#OPEN READ MORE WITH CAUTION ITS LIKE 40 QUESTIONS

[creacherkeeper]

ok luka how about you gimme ALL THE ANSWERS about erley for that d&d question thingy from a billion years ago :D :D

YOU WISH IS MY COMMAND MY DEAR <333

huge question dump under the cut skgjnsdg. casey NO LOOKING

what kind of clothing does your character like to wear? do they have a style? anything they avoid wearing?

erley dresses in cowboy clothes of course!! :D the actual reason for this is. sad. because i had to make literally everything about them tragic to punish the friend who forced me to play them <3 but basically in this world there was a huge (some would say ongoing) war between the elf country and the country we are playing our game in. erley is originally from the elf country, but came to the new country when their father was exiled. erley basically dresses like a cowboy even though they arent a cowboy anymore because its?? distracting?? to people. people think its funny or stupid or entertaining or cool and they pay less attention to the fact that erley is a high elf of age to have fought in the war. basically people see the outfit and the accent and not the elf. its camouflage, for their own safety

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what's their current hairstyle? has it changed? do they change it often?

i think it was probably very long when they were a child in typical high elf fashion, but was cut short during the exile. i think most of the barbarians keep their hair short except perhaps high ranking members. erley now keeps their hair around chin length (and kind of wavy/curly) which is not super typical for an elf, to kind of keep a mental distance from both the high elves and the barbarians

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is your character more articulate in their thoughts than their words? if yes, do they do anything about that? do they care?

i think erleys thoughts are very like. feeling/abstract/image based and less word based. which means they can definitely have trouble trying to translate that into words. i didnt intend for this at first, but due to like. SO many bad rolls. its pretty canon at this point that erley has just awful self insight. so their ACTUAL feelings and motivations, vs what they THINK their feelings and motivations are, vs their words and actions, are ... all ... not super lined up much of the time (see: last game, actual motivation: romantic crush and trauma projection, their self perceived motivation: hurt and concern, what everyone now thinks: distrust of another party member)

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would your character sing along to a vaguely familiar song, even if they messed up the lyrics as they went?

there is only one time they wouldve been comfortable enough to sing in front of people and it wouldve been with the cowboys. and it would have been after much pressure and prodding. they are really not a singer

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if they wear any, how does your character go about applying makeup? (methodically, nervously, messily, etc)

they dont wear makeup! theyre nonbinary but dont really make any effort not to be masc. dysphoria has never really been an issue for them, and theyre not really drawn to feminine presentation

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do they usually sleep in a certain pose? does it change?

they trance since theyre an elf, but so far whenever its been stated in game its been sitting up against something, like a wall or a tree. or at the table of an inn if they dont want to pay for a room skdjgn. i think it would probably be lying down, fetal position if they were REALLY tired. also i keep seeing photos of people napping with cows and im like FIND STEED WHEN. LET ERLEY NAP WITH COW

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how would they react to eating something that was spicier than they expected it to be?

i dont think they have any problem with spice

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are their hands steady?

if theyre upset, no. their hands trembling is one of their big tells. theyre not really a crier since that was pretty harshly punished in their childhood, and they had to live in survival mode for so long that their bad emotions pretty much lead to emotional shut down and physical symptoms over anything else

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if someone gave them flowers, what would they do with them?

blush A LOT probably and pretend they arent as touched by it as they are. they pretend theyre not a huge romantic but they are. very sappy. 100% one of the flowers is going in the cowboy hat band though

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would they sneak out at night to look at the sky? how long would they stay there looking?

due to trancing, they usually have a decent amount of time to themselves at night. this is Big Scary Thoughts time and also when they usually try (and fail) to talk to their goddess

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how do they feel about casual endearments? (babe, etc)

i dont think anyone has ever referred to them that way but i think they'd be very on board for it. again, theyre very sappy, theyre just also very inexperienced

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what color would they paint their room? would there be a design on the ceiling?

i dont think at this point they would change whatever color the room happened to already be in. theyve never really been able to settle down and make something homey before. but if they were in a better mental state, probably dark green. or rose gold, which is the color of their goddess and their magic

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what helps them fall asleep when they're having trouble doing so?

that is. a hard question. this baby boi can fit so much trauma in them. honestly i think the answer is knowing that they need rest for whatever task theyre trying to accomplish. i think they sleep better when they have to. when things are quiet they tend to get lost in their thoughts

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do they tend to run hot or cold? do they do anything to deal with that?

i think they run warm. in my head its pretty typical of sun elves. they dont wear armor or heavy clothing so i dont think it tends to be an issue most of the time

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what's a sound they can't stand?

gun shots / cannon fire <3

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would they draw patterns in frosted windows/fogged up mirrors? what would they draw?

i think they definitely would have when they were a little kid. after the exile, i dont think they do anymore

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do they fidget? how and/or with what?

i dont think they really fidget much. with their father, i think a lot of their survival technique was just keeping their head down and being as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. because of this i dont think they tend to move around much or draw a lot of attention to themselves if they dont need to or they dont feel comfortable

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would they sing a lullaby, if the opportunity arose?

if someone they cared about asked them to, they would. but theyd be very awkward about it lmao. i dont think they would outside of that circumstance

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do they see patterns in the world around them? do they point them out to people?

