#crimefighting by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
architeuthis for <user site="livejournal.com"
Jun. 13th, 2012 10:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_springflingTitle: #crimefighting
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: semi-public sex, dirty talk, mild violence.
Summary: Misha is not Batman. Jensen is not Commissioner Gordon. Twitter is definitely not the Bat-Signal.
Written byarchiteuthis for pigeongirl99!
For an instant when he hits the stair, Jensen thinks he's going to make it. A mere twenty feet of ice-slick metal staircase lies between him and a dash across the factory floor to freedom and safety. He can do this, he's a quarter of the way down, he can do this — but the ceiling sags above him and the staircase releases its grip on the wall with a squeal of metal and an arrhythmic popping of bolts coming loose from the old brick, and the whole thing sways out over the floor, threatening to pitch him into the disused jaws of the machines. His feet shoot out from under him, and he barely keeps his grip on the freezing handrail.
Fissures race across the ceiling, precipitating first dust and chunks of masonry onto Jensen, then actual precipitation: hail that rattles the staircase and stings Jensen through his clothes. One crack disgorges a heap of snow, then widens as the building begins to come apart in earnest, to admit the humming, whining remains of the Weatherman's machine. Jensen shields his face against the shrapnel of its landing, and almost misses the next thing, a bolt of light he half-sees through his eyelids in the instant before the Comet's arms close around him.
Then he is part of that bolt of light. They ricochet off two walls and out the garage door in the time it takes to think it. Jensen doesn't feel the impacts, or the g-forces when they change direction, or the wind that should be burning his face; he doesn't feel his body, only that the Comet has his arms locked around Jensen. He feels weightless, faster than light, untouchable.
It explains a lot about this asshole.
They bounce off the arm of a crane and skid to a halt on the roof of another factory just across the river, shedding the Comet's envelope of luminous white mist as they go. Jensen's never seen him land so sloppily, but Jensen's never seen him fly with another person, either. The Comet absorbs the impact with his body; when they stop he's underneath Jensen, arms folded protectively around Jensen's head.
This is the closest they've ever been to each other, and it's still hard to judge the Comet's features: everything below his nose is hidden by the high cylindrical collar of the leather jacket he wears for disturbing the peace and interfering with police business, and everything above that glows white. The same mist that surrounded them as they flew, or that they became, rolls off his skin and wells from his collar to form a nimbus around his head; his hair floats, like obedience to gravity is just something he affects and not all of him can be bothered.
His eyes are wild and he's breathing hard. "Christ, are you okay?"
Jensen scrambles to his feet and yanks his cellphone out of his pocket.
"'Weatherman asked me to drop by tonite,'" he reads off its screen. His own voice sounds tight and high to him. "'Think he's finally ready to talk about our relationship?'"
"Well, you're yelling, you must be fine," the Comet says, and hauls himself upright.
"Hashtag 'awkward', hashtag 'should I bring a bottle of wine'!"
"I'm great, thanks, Lieutenant. Luckily I landed on the ribs I don't— Hey!" he says, deflecting Jensen's thrown phone.
"You have an entire division obligated to pat you on the head and pretend you aren't responsible for more counts of property destruction, assault and God knows what than any other person in this city, so naturally instead of calling for backup you waltz into what is obviously—"
A clap of thunder cuts Jensen off. Across the water, the factory collapses into its own basement; the rubble seethes with lightning and frost. It's a warm night, but the cold from the Weatherman's device still has its teeth in Jensen, and now that he's shouted out some tension, he's shivering. He's going to have so much paperwork.
"I really did bring a bottle of wine," the Comet says, when they can hear each other again. From more than arm's length away, it's hard to identify his expression; he looks more like a candleflame than a man. "I think the Weatherman even took it, once he finished monologuing. Next time remind me to drug it."
Jensen is paradoxically irritated by how hard it is to stay angry at him. If he isn't shouting at the Comet or attempting to "handle" him on the rare occasion that he works with the Superhuman Crimes Division instead of just creating messes for them to clean up, they have to talk, and Jensen doesn't know how to negotiate those waters. "How long were you in that machine before I...."
"A few minutes. If you'd been much later I'd be sucked dry and half of the state would be iced over, but I feel surprisingly fine. So you can stop, you know, trembling."
