#God... what I would GIVE just to eat cheap burgers with my girlfriend in my car...
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smiegrin · 1 year ago
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Growing up Mormon was uh... a lot. One good thing I do think I got out of it though was a perspective that "going on a date" didn't have to be a huge thing.
My dad in particular has a saying: "There are 3 P's for what makes a date: Paired off, Planned ahead, and Paid for." I'll break these down because they do have the assumptions of a cis white middle-class monogamous dude born before the internet baked in.
Paired off: I interpret this not to mean "Dates can only be between two people" but rather the sense that you have chosen what (group of) people you want to go with you on this date. It's not going to a party and seeing who shows up, but it is going to a party and telling someone "I want you, specifically, to be with me. Do you want to go with me too?"
Planned ahead: This one I think is straightforward, but easy to make incorrect assumptions about. It's not "Planned weeks ahead" or "Planned days ahead" or even "planned hours/minutes ahead." I further don't think this means you have to nail it down to a particular minute of the day. The point is that there's some agreed-upon time involved. One may notice this is really broad. (though a good date-mate will be considerate of making sure you have time to prepare if that's needed). Bumping into each other by happenstance at the library? Cute, but not really a date. Sending a message on discord like "hey, I'm stuck on my homework, do you have time to swing by and give me some pointers?" Now it's date-shaped.
Paid for: This is... I think the one I would almost throw out entirely. Or change for a different P? "Paid for" is such a charged idea when even getting necessities is uh... nontrivial for a lot of people in the world. This is something even my dad understood on some level (especially because this "3 P's" talk was usually given to teenagers) when he said "going to get some $1 ice cream from a road stand counts." I'd extend this further and say it's not even that something has to be bought during the date. If you're playing a game you bought on sale 5 years ago using Christmas gift cards with someone, that's paid for. If it took 30 minutes of figuring out how to set up an emulator to run it ('cause uh... your cartridge doesn't work great anymore. right?), then you've paid with your time.
With all these laid out, you'll probably notice this is pretty broad! Sure, writing a hand written letter to your lady of interest urging her to RSVP to your formal invitation to enjoy a meal at Red Lobster next Friday at 6:07 PM "ticks all the boxes," but that doesn't change if you just say "Friday evening," or extend the invitation on a phone call or tumblr DM, or if you invite two people, or if you're asking the day before, or if you're going to just get a nice cheap burger to eat in the car together.
Is it fun to give and receive fancy things? Sure! One of my strongest love languages (or whatever they're called) is giving gifts. Feeling valued comes in all shapes and sizes! A drive to replace capitalism with a more equitable system so people aren't limited to getting McDonalds is fine and dandy! When so much of my memories of spending time with people I love are memories of doing small, simple things together, though... I just don't see how anyone could think sharing burgers in the car isn't a date!
(PS: I leave it as an exercise for the reader to consider what goes into playing a TTRPG with a group of friends in the context of all this)
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after-witch · 4 years ago
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Yandere Ransom Imagine
“That's some heavy-duty conjecture.”
Word Count: 2700ish
notes: unhealthy relationships, emotional and physical abuse, financial abuse, yandere
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Imagine being a struggling adult working a full time job plus freelancing gigs just to get by in your one-bedroom apartment where the ceiling always leaks when it rains and you have to perform a complicated maneuver to make sure the door doesn’t jam up on you and you’re constantly worried about your landlord raising the rent.
Maybe a well-meaning friend gets you a gift card to an upscale bookstore because they know you haven’t had a new book on your shelves in years, or maybe you find $20 on the street like a veritable Charlie Bucket but instead of buying a Wonka Bar you head into a this fantastic artisan coffee shop on the rich side of town, a place that everyone always raves about on Instagram, just so you can try an expensive latte with hand-ground beans and flavors you’ve never heard of before--because don’t you deserve a treat, for once?
Whatever it is, wherever it is, Hugh Ransom Drysdale is waiting inside and sees you there.
And oh my God is it obvious that you’re out of place right off the bat. I mean, what the hell is someone like you doing in this part of town?
With your worn out clothes that are worn from necessity and not from being fashionably thrifted and your ratty purse stuffed with papers and candy wrappers that spill out when you dig in for your card or cash and your winter boots that you’ve probably worn 5 years in a row, ripped in the hell and patched with black tape that you hope people don’t notice.
It becomes even more obvious that you’re out of your element when something goes wrong. The gift card isn’t activated. The $20? A fake, probably a movie prop that blew in the wind. Whatever goes wrong, it means that you’re suddenly at the register, impatient people with real money tapping their expensive shoes behind you, unable to pay. You’re left standing there like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do or say.
Normally he might just roll his eyes and remind himself that people like you ought to stick to your own shops, your own place. But something about the way your eyes go all downcast and you seem to shrink down in embarrassment makes him take pity on you. Like a stray cat in the alley hoping someone will toss it some scraps.
So he strides up and flicks out a card and hands it to the cashier, dropping a friendly greeting to them because he spends like crazy and they probably know him by name at this place, and he’s the one who hands you your coffee or your bag and your hands touch ever so briefly during the exchange.
He leads you away from the register--don’t want to piss off the spoiled debutantes and assistants on lunchtime coffee runs--and you stammer out a thank-you-thank-you and you promise you’ll pay him back as soon as you can and Jesus Christ, isn’t that just adorable? Someone like you, some lost kicked puppy who can’t even afford new boots, promising to pay him back?
He doesn’t care if you pay him back, but he finds that he would like something out of this exchange, so he says that instead of paying him back you can do him the honor of going to lunch with him. His treat. 
He insists. And you can’t really say no, can you? You are hungry and he did just pay for your things and it’s the least you can do to oblige his request.
He’s not stupid. He doesn’t take you to some razzle dazzle fancy restaurant where you’ll feel embarrassed and out of place. Instead he takes you to a quiet diner, classy not greasy, where you can have an easy conversation and tell him all about yourself.
It’s funny. Normally he brings up his family name, his grandfather’s books, to women he picks up, to get them impressed and hooked and pliable. Something about you, though. Something about you is making him want to turn this into more than a lunch date and pressure for a quickie in the car to repay him. 
So he holds back to see what he can do with you on his own. No quickie in the car, but instead before he drops you off--at a bus station, you insisted--he brushes his hand over yours. Can he get your number? He swears he can feel the heat coming off your cheeks as you fumble for your phone and let him put his number in your contacts.
He waits a day, then asks you out again. Dinner, this time. He asks you if you know any good places and you recommend a dive bar that you can go to after work (because 1) schedule and 2) cheap) and shit, he’s all for it. There will be time in the future to impress you with restaurants that have dress codes instead of sticky floors. You sit close on the stools and you buy him a drink (real cute, real real cute) and just for you he keeps the baggie in his pocket there all night instead of heading to the bathroom to liven things up.
Your relationship develops with an almost shocking speed. He knows just how to reel you in. I mean--look at you. Working your ass off at some dead end job, living in an apartment so shitty it takes you almost a month before you reluctantly agree to let him see it.
He can understand, though. Because you’re not that stupid and you know he’s wealthy, even before he casually brings up his family in a “it’s no big deal but I don’t want to keep things from you because we’re getting serious” sort of way. 
You pretend to be casual about it all, but he can tell you’re suddenly wondering: why the hell would someone from this wealthy family want anything to do with me?
It’s a question Ransom asks himself a lot. He asks himself this when he’s snorting coke off another woman’s stomach (hey, you’re dating, but he’s got needs and they aren’t met with hand-holding) or when he’s eating another greasy burger at a shitty bar because you refuse to let him buy you a nice dress to wear so he can take you out somewhere fancy.
You’re not the type of person he normally goes for, not at all. He has strings of girlfriends and flings, but they all tend to fit that same cookie cutter mold: wealthy do-nothings with their parent’s credit card who want someone else to spoil them for a while, without caring who it is or what they’re like. They’re easy pickings that Ransom can burn through and then toss aside when he’s bored of them. Some of them cry but a few days later he’ll see them on someone else’s arm, it’s the circle of life.
With you, though, there’s more. You don’t expect him to pay for dates or anything at all (even when he wants to spoil you a bit) and you have actual conversations and you seem to actually give a shit about what he says and does. You argue with him, too, when he wants you to do something (just let him take you shopping, for Christ’s sake!) or he asks you to move in (again) and you say no (again). I mean, you really fight with him, spitting words and all.
And unlike his previous girlfriends, you don’t come crawling back a few hours later because you want to buy a new purse with his shiny credit card. Instead, you make him apologize first. Fuck, that’s hot. It’s also something he tucks away in the back of his mind to work on later--but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t admit that he sometimes has the overwhelming urge to push you against the wall and fuck you for the first time right after a good argument. 
But he knows that would destroy your image of him entirely, so he holds back. He’s good at crafting a version of himself that appeals to others when he has to, and you’re maybe the first person that’s been worth all the effort he’s put into you so far.
But you need a push, a push that makes it so you can’t go running back to your shithole apartment when you fight or when you question whether or no you two have a future. You do, you’re just too naive--too inexperienced with money, to say it charitably--to realize it.
So he tips off the fire marshal about your apartment building’s shoddy fire escapes and well, damn, in the process of the investigation all the little corners that your landlord has cut come crashing down. At least they were discovered before it was the building that came crashing down.
But the evacuation of the building leaves you--and countless others--high and dry. You don’t have any family in the area, and your only half ass-decent friend in the city lives in the same building but her parent’s aren’t going to let a stranger move in.
When you finally realize you have no options and call him, voice tentative and embarrassed, he knows just what to say to get you to pack your meager belongings and wait for him to pick you up. He’s no-nonsense about it. 
He knows how to avoid deflating your pride, how to keep you from deciding you’d rather stay in a shelter than take his charity. You’ll pay him back, he says, you’ll figure out a rental plan or whatever. He even teases--he’s not the best landlord, but he won’t take 2 weeks to change the toilet if you submit a maintenance request. It makes you crack a smile and bam, just like that, he knows he’s gotten in.
That night, after takeout and wine and a Netflix movie neither of you paid attention to, you fuck for the first time on his expensive sheets on his expensive bed and afterwards, when you’re both sweating and cuddling and reveling in the afterglow, he makes a note to buy you some new lingerie. 
It’s all very homey, for a while. He could do without you leaving for work and working your ass off, with your freelance shit, sometimes staying on the computer until two, three in the morning. But it’s nice to have you close all the time, available to him whenever (almost whenever) he wants. He brings home takeout and you snuggle on the couch and he finally even convinces you to go out with him to a nice restaurant wearing something he’s bought and hot damn, do you look good, head-to-toe in the clothing he’s chosen for you. Especially, later that night, in private, in the lingerie. 
Does he love you? The word hasn’t left his lips yet, hasn’t crossed yours either, but he can feel it underneath the surface. No. It’s more than love. He wants you. He wants to have you. And not just for the afternoon or the summer, but forever. 
He spins daydreams about how he’ll clean you up nice and introduce you to the family. Probably to Harlan, first, because everyone knows that’s whose opinion really matters. Harlan will like you--he would probably like you without any primping or fixing, actually, which is more than he could say for his parents or anyone else in the family. Then once you’re in, you’re in--you’ll come to family dinners and vacation retreats where people always end up in ridiculous arguments, and you two can exchange snarky comments about the family on the ride home.
And yeah, sure. You fight sometimes.
He throws out your old clothes and buys you a wardrobe befitting someone he wants to integrate into his family. You fight about that.
He makes comments about you how you should quit your job or at least try to get a degree--he’ll pay, as long as you agree to go to a university within driving distance--to work somewhere more respectable than a chain restaurant. You fight about that.
He gets pissed when you want to meet some “friends” at a bar without him, because why would you need to go anywhere without your loving boyfriend in tow, unless you were trying to flirt with someone else? You definitely fight about that.
And, okay. Maybe he’s hypocritical.
Maybe he goes out late at night when you’re stuck doing your “freelancing work” and he’s in a rotten mood about it, and he ends up on the floor of a swanky club with drugs in his system and lipstick on his neck. He doesn’t come home until the next morning and you’re pissed and red-eyed and arguing with him, accusing him even, but you have no shitty apartment to stomp back to anymore so you’re stuck. 
Until you’re not stuck. Until he casually snoops through your phone and sees that you’re looking up cheap-ass apartments and hey, you’ve already booked a few interviews already. The thought of you slipping through his fingers makes him more sober than he’s been in a while. He’s got to do something. Not to himself, of course. But to you. To keep you with him.
It’s easy enough to get you fired. He’s a ‘Thrombey’ after all, and some nice crisp bills anonymously sent to the right hands is all it takes for you to come home one night, cheap mascara (he notes: buy you some better quality makeup soon) running down your cheeks. Your freelancing isn’t nearly enough to get you into an apartment.
He assumes that you’ll give up on the idea after losing your job, but you’re nothing if not stubborn (one of the reasons why he likes you) so you start the job hunt the next morning, fresh mascara in place. 
Damn, do you keep him busy. Anonymous calls. Cash in nice white envelopes. Rejection after rejection. You get so sad, so depressed. You don’t even want to go out to restaurants, so he orders in and you snuggle in his lap while he feeds you bites of orange chicken and rubs your back. It almost brings you two closer again, starts to mend the rifts that began when you refused to get over his occasional late night out.
But then you break the uneasy mending by snooping and woah, you don’t like what you find on his phone. 
You fight. 
Damn, do you fight. This time there’s no pretense of potential forgiveness as you begin wildly throwing your clothes into your ratty duffel bag from the back of the closet, telling him to fuck off fuck off fuck off, telling him he’s crazy, telling him that what he’s doing is fucking illegal and--
It’s the shock that hurts you the most.
The shock you feel when he grips your wrist hard and pushes back on your shoulder when you try to yank away, pushing you against the wall with a hard thud. It’s like having a rug pulled out from underneath your feet when you feel a slight ache in your back, on your shoulders, when you tell him to Let go, goddamn it and he only pushes back harder to keep you in place. It’s Ransom. It’s Ransom who’s doing this.
His voice feels unrecognizably cold when he leans in and hisses in your ear.
“You think you can just leave me? After all I’ve done for you? Let me tell you something--you won’t get another job within one hundred miles of here, within one thousand miles of here, unless I say you can. So just put your clothes back in the closet, chill the fuck out, and stop being such an ungrateful bitch.”
It’s the shock that makes you numbly hang your clothes back up in the closet, fold them again with shaking hands, and sit on the bed until the dam breaks and you cry.
And oh fuck, he’s sorry. Really. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and then he’s the one who’s crying and confessing that he didn’t want you leave him because yeah, he knows he’s a fuck up, he knows he’s got a drug problem, but he loves you. 
It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. He loves you. “I love you,” he says, again and again, half-laughing.  And he tells you you’re the only person he’s ever dated that made him want to be a better person but he doesn’t know how.
You don’t know what to say because maybe you do love him--but he hurt you and got you fired, but the tears on his face seem so genuine and he tells you he’ll never, ever hurt you like that again and fuck, he says, if you want to go get a job he’ll drive you to the interview right now just-let-him-blow-his-nose-first-please.
You make him sit down and then you’re the one apologizing and the rest of the afternoon is a shaky truce between you two as you drink hot chocolate and order in takeout and watch a movie together.
It’s not until you’re both under the sheets, satisfied and then showered, that you think about what he did to you in a clearer light. The thoughts weigh heavy on your mind, pulling and tugging. You think you might love him. He hurt you. He took care of you when no one else would. He cheated on you. 
I love you, he tells you, when your mind is starting to tug itself into sleep.
He hit you. He said he was sorry.
He hit you.
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peraltasames · 6 years ago
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mountains and valleys (and all that will come in between) - chapter two
Jake, Amy, and four distinct yet painfully similar times the universe pulled them apart and pushed them back together.
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part two: florida
Jake doesn’t speak until somewhere around the border of Virginia and North Carolina.
He listens to Marshal Haas, located in the passenger seat, as she briefs them on their new identities. He glances over at Captain Holt, who is listening much more intently than himself and twisting his wedding ring around his finger, likely trying to memorize how it feels before he’s forced to part with it. He looks out the window at the many streets, houses and towns that they pass, dimly lit by the moon and streetlights. He thinks about Amy.
It isn’t until Holt grabs his shoulder and informs him that the marshal just asked if he has any questions that he finally opens his mouth to talk, his voice coming out a little hoarse from lack of recent use.
“How long did you say it’s gonna take to catch Figgis?”
“It’s impossible to say, but we’re predicting somewhere between four months and a year,” Haas says with the same no-nonsense, clear tone that she’s been using since picking Holt and Jake up at the precinct hours ago after a much too short goodbye with the squad.
It seems so far away already. It feels like it’s been years, not hours, since he wrapped Amy in a hug in the corner of the briefing room - all the privacy that they were allotted - and kissed her hair repeatedly while she tried to stifle her panicked cries.
“It’s crucial that you follow every one of these rules exactly as I instruct you to,” the marshal continues, “or he’ll find you before we find him.”
“I know.”
She’s only stated this a hundred times since they left New York - follow the rules, follow the rules, follow the rules. He understands that she’s doing her job and trying to keep him alive and he should really be grateful, but he does not think that she understands the complete and utter torture of being apart from Amy Santiago.
He’s done it for the past three weeks, a much shorter length of time than the one they’re facing now and with frequent texts and phone calls and reassurance that she was okay. Still, they were by far the worst three weeks Jake experienced since they started dating last summer.
To make matters so much worse, they had just agreed to move in together. They were just about to take the next step in their relationship, a step that he hoped would be the first of several ensuing advancements towards a lifetime together - because, god, there is no way he’s ever going to find anything better than this. She is absolutely, undeniably, the best thing that has ever and will ever happened to him.
And now that’s on hold - maybe for four months, maybe for a year, any amount of time being too long for him.
Nobody else sees it, but as he turns his head to resume staring out the window, his tired eyes might just shed a tear or two.