erley is still very much learning their way in the world. their dad kept them very sheltered in very specific ways. i dont think their brain is necessarily pattern oriented, but if they did notice something im not sure they would point it out unless it was pertinent to a mission. theyd probably assume other people already knew that and theyre just catching up

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do they like to keep plants/growing things in their space?

they definitely weren't allowed to when they were with their father, and havent settled down anywhere since being taken away. but their goddess is the grain goddess, goddess of agriculture! i think having a garden or farm or something and being able to settle down somewhere eventually (and feel safe doing so) is an ideal future for them

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do they touch or mess with their hair/horns a lot?

not really. again, they dont really fidget. i think their only thoughts about their hair is like. huh, its been like a month since i washed my hair. okay gonna dunk my head in this river. all good now. (they were a barbarian and then a cowboy and then an adventurer their hygiene is NOT stellar. there was literally a scene where erley just stripped by a river, attempted to scrub sappy fey blood out of their clothes, couldnt get it out super well, and just put the same, still dirty, now wet clothes back on sdgjjsg)

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when they speak, do they have a default tone of voice? if yes, do they try to change it? why?

this is actually a funny question for me right now, both because both my mains rn have southern accents, and because my own voice has changed so much in the last few months because of T. since my voice has been dropping its become much more apparent to me that i tend to pitch my voice higher when im doing erley voice (whereas bo speaks very low and slowly and kind of mumbles). since my range has condensed and lowered so much, erley's voice has also deepened but is now at the top of my comfortable range and sometimes fuzzes out if i get too high pitched. funnily enough, when we first started playing with these characters, the other players accidentally used he/him for erley a lot even though i didnt specify they were amab lmao. this was like. far before i started transitioning or even realized i was a guy (and before i was out as nonbinary to any of the party besides my dm)

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do they wrap their arms around their stomach when it hurts?

only if no one is looking <3

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what kind of bookmarks, if any, do they like to use?

do they keep books on their person? what kind?

do they write in their books? do they mind other people writing in their books? what do they write?

do they write often? why/what about?

so i'm gonna answer all these questions in one. erley has never been interested in reading or writing and i dont think they know why that is. luka the player realized like. fairly recently that i had accidentally made erley dyslexic after i was explaining some Name Lore to a friend and was like. wait. wait. wait. so anyway its canon that theyre dyslexic now and i have a mechanic for it on my sheet. they are however VERY GOOD with maps and geography

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if they can fly, how do they feel in the moment their feet touch the ground again?

they cannot! and i dont think anyone has ever cast it on them. but the barbarians did use flying ships so that probably has pretty bad memory/physical associations for them <3

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if they wear any, where did they get their jewelry?

they have a decent amount of ear piercings, that were definitely done when they were with the barbarians

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have they ever tried to count their own freckles? do they count other people's?

i think counting other peoples (a few specific peoples) freckles is the kind of thing they would daydream about when theyre too exhausted to fight with themselves about it

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did they climb all over/onto things as a kid?

they did not. as a small child they were very like. soft and domestic lmao. they really enjoyed drawing and sewing and embroidery and things like that and got along the best with their grandmother. which their dad ... did not like. after the exile, they were definitely Uh. "encouraged" to toughen up but they were for sure never rowdy or energetic

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can they play darts? would they?

they have very close to 0 ranged anything so im gonna say probably not lmao. their dex isnt great

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where are they in a group hug? (dead center, outside, etc)

if they werent the original hugger, i dont think they would join. theyd be the "watching fondly while desperately wishing they were in the hug but not moving to make that happen" person lol

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what's the first thing they think when they hear an alarm? what's the first thing they do?

ideal scenario: getting weapons ready, making sure civilians are protected. what is happening right now: GOIN INTO A PTSD SPIRAL BABEYYYYY CAUSE YOU KNOW THE BARBARIANS JUST SHOWED UP AND THEYRE <3 NOT OKAY <3

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do they sing with their head voice or their chest voice?

head voice, on the rare few occasions its happened

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(if they have hair that needs to be brushed) how often do they do so? do they do it gently?

comb through with fingers if it gets knotted. i dont think their hair would take kindly to a brush

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how would they pass the time on a train?

probably inspecting maps of wherever the destination is. if they felt very safe and comfortable and relaxed, probably doodling or telling the few cowboy stories they know

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do they bother to clean ink/chalk/gunpowder/etc off of their fingers? are they likely to forget it's there and smudge their nose?

on the few occasions theyve had gunpowder on their hands, you know theyre scrubbing that shit off until their skin is raw the second their father isnt looking :) <3

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do they keep working even when their wrists start to cramp? if they do, do they give themselves a break when the work is done?

erley is very used to pushing themself past their physical limits. being uncomfortable or in pain was never an excuse for them to stop before so why would it be now?