Jensen looks away fast. "Oh, for — I'm cold. I just got snowed on, indoors." He shoves his hands into his pockets and glares at the glimmer of downtown on the river.
"There was this article in the New Yorker about how baseline humans are more traumatized by superhuman violence than by—"
"Are you for fucking real?" Jensen snaps, but he's back on familiar ground. "I've been in Supercrime for longer—"
He falters. The Comet has reached up and is popping the buttons on his collar. Jensen has thought about what the Comet's jaw must be like, his mouth, his neck; he folds the collar back, and even after all that late-night speculation, Jensen is surprised by the reality.
"Just making sure," he says. He's grinning. It's a different expression, somehow, when Jensen can see the entire thing. "I don't want to take advantage of a man I should be flying to the hospital. But you're yelling, so." Jensen is staring, half flummoxed, half drinking in the sight of him, when the Comet hooks an arm around Jensen's neck and kisses him.
Most of this is unexpected, but the kiss is just what Jensen would imagine, what he has imagined: elusive, never the same thing for long. He closes his eyes against the Comet's glow and lets himself be drawn into the chase for a solid minute before he yanks his hands out of his pockets and puts them on the Comet's chest. He's shorter than Jensen, slighter, which has always weirded Jensen out, but this man's fists can shatter stone, and Jensen feels that iron in him; he pushes the Comet away, but knows he's being permitted to.
Jensen licks his lips and opens his eyes, and receives another surprise: the glow has receded from the Comet's face, is still retreating down his neck in strange white rivulets. Without it, he looks astonishingly normal. He has a few days' growth of beard; his hair is dark, not the blond Jensen pictured, and it has settled unkemptly against his collar, begging for a trim or a comb or for Jensen to run his fingers through it. He could be anyone. Jensen could have passed him on the street and never connected him to the creature who changes this city and Jensen's life a little more every time he blazes down out of the sky.
"My name's Misha Collins," he says. "I'm a freelance programmer. I live at Exeter Street and—"
"You owe Tal a hundred bucks," Jensen blurts. "She guessed 'Misha' six months ago."
"The good detective also bet me fifty you'd be interested if I had the balls to make a pass at you, so — problem. Freelancing pays for shit when you spend half your time fighting sewer mutants and dimensional incursions."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want to date you." The Comet— Misha— His smile is crooked in a way Jensen never anticipated, and there's a perilous softness in his eyes. "And this way seems simpler."
This is the most unprofessional thing Jensen has ever contemplated; he's been contemplating it on and off for years, but it was always an idle fantasy. They saved each other's lives tonight, and it won't be the last time. He wonders if the Comet knows about the way Jensen's stomach knots every time he throws himself into danger like it's some hilarious lark, if there's some basis to his needling earlier, other than him enjoying it when Jensen snarls at him. This is going to make it so much worse.
Misha. That's going to take getting used to. Jensen reels him back in by the lapels, and this time he's not playing along with the goading little presses of Misha's lips; he buries his fingers in Misha's hair and just kisses him, openmouthed, unsubtle. Misha plays coy with his tongue, so Jensen sucks on his bottom lip until Misha groans.
One moment they're standing in the center of the roof; the next Jensen's ass is pressed against the parapet, held there by Misha's hips, and the mist of Misha's flight corona is dissipating around them. By the time Jensen has his bearings back, Misha has turned his head away and is pulling his right glove off with his teeth, so Jensen nuzzles his face into Misha's collar and mouths along his neck. In time, being able to make Misha shiver without even using his hands might make up for a little of the professional frustration of the last few years.
Misha is just edging his fingers under the hem of Jensen's shirt when the first sirens filter up to them. Jensen sighs, kisses him under the ear, and sits back. They don't need him for this sort of cleanup, but he's division head, and he was on the scene.
"Oh no you don't," Misha says, putting his arms around Jensen. "You're off duty. Hodge can run this show just fine."