-
The first few months, he doesn’t cope well.
The first month consists of cases of cheap beer from the K-Mart around the corner, watching movies he doesn’t like in front of a crappy TV with all the lights turned off and sleeping until two in the afternoon.
The second month is still getting used to calling Holt “Greg” (which feels wrong for a multitude of reasons), eating burritos in the hot tub and rejecting Greg’s pleas that Jake - Larry - take better care of himself.
The third month is his birthday passing and Holt giving him a small nod and smile when they walk outside to retrieve the papers in the morning, not being able to say anything aloud because Larry’s birthday is in October.
The third day of the fourth month, Holt comes over for dinner. He’ll tell the neighbourhood walking group the next day that Larry simply cooked too many burgers and invited his closest neighbour in proximity over for a casual meal to eliminate food waste.
They play loud music - Larry’s favourite band is Nickelback, to Jake’s horror - to allow them to talk somewhat more freely than they do outside while in the confines of the kitchen, though Holt still insists on using their fake personas to help them “stay in character.”
“How are you doing?” Holt asks, taking a sip of his soda. Greg drinks soda. Holt does not.
“I’m fine.”
“I can tell that something’s bothering you, Larry,” he insists, looking Jake in the eye. “Is it…girl trouble?”
Jake deciphers his code immediately, understanding what he’s really trying to ask is do you miss Amy?
He nods. “Yeah. Girl trouble.”
There’s a pause, and he can feel Holt’s eyes on him, analyzing his pained expression.
“Perhaps I can offer some advice,” Holt says with a casual wave of his hand. “One heterosexual man to another.”
Jake turns up the dial on the speaker to drown out his words and speaks softly, barely loud enough for Holt to hear him.
“I miss her so much,” he admits. “And I can’t stand not being able to talk to her or the Nine-Nine or my mom and not - not know if she’s okay-“
He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Holt pulls him into a firm hug, steadying him, and his laboured breathing slows marginally.
“She’s okay,” Holt murmurs. “She’ll be okay as long as you stay alive long enough to come home to her.”
They stay like that for a few moments until Holt releases him, finishes his beverage and excuses himself for the night.
Before he retires to his own bungalow next door, Holt pats him on the shoulder in the doorway and offers his best attempt at a reassuring smile.
“Thank you for dinner, Larry,” he says. “And if it’s any consolation, I also miss my…wife.”
It does help, barely, to know that they’re in this horrible situation together. That every night Jake lies awake drinking and fiddling with the thermostat - the house is always way too hot - and thinking about his girlfriend, Captain Holt is a few dozen yards away thinking of his husband.
Mostly, this realization fuels his burning desire to get the two of them home - to Brooklyn, to the precinct, to the people waiting for them.
-
Halfway through month five, he decides to stop waiting for the FBI to figure it out.
He knows they’re professionals and everything, but he’s a damn good detective and he thinks that what he lacks in resources, he may be able to make up for in motivation.
(His motivation, to be precise, is a picture of Amy that he printed at Staples on the wall of a storage unit he rents.)
He doesn’t tell Holt about it - he knows he won’t approve and he’s learned by now that it’s easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. He’s pretty sure the captain will forgive him with ease once Figgis is behind bars.
The late nights and early mornings spent drinking diluted iced coffee from 7-Eleven and combing through files on the internet are difficult, yet so, so much better than doing nothing. He feels like a cop again, he feels like Jake again, and he’s getting a little bit closer to all of that legally being true every single day.
There’s one night, or maybe two, where he hits a dead end and wants to give up, but he doesn’t.
There’s too much at stake.
-
Jimmy Figgis finds them before they find him.
It’s a plan of their own invention, a plan that they only have hours to assemble, and a plan that there is no reason they shouldn’t be able to execute perfectly.
It’s also, unfortunately, a plan that doesn’t account for Coral Palms PD showing up and foiling their operation.
Jake doesn’t realize how royally screwed he is until he feels Figgis’ gun pressed to his head and - at the exact same time - sees Amy.
He sees her in the literal sense that she’s standing right in front of him, gun drawn, her composure steady despite the evident fear in her eyes. For the fourth or fifth time today (and therefore the fourth or fifth time in six months) she is in front of him, in the flesh, and he’s still trying to process that she’s really here in Florida and not just a hallucination.
But, he also sees her in a different way, a way that only a man with a gun pressed to his temple could.
He sees her kissing him victoriously, wrapping her arms around his neck for the first time in half a year; her dark hair hanging down and the silhouette of her body over his as they remember how to move as one; her head against his chest while she drifts off into a peaceful sleep.
He sees them walking up the stairs to her apartment and collapsing on the couch in front of the TV; waking up at eight o’clock in the evening and ordering so much Chinese food that he feels a little sick afterwards; staying up until the early hours of the morning talking and catching up on every little detail of their lives.
He sees her across the desk at work, eyes glued to the computer screen, perfectly unaware of the fact that he’s gazing at her like she’s the sun, the stars, the entire damn universe.
He sees her in a white dress, walking down the aisle towards him while their friends and family watch with wide smiles; her with a small bump under her shirt that isn’t part of an undercover disguise to infiltrate a prison; her with streaks of grey in her hair that match his.
He sees an entire future that could slip away if Figgis pulls the trigger.
So he nods at her, and hopes that she understands that it means he wants her to do whatever she has to do to ensure that they get that future.
The next few moments are a blur - the sound of a gunshot, unspeakable pain in his right leg, Amy running after Figgis, sirens in the distance. The minutes that follow are similarly hectic, between watching his worst enemy get cuffed and shoved into the back of a squad car and trying not to curse in pain as first responders treat his bullet wound.
Things don’t slow down at all, really, until Amy kisses him and says she loves him, effectively drowning out all of their surroundings.
-
Two hours, one brief surgery, dozens of stitches, a lot of drugs and too many cups of bad hospital coffee to count later, the Nine-Nine is once again reunited.
They’re all gathered around Jake’s hospital room, and his eyes scan the room like he’s doing a mental roll call:
Peralta, sitting up against the headboard, one hand holding a cup of blue Jell-O and the other on Amy’s back;
Santiago, curled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder and pressing occasional kisses to his jaw and cheek;
Diaz, leaning up against the wall with a barely-restrained smile and crossed arms;
Boyle, hovering near Jake and searching for the best photos of his new son Nikolaj on his phone, shoving the screen in Jake’s face every time he finds a good one;
Jeffords, occupying one of the chairs next to his bed, eating a ham sandwich;
Holt, in the chair next to Terry with an ice pack on his injured limb and a new record for the biggest smile Jake’s ever seen on his face after a lengthy phone call with Kevin;
Hitchcock and Scully - well, they were there, but they left in search of the vending machines about fifteen minutes ago and have yet to return;
Finally, Gina, sitting at the foot of the bed and loudly catching him up on the details of her personal life, which Jake tries to follow.
“Wait, so Natasha said she would bring you to the Rihanna concert-”
“She promised.”
“But instead she took her new boyfriend Brad.”
“It’s Ben, Jake,” Gina sighs, shaking her head. “God, keep up, man.”
“Sorry,” Jake says with a small yawn, “it’s been a long day.”
It’s been a long six months, really, but the past few days on the run with Holt and the hours that followed of trying to catch Figgis once and for all haven’t been particularly restful. He’s also still a little lethargic from the anesthesia he was under while a surgeon quickly repaired his leg, and he’s only stayed awake this long because he missed this - all of them together, talking and bickering and laughing - so much.
“We should let Jake and Amy get some rest,” Terry suggests, getting to his feet and tossing the wrapper from his second sandwich of the hour (“post-adrenaline Terry is a hungry Terry!”) into the trash can.
Amy nods gratefully in Terry’s direction before returning her head to Jake’s shoulder. There are some whines of protest - they all come from Charles - but eventually all members of the squad bid the couple goodnight and filter out of the small room.
It’s finally just the two of them, in complete and total silence.
He puts down the Jell-O cup and shifts his body down on the bed to a much more reclined and comfortable position, pulling her along with him.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, rubbing his chest lightly with the palm of her hand.
“Uh, amazing,” he says with complete seriousness. “I’m in bed, on drugs, with the most beautiful girl in the world.”
He looks down just in time to see her cheeks begin to redden before she tucks her head into his neck to hide her face and reconnect her lips with his warm skin.
“I missed you so much,” she says, and her voice trembles, her composure wavering now that they’re alone.
“I know, babe,” he whispers, running a hand through her hair, “I missed you too.”
Jake tilts her chin up to kiss her - he hasn’t had a free moment to kiss her since the ambulance - and her lips respond impatiently. She deepens the kiss right away, and her hand swiftly moves from his chest to the back of his head, pulling him closer and stroking his hair simultaneously.
“Love you,” he mumbles against her lips. She only sighs - a high-pitched, dreamy sigh - in response before sliding her tongue back into his mouth and relaxing all of her weight onto his body.
“Can you believe not one vending machine in this entire hospital has Cheetos?”
Amy jerks away from him, her teeth catching on his lip and making him wince slightly, as Hitchcock and Scully come barging in with arms full of junk food.
“Where did everyone else go?” Scully asks cluelessly, munching on a bag of beef jerky.
Amy sighs with exasperation, and Jake would be a little more mad about the whole situation if she wasn’t so darn cute when she’s annoyed.
“They’re trying to boink, Scully,” Hitchcock chimes in with a smirk.
“I - we are not boinking in a hospital!” Amy exclaims. “I was just kissing my boyfriend who I haven’t seen in six freaking-“
“Oo-kay, Ames,” Jake says slowly in an attempt to calm her down, then turning his head to the two men in the doorway. “You two. Out. Now.”
They respond to Jake’s stern expression by hastily walking back out into the hallway and shutting the door behind them.
“Where were we?” Jake raises his eyebrows suggestively.
“Jake,” she narrows her eyes. “You know we’re not boinking in the hospital, right?”
“I mean…one quick boink wouldn’t hurt-and it’s been six months, Ames, you know it’s gonna be quick-“
“As two adults who have had sex with each other many times, we should really stop using the word ‘boink’.”
“Fair point,” Jake concedes, patting her arm. “So should we…um, make love-“
“Oh my god, Jake, no.”
He frowns and settles back into the soft pillows, huffing dramatically.
“Your doctor said in a few days we’ll be able to engage in ‘light to moderate sexual activity’,” she states, sliding her arm around his torso. “But for now, you need to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Burying his face in her hair and hugging her closer to himself with both arms, he finds it remarkably easy to fall into a deep, serene sleep.
-
Jake is discharged from the hospital at eight the next morning, and by nine-thirty they’re boarding the first plane back to New York. He doesn’t bother to get any of Larry’s belongings from the house - he really never wants to go back there again, nor does he want to return to Coral Palms or Florida in general. He’s much more concerned with getting back to Jake’s stuff - leather jackets and hoodies and his DVD collection and mixtapes full of Taylor Swift songs.
He sleeps through the flight, because seven hours really wasn’t enough to make up for all the sleep he lost, and wakes up to Amy kissing his forehead and a view of the Manhattan skyline. It’s perfect.
He figured they would go to her apartment - he hasn’t asked, but he assumes his is no longer his after six months away - but, once she hauls their bags into a taxi, helps him into the car with his crutches and slides in beside him, she gives the driver his address.
“Your mom paid your rent while you were gone,” Amy explains, reaching for his hand. She’s kept some form of physical contact with him since he woke up this morning. “I know we said we would move in together, but I thought you should adjust to being back before we worry about that.”
“Thanks, babe.” He squeezes her fingers and thinks about how incredibly lucky he is. “Is my mom-“
“She’s already there, and no, your dad isn’t coming. Karen and I agreed you wouldn’t want to see him quite yet.”
Jake nods and squeezes her hand twice more, interlocking their fingers.
When they pull up outside his apartment building, he takes a moment to breathe in the somewhat gross (Florida stunk too, but way worse) but gloriously familiar smell of his neighbourhood. It’s a hot day, but still cool enough for the airport sweatpants and t-shirt (they both read I Love Florida, which he absolutely does not) that he’s wearing. He’s had enough of shorts and tank tops for a long, long time.
His mom pulls him into a bone-crushing hug the moment they open the front door, making him drop his crutches, which Amy retrieves as she drags the bags past the threshold and begins organizing his stuff.
“Oh, it is so good to have you home, honey,” Karen says loudly, affectionately, as she continues to squeeze her son.
Jake looks over her shoulder at Amy as she moves through his studio apartment, which is decidedly much cleaner than he left it. It’s completely spotless, actually, except for a couple of stray hoodies of his - one on the couch, one on a chair in the kitchen. He wonders how much time she spent here - honestly, if he had the option to wallow in an entire room full of Amy’s belongings and clothes and things that smelled and felt and reminded him of her, he would’ve taken it every chance he got.
“Good to be home, Mom.”
As soon as his mother releases him and helps him hobble to the couch, Amy strides over to give Karen a quick hug and Jake a quick kiss before heading to the pharmacy to pick up his pain meds and the pizza place around the corner to pick up an extra-large meat supreme and a salad, because he “really needs to start thinking about his health.”
Man, it is so good to be home.
-
In bed that night, after Karen is gone and Charles comes over to check on Jake again and they eat a lot of pizza, they finally catch up.
Jake tells her about everything - the WITSEC process, the hot tub burritos, his job at the ATV dealership - and, in turn, Amy fills him on everything he missed.
She talks about work, sparing no details from some of her juicier cases, and he listens with eager anticipation and tries to guess how she solved them before she finishes the story.
She tells him about how she got a lot closer with his mom and went over there for dinner a few times to check in on her, which Jake appreciates immensely.
While he holds her and strokes her hair gently, she talks about the nights she spent at Rosa’s watching Nancy Meyers films, eating ice cream and crying because she missed him so much. His heart breaks a little, but he makes a mental note to thank Rosa for taking care of her despite her policy regarding the discussion of feelings.
“Never again,” Jake mumbles against her hair sometime after midnight. “I’m never gonna leave you again.”
In the moment, he really believes it’s true.
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maximoffvizh · 6 years ago
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fic: your heart is all i own
just a quick fic to indulge my own desire to see fics where wanda proposes instead of vision | title from perfect by ed sheeran
“I just think that after getting through something as crazy as the end of the universe as we know it, I should get her something to remind her we’re okay,” Clint says, and Wanda just nods vaguely, following him through the storefront and gazing around at the shelves and shelves of glittering jewellery. Jewels winking at her under the soft light, necklaces spread out so carefully on velvet backdrops, and the rings under glass, so many of them. Diamonds as big as berries that she stares at, flexing her fingers just at the thought of having something like that on her hand.
“Are you going to match it to her engagement ring?” she asks as Clint leans over next to her, peering into the display case, and he snorts.
“Her engagement ring was a cheap piece of metal that she doesn’t wear anymore,” he says, a grin puling at the corners of his mouth. “We were just junior SHIELD agents back then. I couldn’t afford anything nicer.”
“What about your wedding rings?” she asks, and he shakes his head again.
“We just got plain rings and had our initials engraved,” he says, twisting his wedding ring up his finger slightly to show her the C. F. B. & L. A. R. engraved into the gold. “These huge diamonds don’t actually matter if you love who you’re with. But you know, twenty years in and I’ve never bought her something gaudy. It’s time.”
She stands behind him while he’s examining the selection, aware of the salesman in his impeccable grey suit hovering hopefully near them, and finds her eyes drawn to the rings specifically marked for proposals. They’re pretty, the jewels glinting in the light, and she stares for so long that she starts when Clint ruefully asks, “Why all the staring? You thinking about picking one up?”
“I...” She blinks at the rows of rings, and looks back up into Clint’s pointedly arched eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s...too soon?”
“I mean, personally I’d say it’s been far too long, but that’s just coming from someone who saw a terrified girl in mourning clinging to someone she’d only just met and refusing to let go,” he says, and she flushes slightly at the memory. “Come on, Wanda, you’ve known each other nearly four years. That’s plenty of time.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially and says, “I proposed to Laura after two months. I just knew.”
“I don’t know, I...” She tangles a strand of hair around her finger, swallows thickly and says, “I don’t know if Vizh wants to get married. He’s never mentioned it.”
“He had a pretty wistful look on at Tony and Pepper’s wedding,” Clint says, and she breaks eye contact to stare at the rings again. “Maybe he wouldn’t want a circus like that. Maybe he hasn’t even considered that you want to get married.” She opens her mouth, and he quickly adds, “Which you obviously do, or you wouldn’t be getting all moony-eyed looking at engagement rings.”
“I didn’t really think I wanted to get married until...well, until I lost him,” she says softly, sadly, and Clint squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll do anything to make sure I won’t have to lose him again. I love him. I want him for the rest of my life.”
“Then tell him that,” he says, as if it’s that simple.
“I have,” she insists. “And it’s not always easy. He’s the one who likes to make the big romantic speeches about how he feels. I think that...he’s the one who’d want to propose.”
“But we’re talking about the same guy who took two years of sneaking around to even try to ask you to be his girlfriend,” Clint points out, and she smiles fondly down into the glass. “God knows how long you’d be waiting for a marriage proposal.”
She smiles slightly, and looks up when the salesman approaches them, a professional smile on his face. “Can I see engagement rings for men?” she asks, and the salesman grins and guides her to a different display case.
And when she leaves the store, Clint reeling off a list of places they could go for lunch and wondering aloud whether to see if Natasha is done in her nearby meeting and wants to join them, she turns the ring box over and over in her pocket and smiles to herself.
Nudging the door to the hotel room open, she smiles when Vision lowers his book and carefully manoeuvres the bouquet of flowers out from behind her back, smiling at the way his eyes blow wide. “There was a florist opposite the place I went to pick up dinner,” she says, and he slides out of bed and crosses the room, nearly crushing the bright bouquet between them when he kisses her.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, bright-eyed, and she just smiles and kisses him again, sweet and soft.