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if their mattress became uncomfortable as time passed, would they notice it? would they do anything about it?

if they did notice, it would probably be one of those "stops you in your tracks and makes you examine your life" things, because it means they actually had a mattress they slept on regularly enough for it to get uncomfortable. like weirdly i think that would make them very happy

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what's the silliest thing they've used magic to do? if they don't have magic, what's something silly they'd use it for if they did?

erley doesnt really have much 'silly' magic as a paladin, but a few games ago we were doing a dryad rescue operation and i was trying to distract the ship captain. the warlock got TWO NAT 1S on stealth after i gave him advantage, so right when the captain was about to turn around i used channel divinity natures wrath to tip the boat so the captain fell into me, and then used ensnaring strike to restrain him long enough for them to get away and pretended the magic went off "by accident" when he fell on me because i was "having trouble controlling it" (something the other captain had witnessed before that and could corroborate) and was like WOW MAN IM SO SORRY, BUT YEAH I TOTALLY SAW SOMETHING TOO I WONDER WHAT IT WAS???? as the rest of the party got away skdjgkj

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IS THAT ENOUGH FOR YOU MOSS???? ARE YOU SATISFIED WITH ERLEY KNOWLEDGE NOW???? I DONT THINK THERE IS ANYTHING LEFT YOU DONT KNOW ABOUT THEM AT THIS POINT

( <3333333 )

[wowbright]

Fic: Forebearance

Klaine Spring Fling: disillusioned

Words: ~1200 words

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Elder Clarington has some wild ideas about the interplay of religion and German grammar.

This is part of my Mormon!Klaine universe. It takes place after the scene I posted yesterday, Righteous Anger.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost. (More recent posts are in bold.)

Notes: Elder Clarington is still a douche bag. Reference to Kurt being bullied in high school. Rigid gender roles.

––––

“How did it go?” Elder Nixon whispered to Kurt after the baptismal candidates had left. Elder Clarington was still in the Sunday school room down the hall, writing down notes about who-knew-what. He was probably out of earshot, but the door was open. It was best to proceed with caution.

“They all passed with flying colors.” Kurt leaned against the wall of the vestibule, relieved. “And a certain elder was actually pretty quiet. A little picky about reading every question word-for-word without so much as an ‘and’ or ‘so’ added, but I don’t think that scared away any of the candidates. I guess you and Elder Anderson made a real impression on him. Who knew it was possible?”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Mormon shame. Even the brashest missionaries have it. Tap into it, and you can succeed in chastening them. Not that I like to use that method too often, but …” Elder Nixon shrugged.

“You're a lot wilier now than you were when we were companions.”

“Are you sure about that?” Elder Nixon poked the side of Kurt’s shoe with his toe. “I remember convincing you to go to the movies on a day that wasn't P-day.”

“That wasn't wily. That wasn’t even sneaky. It was a mental health intervention.”

“Well, it could be considered sneaky in that the district leader never found out.”

“I suppose. I’ve clearly underestimated your aptitude for scheming and intrigue.”

The door of the men’s bathroom swung open, revealing Elder Anderson on the other side as its creaking hinges broke the hush of the vestibule. “I know it's not our business to maintain the branch building,” he said, one hand pressed to the inside of the door as he studied the pneumatic arm at the top, “but they could really put some WD-40 on this thing. Or … OK, I know nothing about mechanics. But I do know that I never use the bathroom during sacrament meeting because I'm worried people will hear the door from inside the chapel. Was it this loud when I first got here, Elder Hummel?”

“It's been getting louder. I'll text President Schmidt about it.” Kurt call his phone out of his pocket and pecked out a quick message.

“Good. I don’t want it to break and injure anybody.” Elder Anderson nodded to Kurt, and then looked over at Elder Nixon, a slight expression of surprise passing over his face, as if he had forgotten about their visitors from Munich. "Sorry, did I interrupt? I can go back into the bathroom.”

“No, it's fine," Elder Nixon said. “We were just catching up on the good old days.”

“The good old days?” asked Elder Anderson.

"Yeah. Elder Hummel told you we used to be companions, right?”

“Of course. He’s said great things about you.” Elder Anderson looked down the hallway at the open Sunday school room door. “So how did you get stuck with … you know?”

“Officially? God told President Steele to put us together.”

"And unofficially?”

“President Steele said he hoped my companion could learn from my relaxed attitude,” Elder Nixon whispered. “I'm not sure how good of a job I'm doing teaching him, though. I keep worrying I'm going to get disillusioned if I stay with him too long.”

“With the church?” Elder Anderson asked, because that's how Elder Anderson was. Just asking some random missionary he'd barely met to bare his true feelings about everything right off the bat.

Elder Nixon didn't seem offended, though. “No, more about people. I'd like to assume that everybody has good intentions and work from there. But it's hard with—” Elder Nixon gestured down the hallway. “I pray a lot.”

“Prayer’s good." Elder Anderson’s expression was sincere. “We’ll pray for you, too. Strength, patience, forebearance—”

The sound of a squeaking chair and shuffling came from the Sunday school room. Elder Clarington appeared in the hall. "What are you all doing, gabbing in the hallway? Shouldn't you be with the investigators?”

“They left,” said Elder Nixon.

“Oh. Well. You could be texting other investigators.”

“We could,” said Elder Nixon. “But President Steele says it's important to engage in wholesome fellowship with other missionaries when we have the opportunity.”

"On P-day, maybe,” said Elder Clarington.

That was the end of catching up with Elder Nixon. They walked to the bus stop, Elder Clarington grilling Kurt about district business even though they had had a phone call only a few days before. By the time he ran out of things to ask about, it was still ten minutes before the bus was due to arrive.

“One last thing, Elder Hummel,” Elder Clarington said. “Why do you let those German investigators call you du? I noticed the Japanese ones use Sie and Ihnen, as they should. But the German ones used du. That’s messed up.”

“How is it messed up?” said Kurt. “They're older than us. They choose whether we address each other formally or informally. That's how German works.”