Before Jensen can argue, they're airborne. They travel in long, shallow parabolas, out of the industrial district and across the water into downtown, where their dreamy leaps are broken by quick zigzags along the canyons between the high-rises. Jensen still can't decipher the sensations, the way he can feel Misha is with him but would not be able to reach down and touch his arm, the leisureliness of it despite speeds he knows are supersonic. They skip down the spire of Trelane Tower like a rock on a lake and land neatly on the deserted observation deck, where Jensen's shaky knees require Misha to immediately catch him again. Jensen should be angry, being spirited off like this, but he just flew halfway across the city in a minute and he's so giddy he can't stop laughing. Misha grins and kisses his throat; he's alight again, but the glow is already creeping back down to his collar.
When he can, Jensen walks to the edge of the deck and looks up at the art deco extravagance of the spire, then down, at the city glittering below them. "God," he says, "I haven't been up here since I was a kid."
Misha comes up behind him, puts his hands over Jensen's on the railing. "Why the hell not?" he asks, into Jensen's shoulder.
"I live here. This is tourist shit."
"You ridiculous hipster. This is the reward." A sweep of Misha's arm encompasses the earthbound fireworks of the nightlife taking place below their feet, the growing red-and-blue lightshow they abandoned near the bend of the river, the neat stitches of streetlamps that become an every-which-way tangle where a residential district spills out into a suburb. "You saved that tonight."
Jensen would like to reply, but Misha undoes the button on Jensen's jeans and the words die on his tongue. "Okay?" Misha breathes, and Jensen manages a nod. Misha pulls down Jensen's zipper and slides his ungloved hand into Jensen's boxers, where he just plays with him idly, not really stroking, until Jensen is hard and panting. Jensen squirms back against him, because he'd hate to be the only one, and receives a gasp for his trouble. Misha curses, and shoves Jensen's pants down below his ass; he hears Misha's zipper descend, hears him spit, then feels Misha's cock between his thighs, nudging the back of his balls when Misha thrusts. Misha is stroking him in earnest now, no teasing, in time with his own hips.
"I want you to fuck me," Jensen groans, and Misha shudders. He's horribly strong; Jensen's arms tremble with the effort of keeping himself from being shoved against the guardrail.
"I don't exactly carry lube on me to fight crime."
"I know," Jensen growls, "I don't mean now, I just, god, I want it."
"It really puts a crimp on my creepy fantasies about fucking the smug right out of that annoying cop if you basically beg for it," Misha says, and Jensen comes with a long, shaking cry.
Misha makes a frantic sound against Jensen's back and strokes him through it; he turns his hand on himself then, and drags the head of his cock up and down the crack of Jensen's ass, then jerks away from him altogether. Jensen hears a sob that must be his orgasm and is sorry to miss it, but realizes dazedly that he might have been crushed to death otherwise.
Jensen is still sagging against the railing, spent, when Misha rests his ass on it and his head on Jensen's shoulder. It takes Jensen far too long to notice that Misha has his phone out, and Jensen makes a lunge for it, which he aborts when his pants slip down to his knees.
"You are not fucking tweeting this," he says, and Misha laughs.
"I'm texting you so you have my number, douchebag," he says. Jensen sheepishly rattles off his digits while he yanks up his jeans, and they stand together in the soft night air, waiting for the text to come through, until Misha begins to laugh again. "Oh my god, you didn't pick up your phone after you threw it at me."
"Shit," Jensen mutters, slapping his empty pocket. "I need to go back there anyway."
"I can give you a lift."
"My pants are, uh — can we run past my apartment?"
"Do I get to wait there while you do your cop thing?" asks Misha, and Jensen looks away, grinning helplessly, which seems to be all the answer he needs.
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: semi-public sex, dirty talk, mild violence.
Summary: Misha is not Batman. Jensen is not Commissioner Gordon. Twitter is definitely not the Bat-Signal.
Written by
architeuthis for pigeongirl99!For an instant when he hits the stair, Jensen thinks he's going to make it. A mere twenty feet of ice-slick metal staircase lies between him and a dash across the factory floor to freedom and safety. He can do this, he's a quarter of the way down, he can do this — but the ceiling sags above him and the staircase releases its grip on the wall with a squeal of metal and an arrhythmic popping of bolts coming loose from the old brick, and the whole thing sways out over the floor, threatening to pitch him into the disused jaws of the machines. His feet shoot out from under him, and he barely keeps his grip on the freezing handrail.