“I’m allowed to want to buy my gorgeous boyfriend flowers whenever I want,” she says, and he ducks his head bashfully, giving her the chance to bounce up on her tiptoes and press her lips briefly to the shine of the mind stone. “I even got them yellow to match the stone.”
“They’re beautiful,” he says, taking them gently from her hands, smoothing his fingertips over the velvety edges of the petals. “You’re too sweet.”
“I can’t let you be the only one to make romantic gestures,” she teases, and unwraps their burgers from the bags, setting them out carefully on the floor like a picnic. “Put them in water. We can go for a walk after we’ve eaten.
He puts them carefully into a vase, still staring at them in amazement, and she smiles at him, tucking her fingers protectively over the shape of the ring box in her bag. Watching his hands as they eat, imagining the silver ring on his finger, and trying to push down her nerves, to stop her hands from shaking. She still wants it to be a surprise.
When they’ve finished their food, and she’s tied up the rubbish in a plastic bag, she takes his hand and pulls him with her out of the hotel, into the heady evening warmth, their fingers tangled while they walk over the cobbled streets. Everything smells of summer, people still eating and drinking in the outdoor seats, the occasional whisper of someone recognising them following on the occasional breeze. But they’re mostly left alone to be in love, and she pauses outside a cupcake store, peering through the window at the selections. Squeezing Vision’s hand and asking, “Do you remember this corner?”
He looks around, and she watches his expression darken, the twitch of his free hand moving towards the ragged scar that still mars his chest. “This is where we were attacked,” he says, and she squeezes his hand, pushing away the memory of his awful scream.
“It’s where you asked me to stay with you,” she says, and reaches up to kiss his cheek, to pull him back into the lazy summer evening and away from what happened to them. What they’ve been trying to stitch themselves back together from.
“I...well...I suppose it is,” he says, and gives her a soft, affectionate look. “You didn’t answer.”
“I did,” she says, and pulls him after her around the corners and down the streets to the train station, still booming with life, people spilling into the city for a night out, people heading home massaging their aching feet after a long day of tripping around the tourist attractions, people bearing heavy bags of shopping and trying to wrangle their families.
She watches a train for London depart with a whoosh, and leans against the barriers, turning to smile at him. “This is where I gave you my answer,” she says softly.
“I...yes, it is,” he says, and she wonders how much he really remembers of the fight. If he remembers anything past the pain. That he turned them over in midair to stop her being the one to hit the glass and the ground first, that she would’ve fought to the death even without the sudden arrival of reinforcements to protect him, that she didn’t even realise that she’d been injured too until long after.
“I said I would stay,” she says, and he nods, looking around the station, seemingly lost in memories. “What will you say?”
“To what?” he asks, and she takes a deep breath to steady herself before she drops to one knee. His eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack and he breathes, “Wanda-”
“I want you to stay,” she says, smiling up into his eyes, watching them start to shine with gathering tears. “I love you, Vizh. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”
He stares at her for a long, silent moment. Long enough that she starts to think she’s made a mistake, he doesn’t want this, until he gives a miniscule nod. Then nods again, faster, more decisive, and tears spill down his cheeks and he almost collapses to his knees in front of her, still nodding. Finally choking out, “Yes,” before he dissolves into sobbing, and she moves closer and wraps him in her arms, holding him until the first shuddering sobs fade away.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” she says, and he chokes out a vague sounding sob. “Are you okay, honey?”
“I’m just happy,” he breathes, and she swallows a giggle when he pulls back, face devastated with tears. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she says, and clicks the ring box open. “You want the ring?”
“Yes please,” he says, voice small, and she can’t help beaming as she slides it onto his finger. “It’s pretty.”
“You’re pretty,” she teases, and he flushes, and she grins and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. “Are you okay now?”
“I think so,” he says, nervous, and she tries not to laugh. “Thank you.”
“You really don’t need to thank me for proposing,” she says, and he ducks his head. “I love you. I want to spend my life with you.”
“We’re getting married,” he says, awe-struck, staring at the ring newly-placed on his hand. And she smiles and laces their fingers together to press a kiss to his palm, and they stay kneeling on the station floor, gazing into each other’s eyes. Until they fall like magnets into another kiss.
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ammacdiaries-blog · 6 years ago
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When In Williston....Just Don’t
First entry.  First attempt at writing a short story.  The following is a true story.  Obviously, names aren’t included.  I do welcome all feedback.  Please also share.
Here goes….
Fresh out of training, yet still in my probationary period dubbed first 120.  I began my embarquement from Seattle, Washington to Chicago, Illinois on my normal run called The Empire Builder.  The total journey would be 6-days; 3 there and 3 back.  Assigned to the Sleeper Car, I was in charge of first class services.  This entails providing services to 16 to 24 rooms with 1 to 5 passengers per room; making beds, to-go meals, luggage assist, etc.  I especially like working in the sleepers because of the direct customer contact.
This summer was proving to be an especially difficult one.  Continual track work bestowed us with countless delays.  This resulted in irritated passengers.  Still nothing I couldn’t handle.  Even as we entered Wolf Point, MT and I learned a tornado caused a freight liner to derail just ahead of us, I could still direct the mood of irritated passengers into a more positive one and keep people entertained.  
I guess I was too focused on the people and paid no attention to my arachnid homies, causing one to get especially bitter.  I asleep in my room, while Charlotte spun her web somewhere in the vicinity.  After a long day of whipping out some web, she must of developed a bad taste in her mouth.   
Through her several eyes, I can only guess she saw me as one of two things: An asshole who was keeping her trapped there, or a nice humid incubator where she could sink her teeth into a nice tender thigh.  Since Wilbur never gave her any bacon, after writing all those messages in the web, I assume she saw this as her one opportunity to get some good squealing in.  
I awoke with a burning sensation in between my legs.  Not that of a result of a great time with a complete stranger in a cheap hotel room.  But still one that would require countless antibiotics.  Where’s the fun in that?  I’m not sure whatever happened to Charlotte.  But I’m guessing after her journey to the nether regions of my southern hemisphere, she turned eight feet up and six feet under.  
Now me being me, I of course fell right back to sleep.  If the intruder alarm in my house won’t wake me up for long, chances are some heat near my hot pocket won’t wake me up either.  When I awoke though, I discovered Charlotte’s little parting gift for me.
Throughout the next several hours, I worked as normal.  Trying to ignore the pain of what started out as a pea-sized nob, and then had grown into a half-dollar sized coin.  By the night, I had started mastering the penguin waddle.  You skinny people might not get this reference.  But the penguin waddle is what us larger people do when chafing occurs in between the thighs.  As to not piss our ham hocks off any further, we keep our thighs close together and swish our hips, while keeping our legs straight in order to keep pain at a minimal.   I haven’t had to use this maneuver since my teenage years.  Luckily, it was like hopping on a bike after not being on one for a decade.  Oh the things I take pride in.
Going late into my 3-day, and still no where near Chicago, the abscess between my thighs had now grown to about 6-inches.  Still too scared to seek medical attention, I did find it in my better interest to let a crew member know just in case, you know, something worse could happen.  Despite his years of experience and vast knowledge of how Amtrak handles things, I still chose not to make management aware.  During the first 120, it was ingrained in our heads you will be fired for any mishap.  I must emphasize, this is not the case as I later learned.  
Our layover in Chicago, when on time is approximately 18-hours.  The delay from the derailment lowered that layover to approximately 4-hours.  I had planned on going to urgent care, getting an I&D, then leaving out on my return trip.  Unfortunately, I had just literally pulled a 24-hour shift, and was allotted 4-hours to do laundry, take a hot bath, nap for 1-hour and then return to work the train going back.  I was riding myself hard and putting me away wet.  
The wound had now spread from my groin to knee and was the most beautiful color of dark purple, had it not been my flesh.  Full car coming back, there would be no rest for this wicked man.  
In the distance, I heard the sound of a call light go off.  As it was lunch time, this could only mean they wanted to order their food to-go as opposed to being normal people and eating in the dining car.  Normally I wouldn’t be so irritated by such an easy request.  But my time back on this bicycle was making my ass more tender than veil.  
After collecting their order and returning with their food, I knocked on their door.  The vibrations of the knocking must of set off the richter scale because a splitting of the plates happened.  I ruptured.  The man answered the door with the biggest smile.  Those fresh burgers for him and his girlfriend had finally arrived.  And how he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into them.
Yes he was greeted with that, but no.  There would be no smell of fresh angus beef and bacon in the air.  There would be that of the foul stench of the walking dead.  I dare not say what just happened.  We both looked at each other as if to say “What hell did you eat?”.  He knew it wasn’t him.  I knew it was me.  But he didn’t know that.  I gave him the look like it was him.  Which I hope made him believe it was his girlfriend.  Both our faces wrinkled to the point of needing an immediate injection of botox.  We still managed to exchange product for gratuity.  If they are still together, I won’t ever know.  
I was at a loss.  There was no more penguin waddle left in me.  I could only now slither like a slug to the nearest shower room and play doctor with my first aid kit.  I texted my partner in crime to let him know that an act of God had just occurred.  And thank goodness because we were approaching our next stop and I had to let passengers on and off.  There was no way I was going to help people with sappy, soupy pants on with the fragrance of that one wouldn’t even smell in a soup kitchen.  
Now seriousness was going to have to take place.  There was no further thing I could do but seek medical attention.
“Good afternoon passengers” came across over the PA system.  “Our next station stop will be Williston, North Dakota.”  
This was to be my stop.  The conductor had called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital.  I had only had about 15-minutes to pack my room, dress my wounds, dress myself and be available at the door.  Oh, and please don’t forget that I’m still only one 1-hour of sleep.  
As I stood there waiting for that next station stop, my passengers had began to cluster around the vestibule area, eager to step off the train, have that much desired cigarette, and of course witness my grand exit.  
I open the door upon arrival and before me are approximately 14 paramedics.  Not quite the paparazzi, but still very intimidating.  Then the press conference begins.
“Why is it you think you need an ambulance?” the one reporter boasted.
“I beg your pardon?”  What the hell kind of question is that?
“Why do you think you need to go to the hospital?”
Am I interviewing for a patient position, I thought.  I turned and look behind me to see my passengers just a chomping at the popcorn, anticipating what I was going to say next.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint.  But your not going to hear me say “Oh I have a compromised immune system and a wound the size of my fucking thigh just blew up in my thigh and I thought this would just be the next fun thing to do in my day.”
“I’ll be more than happy to answer that questions on our way to the hospital without an audience.”  I assertively replied.  
While dancing in the back of the ambulance to every pothole on the road, someone must have heard me say “I have ebola”, because when I got to the hospital, every person was wearing thick gowns, spit guards, and filtered masks.  I’m now so emotionally distraught, and tired, I have no idea what to do.  
I then was blessed to meet probably the only person with a brain, the PA who walked in asking why she felt she was on a movie set instead of a hospital.  As the lambs started “baaaaaaaaaahing” out their reasons, she quickly schooled them and said contact precautions as normal.  None of this additional crap is necessary.  She then looks at my wound and says “Cellulitis and possible MRSA.”  Oh Christ, I thought.  My next emotion was to cry.  Apparently this was something they didn’t know how to handle.  Well not handle so much as acknowledge.  
Because at this moment, I had learned Nurse Ratched had continued her education, becoming a doctor, my doctor and was standing before me.  “If we don’t keep you here, what is it you think you’re going to do?”
I didn't understand the question.  Yes, it was to the point.  I just didn’t see how it related to me.  “What do you mean, what am I going to do?”
“Well do you think Amtrak is going to just give you another ticket?  What are you doing to do?”
Despite Nurse Ratched’s continued education, I noticed she still somehow must have missed any courses involving bedside manner.  It feared me though that once I explained I was an employee and fully insured, how quickly her tune changed.  But that wasn’t a hill I was ready to climb.
While being admitted as an inpatient, I had understandingly fallen asleep to only be awoken by the Hospitalist, a harpy I dubbed Olga the Oger.  “Michael, we need to talk.”
I fumbled to awaken myself.  SInce my bladder felt as if to explode, this initial task was a bit easier.  “I need to use the restroom first.”
I’m not sure what kind of fetishes this harpy had, but she grabs a urinal,sits it in front of me, then sits down herself, giving me the strongest execution of poker face I had ever seen.
“Without an audience.” I commanded.  
While waiting for her to come back in the room, flapping her wings to perch in her nest, I fell back asleep.  Then again with that same shrill I heard “Michael, I said we needed to talk.”
Hold up.  What’s that?  No ma’am.  You obviously don’t know who I am.  It was at that moment my hummingbird ass was put to rest by my alligator mouth.  I couldn’t believe I had it in me.  The harpy looked down, looked at me in the eyes, then said “I am getting security.  I don’t feel safe with you in the room.”
Security must have been busy fighting the meth monsters from the emergency room.  Because she came back with no soldiers.  Which I was fine with.  I grabbed my big boy britches, apologized and proceeded our discussions.
Three more times she ran out of my room in fear.  No my friends, not from my hot temper.  But to change every order she had already written for me because she failed to find out my allergies beforehand.  I was starting to feel that Charlotte and I were going to be seeing each other again in the after life by the way things were going.
Well I survived the that 5-day stay in the hospital.  But no.  Mount Fiji had yet to be conquered.  My final night in Williston was to be at a hotel.  Work had generously called me cab to take me to the Ritz, no Discount something or other inn.
As I stand there waiting for my chariot to arrive, a strong sense of anxiety consumed me as I saw this black SUV come racing towards me.  Oh God.  This can’t be my cab.  I found placing my luggage in the back to be especially easy as the the whole back window had been busted out.  Upon entering the cab, I took notice to the several inches of dirt and dead insects upon my bench.  I especially loved that my “driver” rhythmically licked and chewed his lips as if they were two cheeseburgers from the best burger joint in town.
“Now they told me you would need a receipt.  I told them we give receipts on cards.”
Fair enough I thought.  Wait….What’s this.  Lip Licker hands me the card of a female real estate broker who specializes in short sales at Remax.  On the back of my card it says Cab Fare $17.00 and a signature.  Oh yeah.  Accounting will look at this like seeing a turd floating in a punch bowl.  
Thank Christ, I’m at the hotel!  I walk in to see the accommodations were doable.  Not the Ritz as I dreamed.  But after my week, a cardboard box set up in the middle lane of a highway in a rainstorm wouldn’t seem so disappointing.  “Sir.  We have your complimentary dinner available for you in the hallway over there.”
Dinner in the hallway?  Oh hell yeah!   Jackpot.  I couldn’t wait.  As I stand in line behind every roughneck in the state acting like vultures before 3 metal canisters, I couldn’t hardly wait to see what lottery winnings I could be consuming.  Door number one had something that I think might have been tuna.  Whatever it was, it was shredded, white, and crusty on top.  Behind door number two, chicken so oily, had I dropped it, Foghorn Leghorn would have slid straight to the Canadian Border.  Then behind door number three, corn dogs so hard, I could speer someone’s eyes out from across the room.  I figured between the preservatives, and the 600 different antibiotics running through my system, the speers would be the best way to go.
Oh let the C-Diff begin!!!!
It’s safe to assume, if I’m ever bit again, by anything, I’ll probably not wait so long to address it.  Maybe I’ll start asking for directions too.  
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honey-tea-and-lemon-trees · 6 years ago
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Hey there!!! Congratulations on the followers!! 💕💕 Can you do 13 and 19 (separate or together your choice) please? Love your writing! ❤❤
Thank you, lovely! 💕 I am apparently incapable of writing short drabbles because both of these got quite long… hope you like!
13. “I could kiss you right now!”
Jughead is pretty sure that sometimes Betty doesn’t realise the full extent of the effect her words have on him.
Not the words like the ones in her college essays that she asks him to proofread for her - although, admittedly, her arrangement of words in that context can create a pretty powerful argument - but more like the unfamiliar (and slightly unwelcome) ripples in his insides when she says things that she hasn’t even thought about.
For instance, when he walks into their (too early) morning seminar armed with his own black coffee he picked up on the way and then places a vanilla latte on the desk in front of Betty, beside the laptop that she’s already typing away on. When she finally looks up from her computer - it’s a fair few minutes because Jughead has managed to pull out his own laptop and actually logged in, which takes time because at this time of morning he certainly does not move with impressive speed - and her eyes land on the coffee cup, she sighs in relief before she grabs it quickly.
“You sir, are a godsend,” she says after a few long sips, giving him this warm and beautiful smile that manages to wake him up more than the coffee has. When she turns back to her keyboard, there’s a strange surge of smugness spreading through him and a smile that no one’s ever seen before 11am.
Then, there’s the time that he’s been dragged to some loud, heinous college party by Archie that becomes a lot less unbearable once he realises Betty’s come with Veronica. She also happens to be wearing a very nice skirt and happens to show off a lot of her very nice legs, so he spends most of the night pretending he’s not staring at them while Archie laughs at him and claps him on the back.
Then when Betty’s thrown back too many cups of lukewarm beer to even stand, let alone keep dancing the way she was, Jughead gently pulls her into the kitchen and props her up on one of the stools by the kitchen island.
“You’re so good to me, Juggie,” she hiccups, a dreamy haze of alcohol coating her voice. “What did I do to deserve a friend like you, huh?” she continues. He hates the casual reminder that she will only ever think of him as a friend, but the rest of the sentence is enough to bring the weird flutters back.
“Think you’ve got that backwards, Betts,” he says with a small smile, handing her a glass of water - which she gasps at the sight of and drinks while she hums gratefully.
Archie literally bounds into the room and slams into Jughead’s side for what was probably meant to be a hug but feels more like a tackle.