“They're older, but you have ecclesiastical authority over them. They should address you with respect. It's disrespectful to use du.”

“It's informal, not disrespectful. And I don't technically have ecclesiastical authority over them. They're not members. I'm not their bishop. And even if I did, a married priesthood holder has ecclesiastical authority over his wife, but I've never heard a German woman call her husband Sie. A father has ecclesiastical authority over his children, but they still call him du. Where did you learn that investigators had to call us Sie? They didn't teach it in the MTC.”

“Yeah, Elder Clarington," Elder Nixon piped in. “This is the first time I've heard about this duzen-Siezen theory of yours. Besides, God has ecclesiastical authority over all of us, and he's du.”

“But he shouldn’t be," Elder Clarington said. "We use the formal ‘thou’ and ‘thee’ when we pray to God in English, and the Restoration happened in English, so the way we do it in English is the right way, and they need to do it the same way in German.”

"But technically," said Elder Anderson, "‘thou’ and ‘thee’ are informal. They come from the same root as du—you know, because German and English are related. But we lost that pronoun in English somewhere along the way, and so to our ears, it sounds fancy, because it's old-fashioned. But it's actually intimate.”

Elder Clarington huffed. “What are you, Elder Anderson? The Langenscheidt Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language?”

“No. But we did Shakespeare’s Midsummer's Night Dream in high school and—”

"It wasn't an actual question, Elder Anderson!”

The bus, fortunately, chose that moment to appear from around the corner.

“He's sort of a bully, isn't he?” said Elder Anderson a minute later as they watched the bus, and the zone leaders inside it, disappear from view.

“I don't know.” Kurt’s reference for bullying was more physical. It was easy to call someone a bully if they pinned you down in the bathroom and tried to force-feed you Kahlúa, or they cornered you in the locker room and smashed their face against your face. But if demeaning comments made someone a bully, too, then Kurt had dealt with more bullies in high school—and church—than he wanted to admit. “He could certainly use a contrite spirit, though.”

[deniigi]

Blame @petrichordiam for this.

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Title: centerstage

Summary: An academic goes to a conference and is jazzed to see a jedi speak there. He unknowingly sits next to this jedi’s Support Squad.

The jedi Support Squad is like 85% clones, and 15% Jedi Generals.

No one mentions that the jedi speaking has never done this before and is petrified out of his blessed little mind.

*Anakin is like 19-20ish here.

-------------

Sion Jissard has spent the last ten years of his life in the dredges of archives, digging through documents and testing fibers found between the flimsy, papery pages of old texts—scrounging for clues to recreate the conditions of the great conference halls and small, tucked away offices in which some of the most powerful people in the galaxy once gathered to whisper and shout over the fate of whole planets.

He has a hypothesis that the conditions in those rooms affected the decisions made in them. His hypothesis is strong enough that it has endured several rounds of peer-review and escaped those vulture-like clutches mostly unscathed in published form—both in journal and, his chest swells to recall, in book formats.

His book has sold several hundred copies and been cited in a plethora of upcoming article submissions.

The last eight years of tension in his marriage has eased in light of this. The salary from the professorship obtained in light of the book certainly hasn’t hurt it either.

His two doctorates are set on the wall of his office and when he receives word that a conference on ‘Intergalactic Unionism and Peace Negotiation’ is to be held in two months time, he opens up the speakers list and raises his head to gaze upon those two solid frames.

There will be jedi speakers at the conference. Several, actually. The whole thing is to be held on Coruscant, in the small visitors’ wing of the Jedi temple itself.

Sion Jissard pinches the fabric of his suit and then lightly slaps at his cheek to make sure that he is not dreaming.

He has only recently begun studying the jedi order’s material world and the role that world plays in their intergalactic peace-making practices. Prior to this, he considered the subject too on-the-nose. Jedi studies are rampant. Everyone wants a piece of that pie—the allure of it being that the jedi themselves, scholars in their own rights, refuse to partake in examinations of their culture.

They are notoriously obstinate. Their grandmasters refuse to let outsiders into their archives. Their masters shut down any and all attempts to obtain interviews or transcripts or documents with empty expressions or gentle, pitying smiles. Their knights blink with confusion at personal and personal-adjacent questions, and the little ones, the apprentices, are shielded behind all of these people as though the elbow-padded questioners are threatening their precious little lives.

In short, the jedi are happy to listen but loathe to teach. If you are not one of their soldiers or one of their fellows, they will lie to your face and tell you that it is their religion to do so.

And yet here they are, offering up a scholar’s wetdream and even allowing a handful of their own to present on their areas of expertise.

Sion Jissard will pass up this opportunity only upon pain of death.

He applies for the conference as a participant, not a speaker, and is delighted to receive confirmation of his place within mere minutes.

He puts the date on his calendar and starts looking into transit to Coruscant for the event in two months time.

--

 Sion arrives on Coruscant, at the foot of the Jedi Temple itself, and stares up at it for so long that he begins to feel sick to the gills.

He fumbles for his confirmation at the little table set up in the interior courtyard behind a side-entrance door. He is distracted by the fact that the woman he is standing in front of is a Jedi. She is helped by two small children and holds a baby who is dead-set on unraveling the knots that decorate her thick waist band. Even the baby is dressed in double-collared cream-colored robes.

Sion has so many questions he wants to ask.