Fissures race across the ceiling, precipitating first dust and chunks of masonry onto Jensen, then actual precipitation: hail that rattles the staircase and stings Jensen through his clothes. One crack disgorges a heap of snow, then widens as the building begins to come apart in earnest, to admit the humming, whining remains of the Weatherman's machine. Jensen shields his face against the shrapnel of its landing, and almost misses the next thing, a bolt of light he half-sees through his eyelids in the instant before the Comet's arms close around him.
Then he is part of that bolt of light. They ricochet off two walls and out the garage door in the time it takes to think it. Jensen doesn't feel the impacts, or the g-forces when they change direction, or the wind that should be burning his face; he doesn't feel his body, only that the Comet has his arms locked around Jensen. He feels weightless, faster than light, untouchable.
It explains a lot about this asshole.
They bounce off the arm of a crane and skid to a halt on the roof of another factory just across the river, shedding the Comet's envelope of luminous white mist as they go. Jensen's never seen him land so sloppily, but Jensen's never seen him fly with another person, either. The Comet absorbs the impact with his body; when they stop he's underneath Jensen, arms folded protectively around Jensen's head.
This is the closest they've ever been to each other, and it's still hard to judge the Comet's features: everything below his nose is hidden by the high cylindrical collar of the leather jacket he wears for disturbing the peace and interfering with police business, and everything above that glows white. The same mist that surrounded them as they flew, or that they became, rolls off his skin and wells from his collar to form a nimbus around his head; his hair floats, like obedience to gravity is just something he affects and not all of him can be bothered.
His eyes are wild and he's breathing hard. "Christ, are you okay?"
Jensen scrambles to his feet and yanks his cellphone out of his pocket.
"'Weatherman asked me to drop by tonite,'" he reads off its screen. His own voice sounds tight and high to him. "'Think he's finally ready to talk about our relationship?'"
"Well, you're yelling, you must be fine," the Comet says, and hauls himself upright.
"Hashtag 'awkward', hashtag 'should I bring a bottle of wine'!"
"I'm great, thanks, Lieutenant. Luckily I landed on the ribs I don't— Hey!" he says, deflecting Jensen's thrown phone.
"You have an entire division obligated to pat you on the head and pretend you aren't responsible for more counts of property destruction, assault and God knows what than any other person in this city, so naturally instead of calling for backup you waltz into what is obviously—"
A clap of thunder cuts Jensen off. Across the water, the factory collapses into its own basement; the rubble seethes with lightning and frost. It's a warm night, but the cold from the Weatherman's device still has its teeth in Jensen, and now that he's shouted out some tension, he's shivering. He's going to have so much paperwork.
"I really did bring a bottle of wine," the Comet says, when they can hear each other again. From more than arm's length away, it's hard to identify his expression; he looks more like a candleflame than a man. "I think the Weatherman even took it, once he finished monologuing. Next time remind me to drug it."
Jensen is paradoxically irritated by how hard it is to stay angry at him. If he isn't shouting at the Comet or attempting to "handle" him on the rare occasion that he works with the Superhuman Crimes Division instead of just creating messes for them to clean up, they have to talk, and Jensen doesn't know how to negotiate those waters. "How long were you in that machine before I...."
"A few minutes. If you'd been much later I'd be sucked dry and half of the state would be iced over, but I feel surprisingly fine. So you can stop, you know, trembling."
Jensen looks away fast. "Oh, for — I'm cold. I just got snowed on, indoors." He shoves his hands into his pockets and glares at the glimmer of downtown on the river.
"There was this article in the New Yorker about how baseline humans are more traumatized by superhuman violence than by—"
"Are you for fucking real?" Jensen snaps, but he's back on familiar ground. "I've been in Supercrime for longer—"
He falters. The Comet has reached up and is popping the buttons on his collar. Jensen has thought about what the Comet's jaw must be like, his mouth, his neck; he folds the collar back, and even after all that late-night speculation, Jensen is surprised by the reality.
"Just making sure," he says. He's grinning. It's a different expression, somehow, when Jensen can see the entire thing. "I don't want to take advantage of a man I should be flying to the hospital. But you're yelling, so." Jensen is staring, half flummoxed, half drinking in the sight of him, when the Comet hooks an arm around Jensen's neck and kisses him.