“Arch, what the fuck?” Jughead rasps, feeling a little winded because drunk Archie doesn’t know his own strength, Betty’s giggling at him in his peripheral vision
“Me and Ronnie are gonna get burgers, you lovebirds wanna join?” Archie babbles enthusiastically, his arms still wrapped around Jughead’s torso. Jughead resists the urge to punch his friend for the lovebirds comment because he looks like he’s already forgotten he’s said it and Betty has jumped up from the stool and is gushing about burgers.
In the split second that Archie lets go of him and dashes out into the hallway to find his girlfriend, Betty’s latched on, dainty fingers wrapped around his arm and trying to drag him into the hallway.
“Jughead!” she whines, looking up at him with an exaggerated pout and wide, pleading eyes. “I need a burger right now or I’m going to die!”
Jughead chuckles, muttering, “Been there,” under his breath before slinging his arm over her shoulder and guiding her out of the kitchen. He enjoys the way she sighs and nestles further into his side far, far too much.
After walking around the city for far too long and after Jughead has stopped Archie from running out into oncoming traffic, twice, they finally end up at a crappy fast food joint that all four of them would have turned their nose up while sober - but the hunger has gotten the best of them and they head inside.
Jughead orders and pays with Veronica’s credit card, which she threw at him before she proceeded to start making out with Archie in one of the booths that have definitely seen worse than this. He throws their burgers down on the table in front of them, but decides he doesn’t want to risk the consequences of separating them - he’s been on the receiving end of Veronica’s glare more times than he count and he’d rather not fear for his life.
Betty has settled in the next both over, seemingly trying to look anywhere but at the barely PG public display of affection in 10 foot in front of her eyes. Jughead walks to join her, handing her the burger and before debating whether he should sit beside her or opposite her in the both - which ultimately results in him lingering awkwardly at the end of the table, not that anyone notices because Betty’s engrossed in eating his burger and Archie and Veronica are still busy eating each other.
“Oh my god, Jughead,” Betty hums as she swallows another bit of food. “I could kiss you right now,” she says flippantly, but Jughead’s reaction isn’t quite so casual. If the other stuff had caused flutters than this was close to cardiac-arrest.
He just stood there silently, eyes wide and wondering how the hell the was supposed to respond to that but apparently he didn’t have to because Betty’s declaration seemed to have piqued the interests of Archie and Veronica enough for them to tear their lips away from each other. “Do it, Betty!” Archie called, laughing mischievously. “I dare you!”
“Go on, B! Lay one on him!” Veronica chimed in, throwing her head back as she laughed.
Betty pouted at them for a moment but then narrowed her eyes like she might be thinking it over. “Okay!” she chirps, sliding herself out of the booth and skipping the few paces between them until she’s practically nose to nose with Jughead. He can’t find the words to speak because his heart is pounding erratically, bouncing around and crashing into the walls of his rib cage.
She looks more sober than she was, but she’s obviously still a long way away because sober Betty would still be sitting in that booth and would probably be scolding Archie and Veronica for being so childish.
She gives him a devilish smirk as she throws her arms around his neck, leaning her body closer to him where he can’t find the strength to move a muscle.
“You look nervous, Juggie,” she says, her voice is teasing but she’s speaking in a low enough tone that it’s pooling a dark feeling low in the depths of his stomach.
His lips part to tell her he’s not (which is a blatant lie) but in a split second her lips are pressed lightly against his and suddenly he’s forgotten how to speak.
It’s been a few seconds and he knows he should probably pull away; she’s had too much to drink and he’s had a few beers himself - this could also be considered two much, relative to his own typical alcohol consumption. But without thinking his hands are moving to her waist and his lips move against hers in the softest touch.
This turn of events is surprising enough before, miraculously, Betty starts kissing him back, pulling him closer with her hands on his neck. He can’t help but smile against her lips, which earns him a slap on the shoulder from Betty even though she exhales a breath of laughter between kisses.
What they can’t see is Archie and Veronica still watching them from the next both over her jaw is slack from shock and he’s got a smug smile like his work was done.
“When the hell did this all start?” Veronica hisses, jabbing a finger in their direction with wide eyes.
Archie chuckles and slings an arm across the back of the cheap vinyl seat, muttering, “It’s been a long time coming.”
19. “I could kill you right now!”
There’s a loud crash from the living room, the result of several items clattering to the floor and possibly glass shattering. Jughead winces preemptively in anticipation of what he knows what is about to happen next.
“What the fuck was that?” Archie asks, wide eyed and startled as his gaze flickers between Jughead and the doorway.
The terror on his face seems to increase tenfold when the screech pierces through the walls. “JUGHEAD!”
“Run away, save yourself,” Jughead whispers, mostly sarcastic but it’s not actually terrible advice.
Archie looks confused for a second, until the kitchen door swings open to see Betty. She’s wearing a soft, pastel yellow dress and pink rubber gloves that completely juxtapose the murderous look in her eyes.
“Hi, sweetie. You called?” Jughead chirps innocently, immediately wishing that he had an off switch to stop him from saying dumb shit because Betty does not look like she appreciates the joke.
“I could kill you right now,” she says, with absolute sincerity as she points a finger at his face threateningly.
“Everything okay, Betty?” Archie murmurs meekly, apparently only just announcing his presence to Betty, who snaps her head in his direction and looks surprised to see him.
“Hello, Arch! Nice to see you! Can you bear with me a second? I’m actually dealing with something right now,” she rambles in one breath, with a smile that’s obviously forced and looks a little manic when coupled with her tone. Archie just nods and doesn’t say anything - a wise choice.
Betty turns back to Jughead and the smile fades. Somehow he hadn’t noticed her take the few steps across the threshold of the kitchen but she’s very close to his face now.
“How many times have I told you to fix it?” she says in a low, threatening voice that’s more terrifying than when she shouts.
“A lot of times,” Jughead says obediently, a voice looping in his head that says sarcastic responses are not his friends right now
“Then why the hell haven’t you fixed it?!” she yells.
“I was gonna get Archie to fix it!” he says as he waves his hands in Archie’s direction , raising his voice to match hers but with a thousand percent less fury. “I don’t have a tool kit, Betts!” he elaborates, daring to breathe a laugh.
“Fix what?” Archie says innocently but looks like he immediately regrets it when Betty shoots him a look that says he was told to stay out of it.
“The coffee table,” Jughead says anyway, looking away from Betty’s piercing glare - though he can still feel her trying to burn holes into his skin. “The leg keeps collapsing,” he explains to his friend.
“Yeah, okay… I’ve got some tools in the truck downstairs,” Archie says warily, his eyes flicking between Jughead and his girlfriend who’s still staring at him with steam coming out her ears. “Jug, you wanna help me get them?” he says raising his eyebrows quickly and jutting his head towards the door.
“Yeah!” Jughead says, standing up quickly and shimmying himself around Betty. “That alright, Betts? Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea or something and put your feet up?” he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster before rushing out of the apartment after Archie.
“What the hell was that?!” Archie yells as soon as they had cleared the first set of stairs down towards the lobby, a safe distance away from Betty’s bad mood. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t the Betty I recognise!” he pants, his eyes wide with his arms waving over-dramatically
“Her mom is coming to stay with us in the apartment for a week,” Jughead says, completely deadpan. “So we’re all a little on edge.”
Archie took a moment to absorb that information before giving a quick nod and murmuring, “Okay, I get it.” Then he turns and starts walking down the stairs without another word.
Jughead chuckles and follows closely behind him. “She’ll be fine in a little while but she just needs some time to cool off.”
“Want me to call in reinforcements?” Archie says with a mischievous grin and Jughead laughs at what he assumes is a joke. He learns later that it was not when he opens the apartment door swings open and Veronica Lodge sweeps into his apartment.
“Hello, Archiekins!” she sings, giving him a quick him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Hello to you to, Veronica,” Jughead drones under his breath, pushing himself up from the couch where he’s been pretending to follow what Archie was doing to fix the coffee table.
“A pleasure as always, Jughead,” she says in a thicket of sarcasm, but counteracts it with a genuine laugh and steps forward to hug him. This says to him that she thinks they’re friends so it would probably be rude to flinch away like his natural instinct tells him to.
Betty must have heard Veronica from the kitchen where she was trying to let off steam by scrubbing literally inch of the counters, because she is suddenly in the doorway with eyebrows knitted together.
“V? What are you doing here?” she asks, sounding decidedly less pissed off than earlier - much to the relief of the rest of the room.
“I’ve come to sweep you off your feet and take you on a tour of Manhattan’s finest cocktail bars!” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.
Betty looks baffled by the suggestion and almost rolls her eyes before she catches herself and puts on a polite smile instead. “Sorry, maybe not this time… I’ve got so much to do. I’ve still gotta finish the kitchen, then do the bathroom, and a load of laundry and-”
“The boys are gonna do it for you,” Veronica shrugs as she interjects, surprising both Archie and Jughead to look up at her from where they’d turned their attention back to the table. “This was their suggestion,” - Jughead makes a face because it most certainly was not his - “they just want you to relax a little. Right?” She turns her back to Betty so she can make a face at the two of them.
Archie is apparently familiar with this face because he pipes up immediately, playing along. “Of course! You just seem really stressed and we thought you could do with some fun,” he says coolly, and as it turns out he’s a fairly convincing liar. Jughead keeps his mouth shut, because he is not so he just nods.
Betty looks torn and nibbles the corner of her lip before she sighs and apparently gives in, because she’s nodding her head.
Veronica squeals in her victory and rushes over to her. “Okay, go get yourself in something sexy and let’s go day-drinking!” she yells enthusiastically, even stirring a small giggle in Betty - which proves that Veronica is magic.
“Remember that she has a boyfriend, Ronnie. As do you,” Archie chuckles as he uses something that Jughead is pretty sure is a screwdriver, but wouldn’t place any bets on.
“Please, you know that Betty barely even men who aren’t Jughead.” Archie narrows his eyes at the fact that there was no similar statement about herself. She smiles when she notices and adds in a sickly sweet voice, “And I’m too in love with my Archiekins.” Judging by the blush on his cheeks, this seems to satisfy him.
“I’ll return her to you in the early morning, Jughead,” Veronica says, winking at him. “Don’t wait up,” she chuckles as she exits the living room and pulls the door closed behind her.
When Jughead stirs, it’s definitely dark outside but he’s not sure what time it is. He smiles when he sees Betty slipping between the covers beside him. She shuffles closer and wraps her arm around his torso, nuzzling her head into his chest with a satisfied hum. He can already smell the alcohol on her breath.
“Sorry I was a monster,” she mutters sulkily into his t-shirt, there’s a drawl to her vice that is distinctly drunk Betty.
“You weren’t a monster,” Jughead chuckles, his voice still thick with sleep. He places a kiss on top of her head before falling back into the pillows.
“Veronica said I was,” she mumbles bitterly, snuggling closer to him again.
“Yeah, well… you’re my monster,” Jughead murmurs sleepily and he thinks he hears Betty laugh quietly.
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goodvibesatpeace · 6 years ago
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Conscious Co-Creation
The illusion that we are mere “victims” of destiny or from what happens to us is fainting. We are not powerless victims at all, we are Creators. The only ones to blame for our “frustrations” and consequents manifestations. Because for all this “time” we have been doing it wrong, unconsciously, blindly, half powerless indeed!
How does Creation work?
It is not that what we think becomes reality. Wishful thinking is nothing but a self-hypnosis, trying to convince oneself of something we “want” to believe but in fact don’t, self-programing imposed by rational standards. When we “want” something so badly and give it all to the “law of attraction”; we visualize, we practice affirmations, we obsess about an expected outcome. Let’s just take a second to analyze all the details of what I just said and the way I particularly phrased it: … want…badly… obsess… expect… doesn’t sound positive at all does it?
But that is not all that it’s wrong with the process. All these are mental directives which serve an emotional cause, for example fear, or lack off something, or so we “think”. Instead of focusing on the root cause of the emotion, we quickly cover it up and compensate it with external distractions. Sounds familiar? – “Valentine’s around the corner and I still have no girlfriend! Oh well, thank god for wine and chocolates. I will just stuff myself on chocolate bom boms till I get diabetes!” Does it solve anything? No, just creates more problems, like a snow ball effect. This is how unconscious creation happens, and what we are doing now, and have been for a long time unfortunately.
Creation responds to what we feel! That is no surprise. We fear, so we create fear. We lack something, so we create more lack (need). We take the time to understand why we fear or need, and we finally break the cycle. We become a Conscious Co-Creator.
A sick, dying plant doesn’t blossom nor gives good fruits. First, we heal, we take the time to know ourselves. We analyze regarding what we have been projecting what is “wrong” (unbalanced) and needs our most loving attention.
Nowadays, stopping or “taking the time to” is not an option. The “system” says: “You stop, you die”, and we fearful obey. Have we forgotten we are part of the system, as in the system doesn’t work without us, not the rulers? It is we, the people, who truly give it life, our lives more specifically, and power. It is not the system that shapes us, like it is doing now because we are allowing it, it is us who shape the system. We who have the numbers, the majority, in practice we are the ones who actually rule (determine and make any outcome possible). We are the Creators!
So, we take the time to heal, if we choose to. We choose! We build a better system, healthier and wiser.
We enslave ourselves to pay the bills. Fact that all would say to ourselves to justify the madness and guarantee all the commodities and material toys we have come so accustomed to, but not necessarily, or not at all most of the times, of what we (truly) need and most definitely not the healthiest. What is more important, a cheap McDonalds burger and the latest smartphone, or an organic piece of fruit and a good book? What do we give to our children?
We work for a better health care and make ourselves sicker by the day, only to eventually give it all we sacrificed for to the pharmaceutical, doctors and nursing rooms. Was it worth it? Is that what we as creators would have pride of and love to create? Is that the example of life we want to pass to our children? Is that the world we want to make for them?
As a collective, a society, we must really stop and reevaluate our priorities. We are not just killing ourselves anymore, we are killing Earth, all animals, plants, all life forms and guaranteeing the same for the next generation, if there will be any. Not if we continue down this road. Ignorance and stubbornness are costing lives every second. It is not just in the other countries, or the neighbor, it is sliding silently on every doorstep. It is in what we eat, drink, and breath. This is the result of an unconscious creation. Lethal to say the least!
We have a choice. I choose Life. I choose my healing. I choose my conscious Creation!
A Conscious Creation transcends duality or polarity. It is not about being right or being in complete control of ourselves and everything. A conscious creation is about being the bigger picture, the balance of all “things”, feeling both sides and belonging to none at the same time. It is being Neutral, the third state of existence!
For whoever has a Heart, and is not afraid to use it, understands that there is “pleasure in pain” as there is “pain in pleasure”. Life is a paradox, we are paradoxes by nature. That is what makes us so special, and unpredictable. We can do great things and terrible things, we can create as we can destroy, we can love but also hurt. It is how it is. We accept it, we accept our nature, and try our best every day.
We also know there is a time to love but that there is a lesson in hurt. Wise is the one who understands when it is time to let go and destroy what it has created, only to create again a better version. So is cycle of life and evolution! We trust the flow of life. We accept each moment for healing, always going a little deeper. We don’t fight back, we use it for our advantage, whatever life throws at us. We keep our focus in our inner growth!
There is also benefit in “numbers”. I don’t create alone. As we live in a collective we are all co-creators, and when in synch we can do amazing things! We need each of you reading this. You need you!
Nothing truly ever dies, just transforms. We manifest to experiment, we make mistakes to learn better. But this is not about learning a better way, this is just perpetuating “someone” else’s mistakes and justify, over and over again, that there is no other way. We Know there is, deep in our Hearts, we know this is wrong, because it feels wrong. This is about waking up from a long deep sleep and restore the true balance of things.
This is my true love’s kiss to each of you. Let’s make the happily ever after together!
Much love to all!
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olicitysecretsanta · 7 years ago
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A Holiday for Two (A Secret Santa Fic for @the-silver-forked-sky )
Happy Holidays, Sim ! I hope you enjoy your Secret Santa fic! It’s an AU (no Island) fluffy piece of holiday goodness at a little over 4,500 words! Enjoy, and I love your edits! – Alli ( @olicitysmoaky )
***
A Holiday for Two
by Olicity Smoaky (for @the-silverforked-sky)
Rating: G
***
Thanksgiving Day, 2012
At the age of twenty-three, Felicity knew two things: that she was the best at what she did and what she did did not include cooking. This was why on that chilly third Thursday of November she was so incredibly grateful that Big Belly Burger did not close until 3pm.
She ordered a mini-belly buster, chili cheese fries and a diet coke. At the last second, she tacked on an apple pie with a side of whipped cream. She planned to eat that a little later along with the ice cream and red wine she had in her apartment. It was after all a day for food splurging.
Halfway down her apartment hallway, white paper sacks swinging from her curled fists (and balancing her soda), she spotted what she might refer to as a Greek god in human clothing if she hadn’t been put off by the cheap looking girl attached to his elbow. Unfortunately, she had to pass them to get to her apartment at the end of the hall. She kept her eyes trained ahead, quickening her step a bit. She heard the girl with the Greek god giggle hard. She held back the urge to roll her eyes when all of a sudden, she felt a bony shoulder knocking into her, causing her to drop one of her bags as she worked to save her drink. Napkins and ketchup spilled out but luckily the food stayed inside. She fell to her knees to gather her fallen items, when she heard a smooth voice murmur beside her, “Let me help.”
She blushed and didn’t look at him. “I got it. Thanks.” Felicity’s blonde hair fell in her eyes; why hadn’t she worn it up like usual? It made her feel more flustered not being able to see through it. When she was mostly certain she’d gathered everything, she stood.
“We didn’t mean to knock over your… dinner.”
Felicity looked up and met a pair of gorgeous blue eyes. Was he staring? No. Yes. He wasn’t blinking. Was he blinking?  She heard the girl beside him cluck her tongue. “Ollie, let’s go.”