The jedi asks him for his name. She has a collection of name badges before her, but none of them are his. He gives his name and the master turns to the little girl sat at her right elbow with a brush in hand and instructs her to write it out.

The jedi child—not an apprentice, her robes are cream still, there are no additional earth-colors layered on top of it—writes Sion’s name in beautiful script on a little card and hands the card to the master, who puts it in a holder with a pin on it and places it into Sion’s hand.

She instructs him to go through the side door and enjoy some refreshments before the event begins. The baby in her lap looks up at her abruptly and bonks his sweet little head against her chin.

Sion forgets himself.

“How old?” he asks automatically, gesturing to the baby.

The master looks down into her lap.

“He is eight months and 75% lung,” she says affectionately.

“Ah. Mine was like that, too,” Sion says. “He grew out of it. He’s only 40% lung now.”

The master smiles.

Sion removes himself from her table before he embarrasses himself further.

--

 There are enough people inside the front room of the jedi’s visitor’s wing to nearly fill it to capacity. The volume, though everyone is whispering, is great enough to be heard from outside the door. The room itself is earth-colored with a high ceiling. Its walls all contain niches with rounded borders. Columns with deep-cut creases in them arch high to the skylights.

It is all beautifully geometric, stoic, and clean. And even though the walls and floor are built from materials of warm tones, the skylights overhead and the surrounding addtion of books and holorecords set into the walls lend it a cooling quality.

What should have been imposing architectural feels more like holy space. The room is one that reverberates with reminders to respect all around you.

Sion’s fingers yearn to document this, but there is a sign right by the room’s entrance that asks politely for no recordings or holographs to be taken.  

“Professor Jissard,” a familiar voice says.

Sion feels his whole body droop. He turns to see Teo Detras stood before him in his obnoxious, roaring red robes.

“I’m pleased that you too were able to secure an invitation, sir,” Teo says as though he has not attempted to place Sion on the metaphysical chopping block for each of his premises since the time they began their academic programs.

Sion opens his mouth to point out that this is also his area of study and that Teo has no monopoly on the field of Jedi architecture when a quiet passes over the room. Sion watches the heads around him lift and searches for the source of the sudden shudder of silence.

He finds it in a tall master with dark skin standing at the very front of the space. The man has tucked his hands neatly into the mouths of his sleeves.

He is Jedi Master and General Mace Windu. Sion has read and reread his essays, not caring so much for what he is talking about but how he is talking about it. His metaphors and examples should have been insight into the common experiences of those living in the Jedi temple.

Sion has found, however, that Jedi Master Mace Windu does not especially care for eloquence or metaphor. He cares only to methodically destroy the argument (if it could be called that) published by a jedi named Qui-Gon Jinn many years ago. Though Master Jinn has not published for several decades now, Master Windu’s writings remain agitated by his interpretations of the jedi’s Spiritual energy, the Force.

Just gazing upon the man now, Sion would not think him capable of agitation.

Master Windu welcomes the academics to the temple and says that he regrets not having more time to speak with each of the attendees as individuals, but there is a war on and his clone troopers require his services. He encourages people to refrain from any recordings of the temple due to its sacred nature, and he asks that attendees be mindful of the jedi Initiates (the white-robed children) who are confused and intrigued by all of the non-jedi people inhabiting their usual playroom.

He cautions everyone that if anyone slips on a toy, he warned them, and the temple is not liable for their medical bills.

This is a joke.

People are unsure of whether or not to laugh. Some laugh awkwardly far too late. Master Windu gives no sign on his face that he appreciates or disapproves of this.

Instead, he steps from his space of honor and leaves in his place a young man with feathery blonde hair and a highly expressive countenance, who drops his armload of documents on the floor obnoxiously and flings himself down to snatch up only the conference program, as if this was the most efficient way of finding it.

People know to laugh this time.

The young man begins announcing panel topics and rooms and give his strong opinions on each of them.

More people laugh. It feels less like a sin.

“And that’s all, my dears and darlings,” the young man says, “Mind your step into the conference rooms, our predecessors derived joy from an unexpected drop.”

--

 Sion has only one panel that he will kill at minimum three bodies to sit in on. It is the one on peace strategy and resource management. He is not here for the peace strategy or the resource management parts of the talk; his burning interest yearns instead in listening to how and if people talk about their space and things. He wants to write down the language they use. He wants to learn about the physicality of peace.

He thinks ‘The Physicality of Peace’ would make a very compelling title for another book.

So he slips through the arched doors of conference room 3 and finds himself in a tiered lecture theatre. There is a small balcony with rows of pew-like benches that hangs over a lower seating area. He takes a seat at the edge of the front pew and sets his datapad on his lap for note-taking. At the front of the room there is a long bench—not a quite table, but definitely a tall bench, and behind it, there is an enormous screen for displaying images and information. Someone has very kindly thought to place a jug of water and some cups at the center of the bench by a microphone.

Sion gets the impression from its awkward, dead-center placement that it is an addition that the jedi themselves usually forego.

He wonders what that means. He only wonders for about 15 seconds before a hand touches his shoulder and he jerks in alarm.

“My apologies, sir. We were just wondering if the space next to you is available?” says the smooth-faced, copper-haired man standing above him.

He is wearing white armor on top of his layered robes. The arms and legs that emerge from his long off-white tunic are dark in color, but his boots are hard and white and come up and over his kneecaps.

Sion is speechless.