Most of this is unexpected, but the kiss is just what Jensen would imagine, what he has imagined: elusive, never the same thing for long. He closes his eyes against the Comet's glow and lets himself be drawn into the chase for a solid minute before he yanks his hands out of his pockets and puts them on the Comet's chest. He's shorter than Jensen, slighter, which has always weirded Jensen out, but this man's fists can shatter stone, and Jensen feels that iron in him; he pushes the Comet away, but knows he's being permitted to.
Jensen licks his lips and opens his eyes, and receives another surprise: the glow has receded from the Comet's face, is still retreating down his neck in strange white rivulets. Without it, he looks astonishingly normal. He has a few days' growth of beard; his hair is dark, not the blond Jensen pictured, and it has settled unkemptly against his collar, begging for a trim or a comb or for Jensen to run his fingers through it. He could be anyone. Jensen could have passed him on the street and never connected him to the creature who changes this city and Jensen's life a little more every time he blazes down out of the sky.
"My name's Misha Collins," he says. "I'm a freelance programmer. I live at Exeter Street and—"
"You owe Tal a hundred bucks," Jensen blurts. "She guessed 'Misha' six months ago."
"The good detective also bet me fifty you'd be interested if I had the balls to make a pass at you, so — problem. Freelancing pays for shit when you spend half your time fighting sewer mutants and dimensional incursions."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want to date you." The Comet— Misha— His smile is crooked in a way Jensen never anticipated, and there's a perilous softness in his eyes. "And this way seems simpler."
This is the most unprofessional thing Jensen has ever contemplated; he's been contemplating it on and off for years, but it was always an idle fantasy. They saved each other's lives tonight, and it won't be the last time. He wonders if the Comet knows about the way Jensen's stomach knots every time he throws himself into danger like it's some hilarious lark, if there's some basis to his needling earlier, other than him enjoying it when Jensen snarls at him. This is going to make it so much worse.
Misha. That's going to take getting used to. Jensen reels him back in by the lapels, and this time he's not playing along with the goading little presses of Misha's lips; he buries his fingers in Misha's hair and just kisses him, openmouthed, unsubtle. Misha plays coy with his tongue, so Jensen sucks on his bottom lip until Misha groans.
One moment they're standing in the center of the roof; the next Jensen's ass is pressed against the parapet, held there by Misha's hips, and the mist of Misha's flight corona is dissipating around them. By the time Jensen has his bearings back, Misha has turned his head away and is pulling his right glove off with his teeth, so Jensen nuzzles his face into Misha's collar and mouths along his neck. In time, being able to make Misha shiver without even using his hands might make up for a little of the professional frustration of the last few years.
Misha is just edging his fingers under the hem of Jensen's shirt when the first sirens filter up to them. Jensen sighs, kisses him under the ear, and sits back. They don't need him for this sort of cleanup, but he's division head, and he was on the scene.
"Oh no you don't," Misha says, putting his arms around Jensen. "You're off duty. Hodge can run this show just fine."
Before Jensen can argue, they're airborne. They travel in long, shallow parabolas, out of the industrial district and across the water into downtown, where their dreamy leaps are broken by quick zigzags along the canyons between the high-rises. Jensen still can't decipher the sensations, the way he can feel Misha is with him but would not be able to reach down and touch his arm, the leisureliness of it despite speeds he knows are supersonic. They skip down the spire of Trelane Tower like a rock on a lake and land neatly on the deserted observation deck, where Jensen's shaky knees require Misha to immediately catch him again. Jensen should be angry, being spirited off like this, but he just flew halfway across the city in a minute and he's so giddy he can't stop laughing. Misha grins and kisses his throat; he's alight again, but the glow is already creeping back down to his collar.
When he can, Jensen walks to the edge of the deck and looks up at the art deco extravagance of the spire, then down, at the city glittering below them. "God," he says, "I haven't been up here since I was a kid."
Misha comes up behind him, puts his hands over Jensen's on the railing. "Why the hell not?" he asks, into Jensen's shoulder.
"I live here. This is tourist shit."
"You ridiculous hipster. This is the reward." A sweep of Misha's arm encompasses the earthbound fireworks of the nightlife taking place below their feet, the growing red-and-blue lightshow they abandoned near the bend of the river, the neat stitches of streetlamps that become an every-which-way tangle where a residential district spills out into a suburb. "You saved that tonight."
