh of a passerby
All Rights Reserved
My jet black Doc
Martin’s echoed against the hot pavement with a deafening thud as the boys and
I trapesed the boulevard of Santa Monica Pier. We’d been location scouting with
management and a few publicists for several hours now, something most musicians
won’t share with the public, though it’s a very real and painfully monotonous
part of the job. I sighed, running my fingers absentmindedly through my shock
of hazel curls that perched atop my head, damp and not nearly as pompous as
they’d been at the start of the day, after several hours of constant sun
beating down on them.
“Yo dude, how much longer do you think we’re gonna be out
here?” I muttered in frustration to the blonde boy beside me. He shrugged,
chuckling dryly as he rolled his eyes.
“Beats me, I voted for the first location- ya know, the one
we visited 4 hours ago?!” I laughed,
nodding as I patted him on the back sympathetically. The locations scouts and publicists
walked ahead of us in rigid business suits and pursed lips, clutching a hefty
red binder and a clipboard, where locations would either check off their
requests, or not. So far- not. Finally,
we stopped walking. The publicist who seemed to be leading the pack, Wendy,
turned to us, her greying-blonde hair pulled tightly into a bun behind her head
and her dark pencil skirt as unyielding as cement when she walked. I sighed.
Just a reminder….I am STILL seeing people walking their dogs barefoot on the hot pavement. It’s 114 degrees outside right now. I feel like it should be common sense, but if you can’t walk on the hot pavement, NEITHER CAN YOUR DOG!!!!