“Sorry, Jenna,” he said, looking back at his companion before turning back to Felicity. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” said Felicity. “Happy Thanksgiving.” She left them and hurried to her apartment. She shut the door promptly behind her and glanced around the cozy little space she called home. “Time for Thanksgiving for one.” She kicked off her shoes, willing herself to forget about the blue eyes on the handsome face she’d seen outside. It wouldn’t be too hard. She knew she’d never see him again. And if she did, they wouldn’t speak. He’d just be handsome neighbor guy who she maybe waved at from time-to-time. That worked for her. It kept her loner status in check. Not that she liked being alone all the time, but she could handle it. She was happy – for the most part.
A holiday for one wasn’t all that bad.
As soon as her Big Belly meal was decoratively plated, and her table was set, a knock on her front door filled the room. She groaned. Her food was going to get cold. She stole a taste of her burger – grease-filled bliss – then got up. She opened the door to find the guy from earlier standing their wearing a sheepish grin, holding up a straw.
“You, uh, dropped your straw earlier.” Had she heard him right? Of course, she had. He was holding up the evidence. Maybe she’d fallen asleep on the sofa, and this was some sort of strange dream.
“Okay,” she replied, pulling it from his fingers. “You came by to give me a straw?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes take out soda’s better when you sip it through the straw. Not that I do take out much, but–”
“Thanks,” said Felicity, wanting to close the door but for some reason not moving an inch.
He looked over her shoulder at her dining table. “So, you’re eating Big Belly Burger on Thanksgiving?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “Trying to anyway. Thanks for noticing.”
“I wasn’t judging. I just… Never mind. I’m sorry. I just thought you might like your…” He gestured to her hand.
“Straw?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s okay. I’m not feeling lonely or anything.”
“I’d invite you to our place, but…”
“We just met.”
“That and I’m off to the Thanksgiving from hell with my family.”
“At least you have your girlfriend to protect you.”
A bewildered look colored his features before he replied, “Oh, she’s not coming. And she’s…just a friend.”
A friend, huh? It was none of her business. “Okay. Well, my food is getting cold, so…”
“Sure, sure,” he said. Before she could shut the door, he held out his hand. “Um, I’m Oliver, by the way. I’m just down the hall most days. New to the building.”
She smiled at the warmth in his eyes, and for the first time since she’d seen him in the hallway she completely relaxed. “Felicity.” She shook his hand. Her stomach swooped at the touch then it was over. 
“Nice to meet you, Felicity, and Happy Thanksgiving.” He opened his mouth to say more, but no sound came out. And then he was gone, and Felicity was alone again.
***
Not so many weeks later, Felicity sat in her tiny excuse for an office in the back of the IT department at Queen Consolidated working out an algorithm no one else in the department seemed to be able to master. She’d been out-performing everyone she worked with in the eleven months since they’d lured her away from her job at Kord Industries. She was up for annual review in January and was hoping for a promotion or at least a good salary bump.
“Christmas party sign up,” a young securities analyst named Byron popped his head in without knocking.
“I’m Jewish,” she said almost as a reflex. What she really felt like saying was go away, can’t you see I’m busy? She was just about done.
“Oh. Sorry,” said Byron. “It says holiday party actually. But it’s on Christmas Eve. Monday, then we’re home free for an entire week.”
Felicity clicked a few more keys on her computer. “One sec.” She almost had this. Yes! “Who’s awesome? I am. That’s who.” She looked up at Byron with an apologetic smile. “Sorry for snapping.”
“Since you’re normally a ray of sunshine, you’re forgiven,” Byron quipped.
Felicity held out her hand to take the clipboard. “Is it mandatory?”
“If you want to get promoted, you better bring something good. Better yet, homemade.”
What? He was kidding. She clocked his expression. Nope. He was not kidding. “Homemade? You mean like cook something? QC’s not catering it?”
“It’s the department party, so no.”
Felicity’s stomach twisted. She had to find someone to do it for her. She could poison people if she actually did the baking. But who could she ask? She hadn’t made any friends outside of work since moving to Starling. She never spent time with any of them outside of work.
“What should I put you down for?”
Felicity sank her teeth into her lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Cookies or cupcakes. Stan loves either,” Byron informed her. Stan was their supervisor. He’d be the one doing her evals. But her performance in the kitchen should have zero to do with her work, right?
“Put me down for cookies. No cupcakes. No… I don’t know.”
“I’ll put either or,” Byron said, pulling the clipboard out of Felicity’s hands and scribbling it down for her. “Surprise us,” he said, turning to head out.
“I’ll be surprising you all right,” Felicity muttered to herself.
“Don’t do store bought,” Byron advised as he slipped into the hallway. “Stan’ll know.”
Felicity sighed. “Just perfect.”
***
December 23, 2012
That Sunday afternoon, as snow flurries tickled her frost-bitten third floor kitchen window, Felicity broke into a sweat. Part of it was from over-exertion. And part of it was from the smoke billowing from the oven. “No! I was paying attention this time.” How could a certified genius muck up cookie baking this badly? She pulled out the hard as stone nearly blackened sugar cookies. She’d made an earlier batch that was somewhat edible, but she wanted them to be perfect. Sadly, since that mediocre victory, the rest of her cookies had taken a turn for the worse. Frak! Now the alarm was squealing from the hallway. She opened her window, stung by the cold air as it whipped inside. “Just a couple minutes open for you. Not planning on building a snowman in the middle of my kitchen floor.”
The alarm was still screeching. She yanked it from its perch on the wall and shut it down before moving into the living room. She’d put it back as soon as she cleared the smoke, which was lingering all around her. She flung open the front door. “I really need friends who bake.”
“I bake,” a deep voice pierced her solitude from the hall.
“Oliver! What are you doing here?”
“I heard the alarm. You okay?” he asked, fanning his hand in front of his face and expelling a small cough. Felicity bit the inside of her cheek. Why did he have to show up at her door at the most humiliating moment?
“I’m fine. I was just… baking,” she said.
“I see.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she crossed her arms. “You think you could do better?”
“Like I said, I bake.”
“Really?” She sounded way too hopeful. If her career wasn’t dangling off the edge of a pirate ship plank, she might have turned him away. But she was desperate. How much worse could he be than she was at it?
Her handsome new neighbor shrugged a shoulder. “Sure. Why not?”
“Great. Let me just close the kitchen window, so we don’t freeze to death.”
***
Oliver turned out to be a wizard in the kitchen. Felicity almost felt like she was in the way. Not that he wasn’t trying to include her. After two batch drills, watching him stir and mix – he made the dough from scratch –  she was ready to try it on her own. She cut the cookie shapes and placed them on the cookie sheet. The oven was at the right temperature. Several minutes later, Felicity got distracted by something on her tablet. She would have burned the cookies had Oliver not prompted her to remove them. “Now we let them cool,” he said, hovering close behind her, his hand resting on the small of her back.
“Okay,” she whispered. “What do we do now?”
“You want to try to make cupcakes?”
“After a glass of wine? Or is it too early for that? I’m not like a day drinker or anything. I just–”
“Felicity, it’s okay. It’s after four.” Oliver chuckled. “Let’s celebrate your victory.”
“’Kay.” Felicity smiled then turned to pull out her best wine and poured them each a glass.
A few seconds later, they perched themselves on the two stools that looked into the kitchen from her living room.
“So, Christmas.”
“Actually, I celebrate Hanukkah usually. But I’m here, working. My mom’s in Vegas. I don’t really know anyone else outside the office. Thank you for helping me by the way. It means a lot. I work at Queen Consolidated, and my supervisor is apparently into sweets – cookies and cupcakes specifically, so…” She stopped both her mouth and the waving hand gesture and bit her bottom lip. “Sorry. I tend to ramble sometimes.”
“It’s cute. And… I like to hear you talk.”
“Promise? You’re not just saying that.”
He held her gaze for a moment and blinked at a pace that made her shiver. “I promise,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “So, name two of your favorite holiday foods.”
“Can it be one food and one liquid?”
A dry chuckle with a hint of mirth escaped Oliver. “Sure.”
“Latkes and hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles.”
“What color?”
“Red. Red, green, blue…and the gold and silver star kind …all of it for the holidays. Makes me kinda …”
“What?”
“Happy. Even if I’m alone.”
“Well, you’re not alone tonight.”
Felicity grinned. “No, I’m not.”
The cupcakes weren’t as simple as the cookies had been. Oliver made it look, well, like a piece of cake. When it was her turn, she splashed most of the batter on the counter. “I swear, I’m really good at other things,” she lamented as Oliver looked at her with what looked like an adoring twinkle in his eyes. No. He wasn’t looking at her like that. She was just a geeky neighbor he felt sorry for. He went for girls like she’d seen him with that first day. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned her again. He said she wasn’t a girlfriend.
“What happened to your friend from the other night?”
“Jenna?”
Felicity nodded, licking some of the to-die-for batter off her fingers.
“Haven’t seen her since that night. I’ve known her for years. But I’m not in a relationship with anyone. What about you?”
“Uh, no. Not since college.”
Oliver nodded but wasn’t meeting her gaze. Was that somehow bad? She refocused on the baking. She could analyze the minute details of his behavior later.
By the time Felicity finally completed a successful set of cupcakes, taste-test approved by Oliver, her bones ached. “Thank you so much for helping this afternoon…and evening. You really didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to. I like being in the kitchen.”
Felicity snorted. Oliver frowned. “I don’t mind it. It’s just not my thing. I have other things I’m good at so it’s okay.”
“I could teach you more things…one day. If you wanted.”
“I’ll just stick to what I know. But thanks.”
“No problem,” he said quietly. Felicity hoped she hadn’t hurt his feelings. Cooking just wasn’t her thing. It was mostly because it didn’t excite her. Eating. Now, that she loved. “Then maybe I’ll cook for you,” he said. She wasn’t sure if he’d read her mind or if she’d said that out loud. But was he asking her out? No. He was just being neighborly. He was nice and handsome and a catch. But she would not read anything into any of this. She didn’t want to get hurt. He didn’t seem to notice what he said or her reaction to it. “We can decorate and frost the cupcakes together. Then after maybe we could watch a movie. If you want.”
Wow. At the very least, it was obvious he enjoyed her company. “Um, yeah! I mean, yes. Sure. If you want.”
“I do.” They shared grins.
“Okay, I’ll go see what I can pull up on Netflix. Or wait. Do you watch Suits? I need to catch up. That or Game of Thrones. I’m a season behind. Not that you want to a watch an entire season of a show you’ve never seen in one night. Unless you have seen it, that is–”
“Whatever you want is fine with me,” Oliver said, stepping into the room with a smile. “As long as I’m with you, I’m good.”
Felicity turned away from him, a blush firing her cheeks. What exactly was this man trying to do to her?
***
Felicity had no idea how it happened, but she awoke close to midnight to a dark apartment with her afghan tucked around her. She blinked her eyes a bit as they adjusted to the darkness. “Oliver?” There was an indescribable coolness to the air that told her she was alone. She sat up, popping a crick in her neck then mashing her fingers into the muscles surrounding it.
When she clicked on the lamp next to her sofa, its soft yellow light filled the room, painting a path to the kitchen where she found her cookies and cupcakes stored neatly in boxes, decorated (with little snowmen and snowflakes) and ready to take to work. She also found two sticky notes taped to the top box. The first read: You did a great job on these. I’m sure they’ll be a hit. Any time you want to toss around the cookie dough, let me know. – Oliver
Scribbled on the second was simply: Consider this my raincheck for our Netflix night. It was followed by a barely decipherable wink. Was he just being nice or was that him asking her out? Did she even have his number? She could just go knock on his door and thank him for his help. She looked at her wall clock. At 12:16am? Good plan, Felicity. Not to mention, she had no idea which apartment was his. No, she was just going to go to bed, wake up, head to work, and hope she saw him again one day. Yes, that was the logical thing to do. “Sometimes I hate logic,” she muttered as she padded across the kitchen floor and turned out the light.
***
December 24, 2012
Oliver was right. Felicity’s cookies and cupcakes were an incredible hit. She felt a little guilty having not done it all herself and taking the credit for their magnificence, but she had worked hard on them, and she felt proud that she’d at least been a part of their creation.
“Felicity, these are amazing,” her supervisor Stan raved biting into his fifth cupcake, green frosting coloring his mustache. “Your review is right after the first of the year, am I right?”
“Yes. January 4th.”
“Well, I certainly look forward to it. Your work has not gone unnoticed, Ms. Smoak,” he finished before being pulled away by his wife to chat with the supervisor from accounting who’d stopped in briefly. “You have got to try these cupcakes, Harriet,” Felicity heard him saying. “Our resident prodigy Felicity Smoak is a wizard in more areas than one.”
Frakety-frak-frak-frak. She really hoped they wouldn’t expect her to do this every year. “Oh, God.”
“The name’s Oliver,” she heard a somewhat familiar voice murmur beside her. She gasped, and whipped around.
“Oliver! What are you doing here?” She felt her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. “How did you find my office?”
“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. 
Before Oliver could answer, Felicity’s co-worker, Byron, slid up beside them, hand extended toward Oliver. “Happy holidays, Mr. Queen.”
“M-Mr. Queen?” Felicity blanched. “As in Oliver Queen?”
Apparently, Oliver did not like the expression on her face. He reached his hand out to touch her shoulder, but she shied away from it. “Felicity…”
“So, you’ve met our secret weapon. Genius at what she does. Genius in the kitchen. Have you tried her cupcakes? They’re phenomenal.”
“Thank the chef here,” she said, pointing her thumb at Oliver.
“I’m sorry?” asked Byron.
“She was kidding,” said Oliver, holding her gaze.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr. Queen,” she said.
“Felicity…”
“I think I’ll be heading home.” She’d put in enough face time. She did her cookie and cupcake duty. God. What an idiot she was.
She managed to make it to her office, retrieve her coat, then slip out to the parking garage without anyone stopping her. She’d half-expected Oliver to follow her, but why would he do that? He’d had his kicks, right?
Just after she’d slid into her mini-Cooper and revved up the engine, a set of knuckles wrapped on her window. Oliver’s too gorgeous face and amazing blue eyes appeared on the other side of it.
“Felicity, please. Let me explain.”
His puppy-dog expression caused her to sigh and roll down her window. “There’s nothing to explain. You’re Oliver Queen. I should have picked that up. But you know, you were in the middle of a gentrified building just outside the Glades, so the thought never crossed my mind.”
“It’s my friend Sara’s apartment.”
“Sara Lance?”
“Yes. I’ve been using it since she left town, so I could—”
“Hide from being Oliver Queen? Have random hook ups. I get it.” Felicity sighed. “Look. I’m not mad. I’m just embarrassed, okay? So, can I just go home now?”
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I should have told you.”
“It’s okay, Oliver. Happy holidays.”  
Without giving him a chance to respond, Felicity backed her car out of her spot and headed home.
***
December 25, 2012
Felicity peeled her eyes open, very aware that it was Christmas morning. The stores would be closed. Families were exchanging gifts all over the city. Families like the Queens. She inched her way into her connecting bathroom to shower and change from her pajamas to a comfy pair of sweats and a t-shirt. A full day of Netflix was definitely on the menu. Maybe some pizza or Chinese food later.
When Felicity settled on her sofa, her mind conjured images of Oliver and his family celebrating around an enormous Christmas tree surrounded by all the comforts of the rich. He’d probably forgotten all about her. The next time he ran into her, he’d make nice most likely, then she’d pass him awkwardly in the hallway and make her way down to her apartment like she had the first time she’d seen him. Everything back in its place – Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak separate worlds, separate lives.
About three minutes into her wallowing, the doorbell rang. Who’d be visiting her today of all days? And so early, too. Felicity peeled open her door to find a small ice blue envelope decorated with snowflakes with her name inked on the outside. Her eyes darted down the hall, but it was empty – empty save a few other envelopes making a path to the front door of the apartment three units down. Sara’s apartment. Oh, Google. Felicity swallowed and opened the first note. It was a recipe for Chicken Cordon Bleu. Felicity crinkled her nose and turned the card over. This is my favorite meal to cook. I hope you like it, too.
Her heart thudded in her chest. Tingles swirled up her spine. Heat pooled in her belly. Oliver. There was no way in hell she wasn’t following his bread crumbs, but she looked terrible. She had bed head and morning breath. That and she was low-key scared out of her mind at the prospect of finding Oliver on the other side of Sara’s door. What if someone came by and picked up the cards. Should she just grab them. Keep them in order? No. She’d just quickly brush her teeth, run a comb through her hair, put on some shoes and grab her purse. She wasn’t one to go out without her purse.
Less than five minutes later, Felicity was back in the hallway picking up a red envelope. Inside was another recipe. This one for butternut squash soup. The back of that card read, For those rainy nights. The third envelope was green. Inside, she found a recipe for sweet and sour chicken. The message read, Better than any take out you’ve ever had. The third envelope was silver with gold stars on it. Its recipe was for fudge brownies. Simple, sweet but with so much depth. Just like the girl I want to get to know. Felicity’s breath caught in her throat. She tucked the envelope into her purse next to the others then stepped in front of Sara’s door where the last card lay. It was silver with her name written in gold sharpie. She opened it. The recipe card inside was blank. She turned it over. On the back it said, My name is Oliver Queen. And I only have one goal. To make you dinner. Felicity burst out laughing. The cheesiness of it turned her into a ball of giddy goo. Immediately, the door swung open. “You’re here.”
“Who would have ever guessed the Oliver Queen could be such a cornball,” she said, her giggles only just subsiding.
He grinned, a full blush filling his cheeks. “I have my moments. Okay. Actually, this is a first.”
“Oh, really?”
Oliver nodded, his grin not at all fading. “There’s just something about you that…”
She titled her head. “Brings out your inner cornball?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Something like that. Would you like to come in?”
Felicity followed him inside to find the cozy apartment modestly decorated for Christmas. A tree of about six feet sat in the corner, filled with ornaments, tinsel and lights. A couple of Christmas cushions sat on the sofa.
“So, let me get this straight. You plan on cooking me all these meals?”