This is General and Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

General and Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi has touched Sion’s shoulder and apologized to him.

He doesn’t have words. He can only make fish-mouthed motions and then point and nod.

General Kenobi accepts this with grace and stands up straight. He waves behind him to call his companions over to join him on the balcony’s edge.

They arrive as a pack.

Instead of coming around and staggering past Sion’s knees at the edge of the bench, General Kenobi climbs over its back and settles in. He then twists back over the row and holds his hands out; a Clone Trooper in full armor hands to him a strange bundle of woolen, brown robe. It produces legs and arms and then bright blue and white lekku once Kenobi has situated it next to him.

“Fooled ‘em,” the little Togruta that emerges from the cloth says brightly.

“Shh,” Kenobi says. “Cody, you next.”

“No, I want Rex to sit with me.”

“Ahsoka, shhh.”

“Rex.”

“Child, this is how people like me get banned from meetings; you’re not even supposed to see—”

“REX.”

“HUSH. Okay, okay. Rex. Pst. Cody, get Rex. Cody, oh for the love of—Wolffe, yes—no. Wolffe, look at me. Get Cody to get Rex.”

Sion cannot believe what he is seeing. General Kenobi appears to be sneaking half of his command into the balcony area. There are more than a few clone troopers there are at least twenty. They are somehow visibly excited despite their matching helmets. The General is able to tell them apart easily. He leans over the back of the bench again and crooks his finger at one of the troopers who leans forward. He tells them to throw something at their commander.

The Clone takes off his glove, stands, and nail a clone standing in the aisle in the head with it. The slap of contact makes this clone cease speaking in serious low tones with a clone decorated with blue edging in front of him. The first clone draws himself up perfectly straight and turns around with a fury that even Sion can feel the heat of.

His armor is painted yellow in places.

He holds the glove in his hand like a threat. The clone who threw it winces and points wordlessly to General Kenobi, then sits down in a hurry. Kenobi smiles wide and white. He has freckles on his face that do not appear on any of the images of him that appear on the news.

He’s also shorter than Sion himself, even sitting.

“Sir,” the white and yellow clone says stiffly.

“Rex,” Kenobi says through that threat of a smile. “Get over here.”

The Togruta child twists around excitedly as the clone in white and blue exits the conversation with the one in white and yellow and surveys the rows of his fellows piled into the space behind the General and the child. He has to squeeze past the line of knees and then climb over the bench to sit down next to the child, who immediately cuddles up to him.

“Hey, that’s my seat,” a new voice whispers.

Sion looks back to see General Quinlan Vos with his arms crossed over his chest, recognizable in any setting. Behind him is General Koon. General Kenobi slaps a hand to his forehead and grumbles, then shoos the blue edged clone and the child a few seats down.

The generals clamber just as awkwardly as the blue clone through the sea of knees of the troopers and then over the back of the bench.

Somehow, Sion has won the jackpot. He is now surrounded by jedi culture, literally.

“All of you, back,” Kenobi snaps down the bench when everyone is just starting to get comfortable. “Cody. Commander, come here.”

The clone trooper with the yellow edging does not want to play this game. He shifts his weight back onto his other heel as Kenobi pats the newly vacated space next to him. General Vos croons in a teasing tone something about Kenobi being especially fond of this clone.

Kenobi lurches out across the empty seat to punch him in the gut and then returns peacefully to patting the space over the sound of Vos’s moaning.

The Clone Commander has no choice. His general is giving him a directive. He gives in to the inevitable and makes his way through the knees and—much more neatly than the others—steps over the back of the bench to its seat and then into sitting. Kenobi beams at him, practically purring.

Sion needs desperately to take notes, but the subjects of said notes are right there and rudeness is intolerable in retaining his vantage point.

He fights the urge to vibrate in space as the lights begin to dim overhead and the panel chairman comes out to introduce the topic and speakers. It is only about a minute or so when a hand lands firmly on Kenobi’s right shoulder—the one by Sion’s arm. Sion jumps, but Kenobi resolutely stares directly down at the speaker.

“Obi-Wan,” Master Mace Windu’s low, low voice says right into the space between Kenobi and Sion’s ears, “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Kenobi begins to melt but catches himself.

“You didn’t for a while,” he said.

“Get her out of here.”

“She has a right to see her Master.”

“What part of these orders are challenging for you?”

Kenobi still does not turn around to see Master Windu, but his eyebrows sink and his brow becomes more pronounced.

“No padawans,” Master Windu says. “Ahsoka. Out.”

The togruta, still bedecked in that heavy cloak, turns to stare owlishly at Master Windu while the person at the front of the room moves on to introducing the next speaker.

“But I’m not a padawan,” the child says. “I’m obnoxious. Master Kenobi said so.”

Kenobi holds his face in a hand.

“You can be both. Come,” Master Windu says, holding out a hand.

“But I’m a cloak,” Ahsoka tries instead.

Kenobi crumples further. Master Windu’s hand finds his shoulder again. Sion can feel its heat.

“If not her, then you,” he says.

“After,” Kenobi says.

“I’ll be waiting, Obi-Wan.”

Master Windu vanishes from behind them. Sion shudders. Kenobi turns to the side and hisses at Ahsoka,

“Now look what you’ve done.”

“You’re my co-conspirator,” Ahsoka hisses back. “My—my—Rex, what’s the word?”

Clone Commander Rex does not want to give her the word. Ahsoka tugs at him.