Jensen would like to reply, but Misha undoes the button on Jensen's jeans and the words die on his tongue. "Okay?" Misha breathes, and Jensen manages a nod. Misha pulls down Jensen's zipper and slides his ungloved hand into Jensen's boxers, where he just plays with him idly, not really stroking, until Jensen is hard and panting. Jensen squirms back against him, because he'd hate to be the only one, and receives a gasp for his trouble. Misha curses, and shoves Jensen's pants down below his ass; he hears Misha's zipper descend, hears him spit, then feels Misha's cock between his thighs, nudging the back of his balls when Misha thrusts. Misha is stroking him in earnest now, no teasing, in time with his own hips.
"I want you to fuck me," Jensen groans, and Misha shudders. He's horribly strong; Jensen's arms tremble with the effort of keeping himself from being shoved against the guardrail.
"I don't exactly carry lube on me to fight crime."
"I know," Jensen growls, "I don't mean now, I just, god, I want it."
"It really puts a crimp on my creepy fantasies about fucking the smug right out of that annoying cop if you basically beg for it," Misha says, and Jensen comes with a long, shaking cry.
Misha makes a frantic sound against Jensen's back and strokes him through it; he turns his hand on himself then, and drags the head of his cock up and down the crack of Jensen's ass, then jerks away from him altogether. Jensen hears a sob that must be his orgasm and is sorry to miss it, but realizes dazedly that he might have been crushed to death otherwise.
Jensen is still sagging against the railing, spent, when Misha rests his ass on it and his head on Jensen's shoulder. It takes Jensen far too long to notice that Misha has his phone out, and Jensen makes a lunge for it, which he aborts when his pants slip down to his knees.
"You are not fucking tweeting this," he says, and Misha laughs.
"I'm texting you so you have my number, douchebag," he says. Jensen sheepishly rattles off his digits while he yanks up his jeans, and they stand together in the soft night air, waiting for the text to come through, until Misha begins to laugh again. "Oh my god, you didn't pick up your phone after you threw it at me."
"Shit," Jensen mutters, slapping his empty pocket. "I need to go back there anyway."
"I can give you a lift."
"My pants are, uh — can we run past my apartment?"
"Do I get to wait there while you do your cop thing?" asks Misha, and Jensen looks away, grinning helplessly, which seems to be all the answer he needs.
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no subject
Date: 2012-06-13 09:58 pm (UTC)This is beyond anything I could have expected. It is Perfect.
The dialogue was wonderful, and Superhero!Misha, Cop!Jensen..... I honestly do not have the words for how utterly, utterly amazing this is.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 12:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-13 10:30 pm (UTC)That said...
How the heck was I supposed to resist superhero!Misha?!?!?!
nxfgsjdhfgsdjhgkmjsfvgdjfhgvs this was perfect and wonderful and I want to read pages and pages and pages more about their crime-fighting adventures together, I really do. I love you. A lot.
*flails*
no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 12:19 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-06-23 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 09:51 am (UTC)I loved the description of how they flew, it was so cool, and just the whole idea of Misha's superpowers was epic. The glowing and the flying and the bouncing. And the tweeting! *giggle* I loved Jensen being the grumpy cop, I loved the sex, I loved the mentions of the side characters. (Just the name Hodge makes me squee a little. I am damaged) Basically, I loved this whole thing.
Gonna mem it now, and then possibly reread it right away. LOVE.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 12:37 am (UTC)(Just the name Hodge makes me squee a little. I am damaged)
No, that's normal. You're totally fine. Imagine my glee when I wrote that line.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-23 09:23 am (UTC)Hodge!glee ftw! :)
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Date: 2012-06-14 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-06-23 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-16 02:41 pm (UTC)"Well, you're yelling, you must be fine," the Comet says, and hauls himself upright.
"Hashtag 'awkward', hashtag 'should I bring a bottle of wine'!"
To me, you are perfect.
This was a delightful read for a gloomy Saturday morning. Thank you!
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Date: 2012-06-23 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-06-23 12:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-05 11:32 pm (UTC)love it!