“If you want,” said Oliver, looking down bashfully for a second.
He was so adorable that Felicity couldn’t resist stepping into his personal space and cupping his cheek. She ran her fingers over his stubble and stroked her thumb along his jaw. “So, Oliver Queen, huh?”
“Felicity, I—”
“Shh…” she whispered before pressing her lips to his. Oliver froze. Felicity pulled back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He cradled her face in his gloriously large hands, then pulled her back to him. Oliver groaned, slanting his mouth over hers. Felicity whimpered into his mouth. Soon, their tongues tangled as they tasted each other for the first time. Felicity’s hand crept up the soft material of his sweater. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest. After a few seconds, Oliver tore his mouth away and pressed several kisses along her jaw until he reached the shell of her ear. She thought he might take it between his lips, but instead he whispered, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I met you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice cracked a little.
He pulled her into his arms and held her for a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you my last name.”
“In fairness, I didn’t tell you mine either.”
“But you told me where you worked, and I froze. I didn’t want to ruin things with us. I just felt so incredibly lucky that—”
“My alarm went off?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’m assuming you have to go be with your family today.”
Oliver shook his head. “I was there last night. We exchanged our gifts already. I told them I had some work to do.”
“But what about Christmas dinner?”
“My parents are leaving to go skiing. My sister is already at a friend’s for the day.”
“So much for the image of the Queen family Christmas I had in my head.”
“I think a Smoak-Queen Christmas…
“A Smoak-Queen Chrismukkah…ish. I mean, Hannukah ended like nine days ago, but…”
“Oh. Well, I have a surprise planned. I hope it’s okay.”
“Don’t tell me? One of your recipes.”
“Nope. Those are for later. Today….” Oliver ran into the kitchen then re-appeared with a plate of potato pancakes with two sauce cups in the center, two forks and two mugs. He sat each on the coffee table in front of Sarah’s sofa.
“Latkes and hot chocolate with sprinkles? You got every color, too.”
“I hope this is okay. I went through about three batches before I got the latkes right. I got the recipe online.”
Felicity dolloped some apple sauce on one and dug in. Heaven. “Oliver Queen, I think I’m in love.”
Oliver blushed.
“With your latkes, of course. Not…I mean. I’ll just keep eating.”
Oliver chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Let me get us some little plates.”
Felicity watched Oliver go with a content smile. When he returned, they sat knee-to-knee and enjoyed the rest of what would be the first of many holidays together.
The End 
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copyrightedsnakes · 8 years ago
Text
All’s Fair in Love, War,  and Politics (1/5)
Title: All’s Fair in Love, War, and Politics 
Length: ~33k words (in total, this first part is ~7k)
Summary: In an impulsive moment of weakness, Mark agrees to a bet set by Bob and Wade. He has to be elected class president at his university to win, so to save his hair he now needs a way to get his name out there so that people will vote for him. As luck would have it though, he ends up catching the eye of the school’s radio DJ.
Warnings: Swearing, slight drinking/mentions of alcohol, all of the cheesy fluff tropes rolled into one disaster of a conglomeration  
Author’s Note: I’ve never written septiplier before (and of course my first attempt had to be rly frikin long why @ self) be nice to me pls This fic was inspired in large part by @tiny-septic-box-sam​‘s fic I’ll Make You A Deal, which I would go tell you to read bc it’s awesome but it’s currently off the air to be turned into a book which is like the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard??? awesome job wow but aNYWAY this, too, is a college au, so I did have Mark drink a little because he didn’t find out about his intolerance until later in life and everyone’s ages are a little out of alignment. I know people can be any age to go to college and that it doesn’t really mean anything, but I just wanted to say that yeah, it’s a little confusing, but just roll with me on this one. It’s going to be alright. also I started this before tyler and ethan joined the squad full time which is why they’re not in here sorry
"Wow, this is a first. I thought I was the only one who liked the waffle station in the cafeteria."
Mark turned, surprised. Since he was the only person standing in front the waffle maker--which was already an unusual thing to do at half past noon on a Wednesday--he had to assume that the voice from behind was talking to him. He was met with the sight of a young man about his same age, height, and wearing one too many wristbands, bright green fringe peeking out from under his red beanie. He had an empty plate in one hand and his phone in the other, giving Mark a little smile.
"Sorry?"
"I've just never had to wait in line before."
His eyes were so blue, and his eyelashes were so long, and it wasn't until the word "before" that Mark noticed something else.
"Your voice--"
"Is it familiar?" The green-haired stranger asked, the smile on his face growing a little bigger. That was better than any of the adjectives that Mark's mind had been giving him--cute, oh my god, ​and ​Irish--so he nodded.
"Yeah, I'm that loudmouth asshole on the university's radio station." He slipped his phone in his pocket, sticking out his hand. "My friends call me Jack, and you can too."
"Oh, thanks." Mark took the handshake, about to give his name in response when the waffle maker dinged. It caught him off guard, nearly forgetting to let go of Jack's hand as he turned around to put the waffle on his plate.
"Are you just now getting food?" Suddenly his roommate Wade was next to him, a plateful of fries, a burger, and a slice of pizza in his hand. "Hurry up! We still haven't talked about if you want to put a mini fridge in your bedroom."
Mark was ushered away as soon as the waffle was on his plate, barely having time to even glance back. Jack had one eyebrow raised, an amused expression on his face. Mark turned his attention to his friend as they found a place to sit, only half paying attention to what Wade was saying. By the time he glanced back at the waffle maker, Jack had disappeared.
Mark was a third year college student, about three-fourths of the way through a biomedical engineering degree, so it surprised him that he had never seen or heard of Jack and his green hair until now.
"Oh, yeah." Wade said, waving a hand dismissively when Mark asked about him, the two of them walking to their off-campus apartment. "Lots of universities have their own radio stations. I've never tuned in to ours, but I hear it's popular. You could probably find it on the school's website."
The topic was dropped once they reached their apartment, Wade pushing the front door open. Mark had spent his first two years of college rooming with his friend Bob, but Bob had wanted to ask his girlfriend Mandy to move in, and after she said yes Wade had been kind enough to offer up his own place. It was a nice apartment, with a faster internet connection, larger rooms, and higher rent.
Mark retreated into his room, wanting to search the internet for a cheap mini fridge and finish his biology homework when he remembered what Wade said about the university radio station, going to the school's website. Sure enough, a link was there. He could listen to it through his computer, plugging in his headphones when it was time for Jack's segment to start.
"Top of the mornin' to ya laddies!"
Jack's voice was loud, explosive, and happy, and it made Mark smile. "I'm your DJ, Jack, and welcome back to 'What the Jack', where I play the weirdest, most eclectic music you've ever heard. Sort of. I try to at least; this damn school likes to censor me."
The curse word was covered poorly with a cough, making Mark laugh out loud.
"Speaking of censoring, for the first song we have an amazing cover by one of my favorite bands--a band that's cost me run-ins with management a good amount of times now, but honestly it's worth it every time just to expose them to you. Sometimes physically. Please enjoy: Take On Me, a bomb cover by Ninja Sex Party!"
Then the song played, Mark making a mental note to check out this band, sexy party ninja or whatever, in his spare time. When the song was over Jack came back on, making a few jokes and horribly dated references as a lead-in to whatever he was playing next. It went on like that for the better half of an hour and Mark genuinely enjoyed it, leaving the station playing as he began his biology homework. A good amount of the music that came on was stuff he had never heard of, and some of it definitely wasn't to his taste, but Jack's commentary was enough to make up for it.
"We'll be taking a few callers, and then I'll do my shout out of the day to wrap up!" Jack announced. "Call in to the show and ask me a question."
He rattled off the station's phone number, Mark even pulling his phone out of his pocket in consideration before shaking his head. He didn't know what he would say, or ask, or anything; he was bound to just embarrass himself.
"Hello! I have my first caller in! Can you state your name?"
"I'm Ginny and I love the show!"
The girl was shouting, Mark wincing and pulling out an earbud.
"Now, Ginny, the only person here that's allowed to be as loud as you're being right now is me." Jack said. "Inside voices, please. That's your question?"
"Your hair is green, so I just wanted to know if green was your favorite color!"
"That's an excellent question, thank you. Actually, my hair is only green because that's what color my twitter theme is right now. My favorite color is actually red. I know--it doesn't make any sense. The color is just nice and bright is all." Jack chuckled, and it made Mark smile. "Next caller!"
"Hey bros, it's Felix!"
"Felix!" Jack shouted back. Even Mark knew who Felix was: the largely popular president of the student body. He and the pursuit of his now-girlfriend Marzia, the university's shy valedictorian and Italian exchange student, had been all over social media the year he had run for office, and many people considered it to be a large factor in his election success. Mark didn't know any details of what a student body president actually did when it came to things like influencing the university, but he didn't have any complaints, so though he didn't know Felix personally, he supposed he liked him fine.
"What's your question?" Jack asked, the smile on his face audible.
"I just wanted to know if you could go ahead and remind everyone about the upcoming Student Representative elections. Sadly I'll be graduating, so we'll need a new president for next year."
"Sure thing, buddy. What are you and Marzia's plans after graduation? Us mere mortals will have to live on without this university's favorite power couple."
"Oh!" Felix laughed. "I've got a job across the country, and I'm going to ask her to move with me. Don't tell her though; it's a secret."
"My lips are sealed."
"Thanks. Remember, Rep elections. Stay awesome bros."
"You heard the man!" Jack exclaimed as Felix hung up. "Student Rep elections. If any of you out there want to boss us around next year, make sure to send in an application to start your campaign. All of the prerequisites and the submission link can be found on the university website." Jack led into another song, some electronic bop that had Mark bouncing his leg. It ended abruptly, a short moment of silence before Jack spoke up.
"Alright, time for my daily shout out. This shout out is to a guy I met today. Now, I don't know who he is--we talked a bit at the waffle station in the cafeteria. I told him my name, but he didn't return the favor. I don't think it was his fault though; he held onto me a little too long when we shook hands, and I know you're not supposed to judge a man by his handshake, but I'm pretty sure that means he's completely in love with me. Which I am totally up and down for, because he was definitely a looker. So this one's for you, handsome waffle stranger."
Jack signed off, and Mark could feel his face completely burning up as James Blunt's "You're Beautiful" began to play. It was him, undoubtedly, that Jack was talking about. Calling him handsome, and telling it to the entire student body. It was flattering, and a good ten minutes passed before Mark's ears returned to their normal, unabashed color.
Mark took to listening to the university's radio station every evening after that. Jack's program came on twenty minutes after Mark's last class of the day ended, and he tried at first to listen to it and eat dinner at the same time, but after choking rather painfully on some macaroni and cheese after trying not to laugh, Mark decided that the food could just wait.
He didn't see Jack around again in person, but somehow Jack saw him. He never said hi, Mark only finding out when the DJ would, on air, mention spotting him walking around campus. By the end of the week, Mark had earned himself two more shout outs, Jack playing both Five Seconds of Summer's 'She's Kinda Hot' and Meek Mill's 'All Eyes On You'. Without fail, any mentions of himself on the radio station caught him off guard and made his face heat up, because listeners had begun ringing in and telling Jack that the two of them should date.
"I don't even know his name." Jack responded, a mock wistful tone to his voice. Then he laughed. "Don't blow this out of proportion, guys. I just think he's cute."
Mark was grateful that Wade didn't listen to the radio, because he would know who it was Jack kept talking about and wouldn't let Mark hear the end of it. The last thing he needed was more ammo for the smack talk that occurred when they played video games together. Things had the potential to get out of hand, which was why they often invited Bob over to play with them, aside from the simple fact that he was a good friend; he was a good moderator. Usually.
"Oh, suck a dick." Bob said with a sigh, letting his controller drop into his lap. Mark just laughed, unable to hold in a grin.
"Have you won a single match? Either of you?"
"Shut up!" Wade shouted from the kitchen, having heard his statement.
"You know, I didn't think I was good at Mortal Kombat, but I guess I am." Mark stretched his arms over his head, dishing out a full cheesy smile at the glare Bob was dealing him. "Or maybe you guys are just bad."
"Okay, so what?" Bob picked his controller back up as Mark started another match. "It's not like we're playing for anything. The stakes are non-existent. I have no motivation."
"Okay then." Mark squared his shoulders, trying to think of something. It took him a whole other match to come up with something good, grinning as he told it.
"Bob, if I win this next match, the two of you have to call me 'Your Majesty' for a week. How's that?"
​They began another round, watching Mark's Scorpion and Bob's Sub-Zero smack talk each other before getting into the match.
"I don't want to be a part of any of your weird power play fetishes." Wade protested as he walked back in the room, a bag of chips in his hand. "I'm not even playing."
"It's not as if you could be a king anyway, you can't lead people." Bob added. Mark opened his mouth in offense. "No one would even vote for you."
"This isn't a democracy." Mark pointed out, a few well-timed combos cutting Bob's health by a third. "But c'mon, that's not true. I'm a leader. I'm the captain of the university's Improv Comedy Club."
"Only because Arin Hanson appointed you when he graduated. The other members like you fine, but they didn't vote for you."
"What, I have to prove myself now? You want me to win an election or something?"
The question was meant to be mocking, but Bob sent Mark an inspired smile.
"Yes."
"What? No."
"Do you think you can't do it?" Wade asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Shut up Wade."
"Mr. Ikea is graduating." Bob pointed out, Scorpion receiving three kicks to the face. "We need a new class president."
"This is stupid." Mark protested, watching as his character got a good number of important bones broken.
"So are your leadership skills."
That was the last straw, Mark running an angry hand through his hair. He knew this was all stupid, and Wade was laughing at him, but he was a bit too riled up to care.
"Fine. I'll run for president. And when I win, you'll eat your words and write me all of my scholarship essays."
"Fine." Bob agreed readily, the confidence in his voice shaking Mark's resolve slightly. "And when you lose, you have to shave your head a nice shiny bald."
"What? No!"
Wade let out a loud laugh; they all, Mark included, knew how much he loved his hair.
"C'mon, Your Majesty."
"Fuck you guys."
"Is that a yes I hear?" Bob grinned, not even reacting when his character's head was ripped from its shoulders.
"I'm going to make both of you regret this."
It wasn't until after Mark had submitted his class president application online that he realized he had no idea how he was going to make good on his promise. He had to persuade the majority of the student body to vote for him, a feat that genuinely seemed near impossible. Nobody outside of his classes and the people in the Improv Comedy Club even knew his name.
"Uh... Give out free shit." Matt said. "College students love free shit. Mostly food, or t-shirts, but anything will do."
"Sounds like a great campaign strategy." Ryan answered dryly, Mark snorting out a laugh over the phone. Matt and Ryan were his right hand men, Mark meeting Ryan in one of his classes, and then meeting Matt when the freshman joined Improv Comedy with them, not finding out until nearly three months later that the two were roommates. They were the ones he came to for brainstorming ideas, and while most of their ideas were very stupid-funny, he figured they could still be of help.
That and he didn't have any other options.
"Just wear something really weird to all of your classes so people pay attention to you. Remember when Arin wore that Sonic the Hedgehog Dress all day? The club got seven new members, just from that."
"Sorry, but I'm not sure cosplay has the 'responsible leader' look that I'm going for." Mark ran his hands through his hair, mussing it up beyond fixing, realizing a second later that if he lost, he wouldn't be able to do that anymore. A bolt of panic ran through him. "I need something good. Something really damn good. Something tried and true, so we know that it works."
"Nothing 'works' in politics." Though they were on the phone, Mark could still just about see the air quotes Ryan had put around the emphasized word.
"Plus, I am a little excited for the day I get to call you egg head." Matt added.
"Don't you dare." Mark grumbled. "I will castrate you."
There was a knock on the door, Wade shouting out "Bob's here!" as he got up to answer it.
"I've got to go." Mark told them. Bob had insisted on an extremely aggressive Mortal Kombat rematch. "If either of you think of something, please let me know. I'm on the verge of desperation."
They promised they would, Bob greeting him with his best game face as he entered the living room. They couldn't stay serious for long though, the match quickly deteriorating into checking out everyone's fatalities amidst casual conversation.
"Hey Mark, have you decided on what you're going as for that Halloween party this weekend?" Bob asked. "Last I heard you didn't have a costume idea."
Mark shook his head. There was a slightly less than legal costume party happening in one of the frat houses on Saturday, and after Jack gave an offhand mention that he was going to it on his show a week or so back, Mark had talked all of his friends into coming with him. Unfortunately, he hadn't thought far enough ahead to pick out a costume for himself, and he didn't like any of the ideas he had been able to come up with.
"No, not yet. Ryan and Matt are going as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, and they offered to make me a Tweedle Dumber costume, but I don't think anyone would get it."
Wade laughed at that, making Mark ask,
"What, do you have a costume? Last I heard you were as empty-handed as me."
Wade gave a confident nod. "I thought of something yesterday. It's great."
"What is it?" Bob's voice held a valid measure of skepticism, Wade gesturing to the clothes he had on, a simple t-shirt and jeans.
"It's the easiest costume in the world. I'm just wearing my normal clothes, and saying I'm a nudist on strike."
"You know..." Bob laughed. "That's either complete stupidity or complete genius, and I honestly cannot tell which."
"What're you going as?" Mark asked him.
"The one and only Mario Jumpman Mario." Bob answered. "The misses wants to be Princess Peach."
Mark nodded, frowning. That didn't give him any inspiration, despite the time crunch that was on him, with the party being only a few days away. He needed to hit the costume stores before all the good things were gone.
"Top of the mornin' to ya laddies!"
Bob left just as Jack's radio show started, Mark retreating into his room to listen.
"I'm going to be playing nothing but spooky songs today, to get into the spooky scary spirit. Halloween is tomorrow, and then the next day is the Alpha Epsilon Pi house party, of which I will be attending. I got myself a pretty sick Deadpool costume, and I love Spiderpool just as much as the next guy, so if Spiderman--or Spiderwoman, I don't discriminate--wants to hit me up and I'm drunk enough, I've always wanted to give that upside-down kiss thing a try."