“Rex,” she insists.

“Enabler,” Commander Rex says with bitter regret coating his words.

Ahsoka beams over the laps of the other Generals at Kenobi. He glares back through a squint. He starts to say something, but General Vos tells him to shut up in a sharp tone.

Sion looks back to the front of the room and finds that a young man with dark hair has come out to the center of the front table-bench to speak.

He is a jedi. His robes, however, are dark in color. Blacks and browns with knee-high boots.

He’s very young. Very, very young.

And nervous.

Very, very nervous.

Even from the balcony seats, Sion can see his hands shaking. He is holding a stack of white paper. It is trembling like a branch on a windy day.

“Go, go, Master, go, go,” chants little Ahsoka.

Sion finds himself abruptly appalled by the realization that the child on center stage is the master of the child a few seats over from him.

General Koon gently shushes Ahsoka. Commander Rex helpfully wraps a gloved hand over the bottom half of her face to keep her distracted.

Sion looks from them to the young man and finds that he’s already knocked over the jug of water on the bench and looks about ready to sob about it. He gathers himself, though, and brings the microphone closer to him.

He is General Anakin Skywalker, Sion now understands. He is the first speaker and he’s never in his life presented a paper at a professional conference before.  

His voice shakes as he reads out the title of the article that he published (and that Sion has read) on battlefield surrender. After the second paragraph, Sion brings a hand to his lip to help him contain the emotions that come with the understanding that this boy is about to read his article, word for word, in front of a room full of academics.

He thinks now that he has been too harsh with his students.

--

 General Skywalker is not a strong public speaker. Clearly, his expertise is in action. He stammers. He loses his place in his reading and accidentally rereads three whole sentences. Only twice does he look up from his paper, and each time it is not at the audience but at Obi-Wan Kenobi, sat next to Sion, serious as a plague.

Kenobi nods sagely.

General Skywalker is General Kenobi’s apprentice. Was General Kenobi’s apprentice. However, it is clear to all who are present today that General Skywalker is still General Kenobi’s apprentice. Desperate, the poor thing is, for Kenobi’s reassurance.

His confidence in reading grows under his former (current?) master’s approving eye until he turns a page and—horror of horrors—drops the stack of paper.

Sion’s whole body tenses in sympathy and second-hand embarrassment. Skywalker flings himself down and messily collects the papers. He hurriedly reorders them, all while stuttering ‘ums’ and ‘uhs.’

Yet, when Sion chances a peek down the line of Generals next to him, he finds that not a single one has winced. No one has laughed. Even the clone troopers all around them are as silent and steady as the night itself.

It seems like they are all listening intently to their young General on center stage. The only giveaway that sympathy is being had by any is the tiny gesture Clone Commander Rex is making with his hand. He is moving it almost imperceptibly in a circle, as if to say ‘come on, come on.’

Sion looks back to young Skywalker and waits patiently as he finds his place and carries on reading again, this time faster. This time he does not look up for his master’s eye.

He wants only for the torture to end.

He gets to the end of his paper without dropping it or repeating himself and is flushed red. He does not ask for questions. He merely says quietly into the microphone, “Thank you.”

The panel chair waits a beat before walking over to Skywalker and asking the crowd for questions on his behalf. Skywalker becomes even more luminous. Sion cannot decide whether asking a question would be more or less stressful for this poor boy.

No one asks a question.

The panel chair then starts to ask for applause for Skywalker, but before he can even finish the sentence the whole balcony breaks into uproar.

General Kenobi hoots and whistles piercingly in Sion’s ear. General Vos claps and shouts what sounds like ‘You FUCKING did it, kid. You FUCKING did it. Hip-hip—”

“HUZZAH,” the Clone Troopers behind General Vos finish for him in perfect unity.

“Hip-hip—”

“HUZZAH.”

More applause and congratulations erupts after this.

General Skywalker slams his paper into his face and bursts into tears at the front of the room.

He bolts for a doorway that Sion hadn’t even noticed was right next to the bench. General Kenobi whacks at his Clone Commander’s shoulder, and Commander Cody wraps hands around his waist and hoists him up so that he’s standing on the guardrail at the edge of the balcony. He leaps from there to the lower level then goes jogging out the same doorway his former apprentice ran through.

After another moment or two, Commander Cody stands up and snaps at the whole collection of troopers in their language. Everyone shuts up and sits back down. Commander Rex gestures for Ahsoka to put up her hood and takes from General Vos a small datapad which he gives to the child—presumably for her to occupy herself with for the next hour and a half of papers. She takes it and immediately becomes absorbed in its lightly-glowing screen.

The balcony is once again on its best behavior.

Sion doesn’t bother with listening to any of the other papers. He feels no shame at all in beginning to furiously take notes on his last twenty-five minutes with the jedi.

--

 Upon leaving the conference room nearly two hours later, he finds himself swept up in the clone troopers’ swift and orderly exit from the space. They line up outside the hall in lines by regiment and they wait for their commanders and generals to arrive before marching back towards the visitors’ wing’s exit.

After two or three minutes, only two lines remain.

Clone Commander Rex and Clone Commander Cody stand perfectly at attention beside their lines of men. Clone Commander Rex has his jedi’s apprentice thrown over his shoulder; he has balanced her on one arm while she sleeps.

It’s very sweet. She obviously trusts the Clone Commander very much.