Mark went to the Alpha Epsilon Pi party as Spiderman. It wasn't because of Jack, he told himself--well it was, but only because Jack had given him the idea--but that was it. He wasn't looking for a kiss.
He wasn't looking for Jack either, he reminded himself as he scoped out the place. There were a good amount of people dressed as the arachnid-themed superhero, but only one Deadpool, standing and talking to what looked like a lumberjack, as well as Mary Poppins and her chimney sweep Bert. Mark wandered just within earshot, trying not to be noticed.
"You know Ken, that costume is a bit of a cheat." Deadpool was saying to the lumberjack, his voice unmistakably Jack's. "Just growing out your beard and throwing on a flannel shirt doesn't make a Halloween costume. At least Felix, Marzia, and I actually tried." He placed one hand on his chest, using the other to gesture to the Mary Poppins characters on his left.
"It may be a cheat, but it works just as well." The lumberjack--Ken, Mark assumed--gave Jack a smirk. "And it was free, too."
"Mark, is that you?" There was a hand on his shoulder, making him jump and turn. It was just Wade though, a cup in his hand.
"Yeah."
"Oh, good. You're the third spider shoulder I've tapped on. Bob is starting up a game of beer pong, did you want to play?"
"Sure."
Mark let himself get led away, stealing a glance back at the group he had been eavesdropping on. He couldn't really tell, thanks to the mask, but with his head turned in this direction, Mark couldn't help but feel like Jack was looking at him.
Mark gradually forgot about it as the party wore on. He had a good time, talking to people and dancing a bit. He tried to keep up with Bob and Wade while drinking, but both of them were taller and bigger people than he was, and as a result he was hopelessly hammered by the time the party was ending. Bob had left some time ago and Mark couldn't find Wade, stumbling onto the front yard of the frat house with everyone else that was going home. It was a substantial crowd, a girl in a sexy kitten costume calling out,
"Hey Deadpool!"
"What?" The responding shout was Jack's, Mark looking around for him.
"Didn't you say you were going to get a Spiderman kiss?"
"No Spidermen have offered." Jack answered. The radio DJ was only a few feet away, his mask off, leaning against a tree. He wasn't nearly as far gone as Mark himself was but he wasn't sober either, an easy smile on his face. "But if someone wants to climb up in this tree, I wouldn't object."
And like that, all eyes were on him. Mark was the Spiderman closest to the tree--and the only one still there, he noticed as he looked around--but that didn't mean…
"Go!" There were five people around him now, all pushing him in Jack's direction. He didn't protest, though he wasn't sure it would have helped. Part of him wasn't sure he would be able to hang upside-down without falling on his head, but once he managed to get up in the branches it wasn't as disorienting as he'd thought. He wrapped his legs around the tree branch, Jack giving him an amused grin.
"I don't know you, so if this is weird for you and you don't want to kiss me, I can totally play it off." Jack said quietly, stepping close. "No hard feelings."
Mark tried to remind himself that he hadn't come to the party to find Jack, and definitely not to kiss him, but at this moment that didn't seem to matter.
"No, I'm game. Wouldn't want to disappoint everyone."
"If you're sure." Jack pulled down Mark's mask so that only his lips were visible, leaning in.
"You know, this is probably the most romantic thing I've ever done." Mark said. That made Jack laugh, smiling into the kiss.
It was strange, more than anything. Lips weren't supposed to fit together upside-down so theirs didn't quite, a cheer going up as Jack put his hands on the sides of Mark's face. The contact was gentle, mostly for show, but Jack was grinning a little as he pulled away.
The frat house yard had cleared out by the time Mark figured a way down from the tree, and even then it had been more of a careful fall than anything else. Jack stood there the whole time, watching him in amusement.
"So." He said once Mark was back on his feet. "Do I get to know the identity of my four AM mystery kisser?"
"I--sure." The alcohol didn't quite dull all of the embarrassment, Mark able to feel his face heat up as pulled the mask off. Jack's expression went from expectant to amused surprise, his mouth opening slightly.
"Waffle stranger?"
"That's what you call me on the radio."
"Oh man, you listen to that?" Jack chuckled, rubbing the side of his mouth. Mark wanted to laugh too, but he had finally managed to straighten up fully, and for whatever the reason, his stomach was extremely unhappy about it.
"I didn't even have to stick my tongue in your mouth to tell how drunk you are--how did you manage to get in that tree anyway?"
"A good magician never gives away his--" Mark had to stop, recognizing instantly that he was going to be sick.
"You okay?" Jack leaned closer, concerned.
"I think... I think was upside-down for too long."
"Or drank too much." Jack chipped in, just as Mark bent over, the contents of his stomach emptying onto Jack's shoes and the ground below.
Mark's head was throbbing as he opened his eyes. He was in a bed, and it took him another moment to realize it was not his own bed, with the comforter too fluffy and a disturbing lack of pillows. There were posters all over the walls, some for bands Mark recognized and some for bands he didn't, a coffee maker taking up most of the bedside table. He sat up, the action made dizzying by his hangover, and he looked around the room a little more.
There was a body on the floor, curled in a ball in a mess of pillows and blankets. He had on a red t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, but the bright green bush of hair made it obvious enough who it was, Mark assuming that meant he was in Jack's bed. Mark still had on his Spiderman costume, the fabric now feeling extremely sweaty and uncomfortable. He got to his feet, groaning immediately and sitting back down.
The noise woke Jack, who opened one eye and squinted at him.
"Oh that's right, you're here." He stretched, rolling onto his back to look up at him.
You didn't have to take me to your apartment. " Mark said, more embarrassed than anything. "You didn't have to sleep on the floor like that, either."
"Well, I wanted to take you back to your place, but when I asked you who you came with all you told me was 'a big guy, a nudist'. I wasn't in the mood for finding a giant naked man, so I just dragged you back here."
Mark choked out a laugh, shaking his head. He briefly considered explaining Wade's attempt at a costume, then thought better of it.
"Sorry."
"And then," Jack continued, sitting up "I slept on the floor because you were so drunk that I didn't want to leave you alone, but I didn't want you to freak out if you woke up spooning me, or something."
"How did you know I was a cuddler?"
Jack laughed. "You look like one." He said, standing. "Coffee?"
"Could I ask for some painkillers too?"
Jack's expression was a nice mix of amusement and sympathy as he nodded, walking out of the room. He came back with two empty mugs, a bottle of water, and Tylenol, turning on his coffee maker as he set the other things down next to Mark on the bed. Mark downed the meds as the coffee began to brew, unable not to ask about it.
"Why do you have a coffee maker on your bedside table? You have a kitchen, right?"
"Because coffee comes first. Before everything." Jack grinned. "I probably have more caffeine in my bloodstream than hemoglobin."
He rummaged around in his closet for a moment, throwing Mark a pair of shorts, which he caught, and a tank top, which he didn't.
"I figure your walk of shame will be less embarrassing in actual clothes than a full Spiderman bodysuit." Jack said in response to Mark's questioning glance. "You can wash and return them."
"You are being way, way too nice to me." Mark had to say as a full mug of coffee was passed into his hands. Jack just shrugged.
"You're like my mom's dog; you're just lucky you're cute."
They didn't talk much more after that, Mark simply trying to function as best he could with the hangover he had and Jack watching him in amusement. Jack left the room to give him the privacy to change and then Mark ushered himself out the door, expressing his thanks with every few steps. He caught sight of Jack's completely ruined shoes as he was leaving, sitting outside the apartment door, and he was unable to hold in a wince.
"I'll buy you new ones." He promised.
"You'd better." Jack gave him a clap on the back. "See you around."
"Wait, so that guy in the video kissing DJ Jack... That's you?" Matt yelped, eyes wide. Someone had recorded his drunken Halloween kiss with their phone, and apparently it had blown up all over local social media. It made Mark glad he didn't have a twitter account. "You kissed a guy?"
Mark shrugged. "It wasn't that weird. I guess drunk me just needs to be reminded of my sexual preferences."
"At least it wasn't animals." Ryan agreed, nodding gravely. Matt gave him a look.
"Jack was really nice, too." Mark continued. "I was completely wasted and I vomited on his shoes, but he took me to his apartment anyway and let me crash there, then gave me coffee and a change of clothes."
"Are you sure you didn't sleep with him?" Matt asked, sounding skeptical.
"Should I have?" Mark asked back, Ryan punching him on the shoulder. "It's not like I was a complete stranger; we'd met before. You two listen to the campus radio station, right?"
He got responding nods from both of them, continuing.
"I'm the cute waffle guy, or whatever he calls me."
"You're handsome waffle stranger?!" Matt was shocked. "I called in the show the other day asking for what the guy looked like so I could try and find him."
"I know, I heard you, and I'm grateful for how vague he was. Don't tell anyone, please--I'd never go to class in peace again."
"Mark." Ryan said seriously, putting one hand on Mark's shoulder and the other on Matt's. "I know how you're going to win this election."
In short, Ryan's idea was insane. It required acting, deception, and a large amount of cooperation from a near stranger, but as soon as Ryan began explaining it, Mark saw how it could be successful.
"Felix got the attention of the apathetic voter with Marzia, right? I mean, he could have just hit on her for a week and asked her out, but instead he sent her giant stuffed animals during class and staged an entire flash mob in the middle of campus right before the election. It was cute as hell, and he didn't do it for his campaign, but it definitely helped."
"So you want Mark to chase after some pretty girl?" Matt asked.
"There's no one I really like, or anything." Mark added. "Plus, that sounds expensive."
Ryan waved them both away, shaking his head.
"You can't just court someone; people would call you a copycat. You have to step it up a notch."
"Publicly date someone?" Mark asked, pulling a face. That didn't sound enjoyable in the least.
"You don't have to actually date them. Just for show. Like reality TV, or something. Except without the drama, because you have to be a perfect gentleman."
"How do I just find someone, and..." Mark gestured vaguely, not sure how to describe it. "I don't know, do that?"
"Well, I already have someone in mind. Someone that's pretty popular within the student body; someone that a lot of loyal listeners want you to be dating already." The grin on Ryan's face made it immediately obvious who he was talking about. "What do you think?"
Mark groaned, putting his head in his hands. This could either be a complete disaster or the best idea Ryan ever had, and he was desperately hoping for the latter as he stood outside the broadcasting room the next day with a shoebox under his arm. He'd thought a few times about how to ask for the favor, but at the same time he didn't want it to sound too rehearsed, working out the main points and hoping he would just figure out the delivery when he got there.
Jack jumped when he opened the door, putting a hand on his chest.
"H-hi there." He said, closing the door behind him. "You scared me. What's up?"
"Sorry. I have shoes." Mark held the shoe box out, Jack taking it and raising an eyebrow in Mark's direction.
"You're being weird. Where are those clothes?"
"Oh." Mark let out a nervous laugh. He didn't have the clothes Jack had lent them--they'd been too low on his list of priorities, and he'd forgotten about them. "I think I wore them to the Rec Center the other day."
"You can keep them then." Jack said with a laugh, waving a hand. "I haven't been to the Rec Center since... Freshman year, I think? And I haven't worn those clothes since then either." He moved to open the shoebox, Mark stopping him.
"Now, I know I was supposed to just be replacing some regular tennis shoes, so these are going to look like a bribe, but that was only half of their intended purpose. I also just though they were cool."
"What?" Jack spared him a confused glance before opening the box, his mouth falling open. The shoes were black leather with black laces, an LED strip around the base. "Holy shit! These are those light-up shoes everyone and their mother is talking about." He was so surprised that it made Mark smile, until he glanced back up, squinting. "Wait. Why are you bribing me?"
"About that..." Mark scratched the back of his neck, not wanting to meet Jack's eyes. "I'm running for student body president."
"And you want me to endorse you on the show? Because that's definitely worth these shoes."
"Not quite. I got into this bet with my friends that if I don't win, I have to shave my head. Completely. Shiny bald."
Jack gave him a critical once over.
"That would not be a good look for you." He said after a moment. "It would make your face look all big and weird."
"Thanks. I know." His deadpan tone made Jack laugh. "So, to keep that from happening I was thinking about what Felix did to win by so much of a margin, and... Would you pretend to date me?"
Jack stared at him blankly.
"I do not follow." He said, his face complete confusion. "At all. What?"
Mark explained the way Ryan had, Jack listening silently the entire time. He set the box on the ground, crossing his arms and frowning.
"I don't know about this."
"Hey, I thought you said I was cute." The statement was meant to be a joke, but it was bordering so closely on narcissistic that for a second Mark worried about being misunderstood. Thankfully, Jack laughed.
"Finding someone attractive and wanting to date them are two very different things." He said. "I think Nicki Minaj is a beautiful, beautiful woman but I would have no idea what to do with that much ass."
"Well luckily for you, I don't have that much junk in the trunk. And we're not actually dating, so you don't have to do anything with it."
"Right. To sum up... You want to use me to make people like you, all so you can save your hair? Why do I want you as my Student Rep again?"
"I’m not just going to sit there and do nothing if I get elected.” Mark said quickly. He knew he had to actually lead if he did become President, and had began giving it some thought. “I have some ideas about how this university could give time and money to charities, especially those dealing with mental health and suicide prevention."
Jack raised his eyebrows. He obviously hadn’t expected that, giving him a reevaluating once-over.
"Well damn. Okay."
He told Jack about a few more of his ideas for actions and policies, too nervous not to speak,, watching the DJ mull over his offer.
"Fine." Jack bent down, picking the shoe box back up. "Sure. I'll do it."
"Wait, really?" Mark had more than expected being turned down, unable to hide his surprise. "I... Thanks."
Jack shrugged. "I mean, if it gets me more cool stuff like these shoes, I can't exactly turn down an offer like that. It does, doesn't it?"
"Yeah." Mark didn't know. "Of course. I am sorry, again, about your other pair."
Jack waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Besides, didn't you say that was the most romantic thing you'd ever done?"
That made Mark laugh, Jack shifting the box under one arm and frowning a little.
"Hey, I just realized--what's your name, anyway?"
"Oh! Mark." Mark stuck his hand out for a handshake. "Mark Fischbach."
"Well, Mark," Jack took his hand, but instead of shaking it he used it to pull him closer, putting a feather-light kiss on his knuckles. "Pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Making your face turn that color is going to me be favorite pastime, by the way."
He pointed, but Mark could already tell how red his cheeks were.
"What about that stuff, anyway?" He asked hesitantly. Jack raised an eyebrow.
"What stuff? We're pretending to date, not filing for a marriage license."
"Yeah, but holding hands, and..." He gestured. "Kissing. You know what I mean."
That made Jack laugh. "Aren't you getting ahead of yourself? You haven't even asked me out yet. But I needed to be somewhere ten minutes ago, so give me your number and we can coordinate the whole thing, okay?"
"Okay."
​After putting Mark's number in his phone and promising to get back to him soon, Jack rushed down the hall with a quick wave.​ Mark went to the group chat he, Matt, and Ryan were in together; the two had requested for him to get back to them as soon as possible.
He said yes.
He got replies from both of them instantly. Matt sounded genuinely relieved, while Ryan was sarcastic.
Great!!!!!! When's the wedding
Shut the fuck up this was your idea
what's the plan?
Mark frowned at Matt's text, realizing he didn't know. Every time his phone buzzed he jumped to look at it, but for the rest of the day Jack didn't get back to him. It wasn't until the next morning that Mark saw Jack's text to him, sent somewhere between 3 and 4 AM.
Hey, it's jack. Call in to the show tomorrow and ask me out. I'll cue you in and everything.
To: Jack Just call in? It'll be that easy?
From: Jack Yup. You'll ask me out and I'll say yes and the whole campus will be very excited
Mark didn't know what Jack's cue was going to be, he realized as he tuned in to the show. He didn't try to eat, or do any homework, all of his energy focused on listening and calming the nerves in his chest. He began worrying halfway through the show that he had somehow missed the cue when Jack hadn't mentioned him at all, a split second of panic making him gasp until he realized that the phone lines simply hadn't been opened yet, letting out a breath and flopping down on his bed. He hoped that this fake dating thing was going to get easier--he was only on day one, and this was already more stress than he could handle.
"Now, everyone, I have some very exciting news. Just about everyone has seen the spectacularly romantic and spectacularly drunken kiss I had the night of that Halloween party, but nobody really saw what happened afterwards, so I figured I would share. After my superhero fell--yes, fell, quite gracefully--out of the tree, he took his mask off, and would you believe who it was underneath?​ ​Any guesses? Yup. Handsome waffle stranger. I promptly decided that this had to just be fate, so I asked for his name. Now, I probably should have asked at a more sober time, because at first he just told me his name was Spiderman, but I eventually got an actual name out of him. He was too drunk to remember his phone number, but I did tell him about this show I do, so Mark, by the off chance that you're listening, hit me up."
Jack read out the station phone number, then Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe began to play. Though the story was a little bit of a lie, it was more entertaining the way Jack told it, and that last sentence was obviously his cue; his name had been so heavily emphasized that it would have been impossible to miss. Mark jumped to his feet, too full of nervous energy to stay still, pulling out his phone and dialing the number. He got a busy tone three of the times he tried dialing, and when the song ended it wasn't him on the line.
"Hello and welcome to the show, what's your name?"
"Mark."
"...really?"
Jack's voice was equal parts amused and disbelieving, and Mark could hear why. It wasn't him and that was much too obvious, the male's voice too high and nasally.
"I'm worried, because I know I dressed as Spiderman at the Halloween party, and I know I kissed someone, but I can't remember who. Was it you?"
"I don't think so, but I'm going to make this simple for you Mark. How Asian are you?"
"Um... I'm not."
"Alright then, you're not him. Best of luck to you though--everyone has their own unconventional love story. Next caller!"
Mark managed to get through that time, met with Jack's loud, boisterous voice.
"Hello, and welcome to the show! May I ask who's calling?"
"It's, um... It's Mark."
"Which one?"
"The Asian one." Mark said, and Jack laughed. "But no--Mark Fischbach?"
"Guys." Jack had a stage whisper on, his mouth close to the microphone. "This is waffle stranger guy."
"That's me." Mark confirmed. "We've met twice now and I have something I've been wondering... What would you say to a date? Like... To going on one. With me."
He stumbled slightly over the question, Jack letting out a small, surprised chuckle.
"That depends." He said, and Mark froze. That wasn't what Jack was supposed to say; all he was supposed to say was yes.
"On what?" Mark asked hesitantly.
"Well, what do you have planned for this date? Because no pressure, but I'm free tonight."
Mark opened, then closed his mouth. He had no idea. The entirety of his brainpower had been focused on calling in to the show--he didn't know he needed to have thought of this too.
"I... I would say going out and getting some coffee, since you seem like someone that drinks a lot of coffee..."
"But?" Jack prompted, a smile in his voice.
"But you probably haven't eaten dinner yet, so I'm thinking your choice, my treat, after you get off work?"
"You want to take me to dinner after I get off? I usually do things the other way around, but for you I think I could make an exception."
"Is that a yes?" Mark asked, the innuendo making him laugh a little.
"As long as you don't judge me for only really wanting to go get pizza."
"That sounds perfect, actually."
"Then you've got yourself a date, Mr. Spiderman."
Mark was hung up on, tuning back in to hear Jack chuckling a little.
"You heard it here first, ladies and gents!" He said, how audible his smile was surprising Mark. "That call took a little longer than most, so I'm going to have to sign off here."
So he did, thanking people for listening and promising to be back tomorrow. As soon as he was finished talking Mark got a text, from none other than Jack himself.
Youd better get down here pronto, we have some pizza to eat together.
Mark slipped some shoes on, grateful Wade wasn't there to ask him where he was going as he hurried out the door. When he got to the broadcasting room Jack was waiting for him, wearing an oversized unzipped hoodie, jeans, and the shoes Mark had bought him.
“You ready?” He asked.
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booksbroadwaybbc · 6 years ago
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Lets Transform Ourselves 3 Weeks Completed ! "Bulky bulk" (Pics on /r/dailyprogression) via /r/selfimprovement
Lets Transform Ourselves 3 Weeks Completed ! "Bulky bulk" (Pics on /r/dailyprogression)
Background information:
I'm a 20 year old Middle-eastern guy who's very figgity, impulsive and really only thinks about the short term benefits of everything. I used to be addicted to Gaming, but ever since i became 18 years old i decided to leave that part of me behind. I live in a lower-class home, we live off of welfare and I've had the fortune of being born with an above average-IQ which has led to me being able to go to university with a loan.
Last year 2017 December 17th I quit university, broke up with my girlfriend (whom i lived with for 4 months), ditched all my junky friends and moved back to my hometown.
So this is what I'll be doing every single day.
Waking up in the morning at 7:30 AM
Meditate for 10 minutes
Practise a skill/craft in my case Programming for 2 hours (not currently bec of holiday)
Walk for 2 hours per day
Do 60 Pushups + 240 Situps And Plank for 1 minute straight
Read a book (Currently : 4-Hour work week) for 2 Hours
Go cycling for 1 hour (not currently bec of holiday)
Be hygienic
Eat clean and track the calories that i'm taking
Log of 25th of August 2018 - Current time 1:00AM :
It's so late right now I don't know why I am doing this to myself but fuck it lets write another log ! Giving up is for losers, therefore I will not quit untill I am a winner. Now before I get into my daily do's and things, I need to inform you guys that I will be attending university this year. this means that from the 30th of august on I will be attending "computer science" at the university of amsterdam. Which will also mean that i will constantly be working on my programming skills on a day to day basis whether I like it or not. i'll be getting homework and will be working on projects as i'm on my transformation journey. So later on i'll be editing the whole structure of my routines and when I'll be doing them so it fits right into my school schedule.
Now the juicy stuff! What did I even do today? Honestly I can't remember a lot of it because I was sleeping for like half of the day. Today we were going to be leaving our apartment in Tirana the capital of Albania and we'd be moving to a hotel nearby the beach in the city Durres. We all slept till about 10 PM so we would be energized for today since we'd be packing up everything and moving it to our next place. Before we packed everything up and moved, I skipped brushing my teeth and I had a terrible breakfast full of sugar and junk. I should've brushed my teeth but i couldn't find my tooth brush since that was already packed, the reason i eat garbage is because there's nothing else in our fridge that looks slightly better than the junk we have(been eating cheese and butter for days). When we started packing everything up I noticed that my Ankle was still hurting, and it's just such a drag. I had difficulties bringing all the luggage we had with us downstairs to put in the taxi that was taking us to our next destination.
Once we got into the taxi and were up and running, i felt sleepy because of the sugar i had taken in. I was half asleep in the front seat next to the taxi-driver who asked me questions every 3 minutes or so. Obviously I did reply, but damn didn't I sound woke at all. At some point the taxi-driver didn't know where to go to, because of his stupidity and we had to stop in the middle of the street to ask the people who lived there where we had to go to. We ended up at the hotel that we had a reservation at and all was good.
The hotel we were at looked quite small and simple, it wasn't high class or low class it's right in the middle. we had a reservation for 4 days but wanted to change it to 1 day and switch to a different hotel due to the fact that it was way too expensive (70 euro's per day). However we already paid the cash for 4 days total and when we asked if we could just pay for one day and receive our money back the receptionist got really angry, started to cuss us out and threw his phone at us. We accepted that we had to stay in this shitty hotel, with tiny rooms for tiny people and we wrote an E-mail complaining about the service to our bookingsite.
When i got to the room at around diner time I fell asleep on the bed and had a terrible nightmare. When I woke up at around 19:30 PM i couldn't remember a thing about the nightmare and just felt like it was morning. my ankle gradually felt better, but i couldn't leave the room since my mom and siblings were out shopping. I waited for around 30 minutes untill they got back and we then all left to have diner. I had eaten around 2800 calories worth of food at that point and going to diner was absolutely overkill, but i thought fuck it it's holidays i'm meant to enjoy my time. So I ate a "big burger" and some bread which upped my daily intake to 3800 fuckin' calories. (ridiculous i know). After diner I thought it'd be a great idea to go to a barber since they're so god damn cheap here in albania. I checked the prices at the nearest barber and it cost about 4 euro's (5$) to cut my hear and shave the beard + do my eyebrows. I was satisfied with the numbers and had decided to stay at this barber to fix me up, in the end i stayed for about one and a half hour just to get my hair and face fixed.. It was worth it though.
It's 22:00 PM and I really haven't done anything productive, I take off my shirt and shorts and start doing my daily push-ups. This time around my ankles can handle the pain and i'm able to do the full 60 push-ups that i usually do. However I felt a bit of pain going through my shoulders or rather tension, which i usually don't feel. I did 15x4 sets and after that I began doing my sit-ups. Per usual it was 40 sit-ups per abs exercise and i switch the exercise every 40 reps. Most of my abs exercises focus on the upper abs which is also the reason why you can see those so well on my progress pictures (maybe after today you won't since i bulked up a lot :( ). The planking went really well after the sit-ups variants, I did 1 minute and it felt like it were 30 seconds. I think the next time I plank i'll be increasing the time by 15 seconds.
Today i walked a little bit more than yesterday but not enough to pat myself on the back at all. I did my meditation session once i got done showering and couldn't really focus on it because of the background noise. So i don't know if i should count that session in. The next couple of meditations sessions are about motivation and being able to formulate what I really want out of life. after this failure of a meditation session, around midnight time I read my book "4 hour work-week" by Tim Ferris. My goal was to read just a couple of pages before I'd sleep and I managed to read about 11 pages. This time around I learnt about skipping information that you don't need and not overloading your brain with useless information. How many times do you read facebook posts or just things in general that will not add any value to your life right now. Think about it, the news, facebook posts and maybe even youtube video's that you watch for entertainment. Those things are sources of information and causes your brain to become unfocused. You don't need that shit in your life and should be cutting it out with a razor sharp blade as if it's a tumor. Not that entertainment is not a good thing, just use it in the right way. as a reward.
Alright this should be my log, I was about to go to bed but then i decided to still write my log because well.. I don't wanna give up. If you want me to keep writing then tell me how much you like these posts. Pics per usual on r/dailyprogression.
Submitted August 26, 2018 at 02:47AM by AttackPrince via reddit https://ift.tt/2wb9Kyw
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asianbourdain · 8 years ago
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Beijing: All the Random Shit I Ate in Beijing 2016
4/24/16
Traditional Beijing Breakfast at some local spot
We arrived in Beijing early Sunday Morning and we got into a taxi as fast as we possibly could because we were starving.  My girlfriend directed the driver to take us where the locals go for breakfast and we were off.
Upon walking into the place, two emotions immediately took over my body: 1. This place is real local 2. What the fuck are we supposed to do?
A complete sensory overload.
Individual stalls with lines in front of it like this:
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But everyone is holding a ticket? Ah OK, you’re supposed to pay up front first, then take the tickets and get in line individually to collect your order.
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Each window also has a specific set of condiments, so now it’s getting real serious.
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After about 5 minutes of messing around and me ruining our breakfast this is what the result is.  A bean gelatin of some sort, two kinds of fry bread, a tea egg, a dumpling, savory soy milk (that I ruined with some chili oil), a red bean-sesame-sticky rice napoleon, and this super popular pasty porridge called Miancha.  It’s a wheaty porridge topped with a sesame syrup of sorts.  Apparently you’re supposed to sip it around the rim until the syrup is gone, then get another ladle of syrup.  We really fucked that up too.  Regardless of the correctness of our process, the meal was interesting, eye-opening, and really really cheap.  I really want to give this another shot and not suck at it.
Nan Luo Gu Xiang Zha Jiang Mian from this hole-in-the-wall shop
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We also ordered some preserved egg soaking in black vinegar and topped with ginger.  The dish to the left was another popular noodle style that’s a lot wetter, more pasta-like variant.  The preserved egg in this style is always a hit.  Both noodles dishes were special in their own sense.  One was heavier and more complex with a stew-like meat sauce slopped in.  The Zha Jiang Mian was not what I expected.  I thought it would be something closer to a DDM, but this was fresher.  A lot of snap and crisp from the julienned veggies.  A must whilst in Beijing.
Grilled Lamb and Sausage from this Hawker Stand
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I always love Uyghur-influenced grilled things on skewers.  I just wish I had some beers.
Hot Pot at Hai Di Lao
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Some cucumbers and tomatoes to diffuse the fire in between bites
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Yin and yang.  Fire and corn? Both broths were INSANELY flavorful.  Dimensions, depth, and crazy development in both soups.  Some serious stuff.
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The crazy sauce bar
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I also ordered a Harbin Beer, but they threw cucumbers in it?
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The spread, pretty standard but everything was just on point.
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We also added the infamous dancing noodle at the end.  A ridiculous deal for 2 bucks.  A guy comes to your table in all white and hand pulls a noodle while dancing to the music of your choice, absolutely sick.  What a ridiculously great meal. Everything was on point.  After this meal, I come to find out there’s one in the 626!  It probably isn’t as good, but I must try.
4/25/16
This spread at a work lunch
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The supplier wanted to put us to sleep at lunch because this spread was real serious. Steamed fish, Gai Lan, Green Onion Pancakes, Sweet Fried Pork (probably a dish ordered to appease us soft Americans), bamboo shoots, stir fried lamb in scallions, stir fried chicken in scallions, soup, house made soft tofu, pan fried green onion cakes, fried and steamed shrimp, and the weirdest thing of all: No rice!?  How does a restaurant run like this?  Proper execution on EVERY dish?  Amazing.  The food culture here is starting to grow on me...
“Beijing Barbecue” at this local spot
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The concept is simple. The front of the restaurant is a full-fledged meat market.  You pick out what you want, a host takes it down and it gets grilled and brought to your table
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Scallops, oysters, grubs, and shrimp.
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All the regular meats
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The shroom station
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The veg
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The local craft beer!
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The fucking hand-pulled noodle station, half chubs.
Mouthwatering Chicken
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Absolutely killer.  It’ll also light your mouth on fire if you’re not careful.  Cold chicken, chilis, scallion whites, Szechuan Peppercorns, and more.  It requires some elbow grease to dig out a piece of chicken, but when you finally find one and harvest the 2 threads of meat and/or skin, it’ll be totally worth it.
Beef Noodle
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Not a typical dish ordered at this meal apparently, but I don’t care.  This shit was good.  The noodle texture was on point, the thickness was consistent, beef was still tender, and the soup had me going back for more after every spoonful.  Great touch on the seasoning.
Baked Scallop with Noodles
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Small apps of scallops stir-fried with some cellophane noodles and dropped back on the half-shell. 
Ong Choy and Enoki Mushrooms
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I think they ordered this because I requested some veg, but these light and dry stir-fried preparations were clutch.
Grilled Squid
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1 huge cuttlefish chopped up, skewered, seasoned, and lightly scorched on the grill.  A bit chewy, but still tasty.
Chicken Wings
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Butterflied Fish, Lamb, Chicken, Chicken Gizzards, Chicken Hearts
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A lot of classics, can’t-go-wrongs at the top of this picture.  The fish was presented beautifully.  Butterflied down the back, flattened out, then grilled.  The seasoning was salty and spicy, great with beer.
4/27/16 Chaoyang This Sweet and Sour Szechuan Fish Thing from Some Big Company Banquet Dinner
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Besides the fact that the species of the fish was a complete mystery to me, everything about this dish was perfection.  The presentation was crazy.  The prep must take forever for every one of these they need to pump out.  Debone, skin, butterfly, and then crosshatch each fillet into bite-sized morsels before you bread, fry, and sauce.  The fry was impossibly crispy, even after a healthy drenching of a thick pineapple-based sauce.  What a great American Palate-friendly dish, yea that’s probably why I love it.  
4/28/16
Gui Jie Fried Whole Squid at some Kiosk
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These were found everywhere that was even remotely touristy and I resisted a few times already, but I had to do it this time.  It came out really nice, but it was essentially the same profile as most other fried Chinese drinking snacks.  A heavy dose of sweet potato flour, a hard fry, and then dusted with five-spice salt.  Chilli powder is optional.  The squid itself was still a bit chewy since it was so large, but this is very similar to the small squid tentacles found at any milk tea cafe.
Donkey Burger
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The place only had a few words of English, but they all pointed to the words “Donkey Burger”.  What was the actual protein stuffed inside this crispy bun?  Shit I don’t know but it tasted real funky.  Not sure if it was the seasoning or the protein itself but it was quite strange.  Funk and gaminess that my tongue was just completely confused by.  But was it good?  Hell yea, the bun had a crunch that resembled a scallion pancake.  The meat was tender and well seasoned through a stew. I just wish there was a nice pickle to cut it.
 Fried Intestines from this kiosk
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After some research, I found out the words on the stand said fried intestines, but this was by far the shadiest thing I’ve ever attempted to eat.  Walking up to the stand, the guy pulled the pieces of meat(?) out of a pot from the hidden shadows, then threw them on a large flat wok heated by a small propane burner.  He collected money, fried, collected orders, and served all by himself.  The biggest attraction for me was the large group that gravitated towards this guy.  After I put in my order, I realize he’s backed up at least 6 covers (more than his wok can produce in 1 batch).  So I waited patiently.  When It was finally my turn, I watched him throw them onto a plastic clamshell, then dress it with a garlic vinegar.  I can’t say it was worth the wait, nor was it the best thing I’ve eaten on this trip but it was undeniably tasty.  A bit heavy, a touch chewy, a little greasy, and a lot of crunchy.  No way I would say no if it was next to an ice cold beer.
4/29/16
Lunch at a random mall cafe
Another Chinese Burger
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The bun wasn’t as crispy and light on this one, but the filling tasted more like a protein that I'm familiar with.  Something that doesn’t smell like it got scraped off the side of the road.
Zha Jiang Mian with handpulled noodles
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Holy shit this was fantastic.  This might have been my favorite thing all trip.  Thick chewy noodles.  Light stewy broth.  Perfectly stewed pork.  Fiery chili oil cut with some pickles and cucumbers.  Beautiful balance of flavors and textures.
Crazy mess of a delicious soup
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This soup had everything: handpulled noodles, tofu skin, cellophane noodles, cilantro, cabbage, pork, leafy tripe, chili oil, and a deep numbing broth brewed for hours.  Great stuff.
Chili Dumplings
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Oh man, this is the stuff.  One of my favorite things ever.  Huge boulders of ground pork wrapped in a blanket of chewy dumpling skin bathed in a hot lava of soy, scallions, dried and fresh chilis.  I ate all but one of these suckers.
A mind-blowing meal from a random cafe at the mall?  Either this was a jackpot or the food standards in Beijing are in the right place.
Sanlitung Jian Bing from this cart
Stumbling around Sanlitung drunk, I was looking for a clear spot to call my Uber to head home, but then I saw this aura radiating from a woman and a tiny food cart. A drunk’s oasis.
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 Holy fuck, it’s a Jian Bing cart! I threw up a prayer to the drunk gods and they answered with this mainland special.
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First a layer of batter for the base.  Then goes an egg spread evenly around the entire base.  The filling began with green lettuce, cilantro, onions, scallions, pickles, seasonings, hoisin? and a crispy bread cracker thing.  Wrapped and thrown in a bag
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I have crossed over into a new realm of drunk eats.  This is on a stage of its own.  The complexity of flavors combined with the layers of different textures justifies any drunken tongue burn.  There are a few guys trying to do this in the states, but nothing beats spontaneously running into this cart after a thorough inebriation caused by 12 beers.  Severely underrated.
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