“Gentlemen.”

The clones snap to even tighter attention as General Mace Windu appears, walking briskly their way.

“You’re dismissed,” he says to them. “Commanders, you will remain. Obi-Wan and Anakin will join us shortly.”

“Sir,” both commanders say simultaneously.

There is a pause, and Sion sees that all of these people are now looking at him.

“Can we help you, sir?” General Windu asks.

Yes. And Sion will pay any amount of money to just know this one thing. This teeny, tiny detail.

“Sir?”

“Is that normal for you?” he blurts out.

The Clone Commanders stare. The general stares. The apprentice coughs lightly in her sleep.

“I regret to say that it is not only normal, but expected of these general and units,” General Windu says. “Please vacate this area.”

Right.

“Thank you,” Sion says.

He stiff-legs it back to the crowd of other academics and hunts down a liquid to soothe his parched throat.

  The new book’s title will not be ‘The Physicality of Peace.’ It will be ‘All is Fair in Love and War: The Jedi Order and Ideologies of Family, Part I.’

 --------------- Yeah, so anyways, Myth and I decided that Anakin is bad at public speaking and nothing anyone says can take this from me now, I’m invincible. (If you want this on Ao3 let me know).

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging by Sebastian Junger (2016)

“Humans don’t mind hardship, in fact they thrive on it; what they mind is not feeling necessary. Modern society has perfected the art of making people not feel necessary. It's time for that to end.”

- Sebastian Junger,  Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging

The phenomenon of tribal solidarity is the subject of Sebastian Junger’s enthralling book, Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging. Junger offers a rich but unevenly researched patchwork of history, psychology, and anthropology to explore the deep appeal of the tribal culture throughout history. The result is less of a tour de force book that I would have expected from the likes of Sebastian Junger than an interesting and thought provoking read. Certainly it should be read by anyone interested in the human condition.

As a British ex-military veteran and a fan of Junger’s other books I naturally found it fascinating.The memory of my most recent tour in Afghanistan was still raw upon my return to Britain. Although the book really focuses on returning American army servicemen and their integration back into the American ‘tribe’ there were several themes that I and many others who had seen war could readily identify with.

“Tribe” is not a typical Junger book. He doesn’t tell one knockout story, as he did in the “The Perfect Storm,” which made him rich and famous, or as he did in “War,” which — along with his documentaries “Restrepo” and “Korengal” — established him as one of the world’s most mesmerising chroniclers of the Afghanistan war. Rather, he gives us an extended-play version of an article he wrote for for Vanity Fair — one that’s part ethnography, part history, part social science primer, part cri de coeur. Junger previously served as a war correspondent for Vanity Fair, embedding for long stretches at remote American outposts in Afghanistan’s frightful Korengal valley. This experience may help explain his interest in the intimate bonds that define tribal societies as well as the despair that can come from being wrenched out of a situation that makes those bonds necessary.

Junger’s premise is simple: Modern civilisation may be awesome, giving us unimaginable autonomy and material bounty. But it has also deprived us of the psychologically invaluable sense of community and interdependence that we hominids enjoyed for millions of years. It is only during moments of great adversity that we come together and enjoy that kind of fellowship — which may explain why, paradoxically, we thrive during those moments. (In the six months after Sept. 11, Junger writes, the murder rate in New York dropped by 40 percent, and the suicide rate by 20 percent.)

“I do miss something from the war,” Bosnian journalist Nidzara Ahmetasevic tells Sebastian Junger halfway through the book. Ahmetasevic is talking about the wartime closeness she shared with friends in a basement bomb shelter in besieged Sarajevo. “The love that we shared was enormous,” Ahmetasevic says. “I missed being close to people, I missed being loved in that way.”

The sentiment lies at the heart of Tribe, a book offering a surprising thesis about the ways humans have traded communal belonging for excessive safety.

Junger gets a considerable amount done in a quick 133 pages: Tribe posits a reason why white settlers found life among Native American tribes appealing, theorises about false PTSD claims among returned U.S. veterans, and conveys the author’s equality-minded view of how heroic behaviour varies between genders — all in addition to remarks on hitchhiking, attachment parenting, Junger’s dad’s opinion of military service, and more. It’s an awful lot of ground to cover in such a short book, and it’s inevitable that Tribe would either feel inchoate and sketched or else aggravatingly dense. Because Junger is an adventurous storyteller (rather than, say, an academic theoretician), he opts for the former.

It’s not necessarily a good thing. The book’s lightness makes it accessible, an easy entry point to weighty subject matter. But its concision can make Tribe feel breezy even as it discusses life and death — if not sometimes confusing.

As a former anthropology major, Mr. Junger takes a special interest in tribal life. He notes that a striking number of American colonists ran off to join Native American societies, but the reverse was almost never true. He describes the structure and values of hunter-gatherer groups, including the ones that lasted well into the 20th century, like the !Kung in the Kalahari.

Unfortunately, these parts of the book are also the dullest and most problematic. There’s a numbingly familiar quality to much of the social science research he cites. It is not exactly news that nations with large income disparities are less happy than those without them, or that group cooperation increases levels of oxytocin, the bonding hormone. He notes, for example, that American mothers in the 1970s had a level of skin-to-skin contact with their babies that traditional societies would consider criminally low. Fair enough. I wonder, though, if he realises that in saying this he’s crashing open the gate for every helicopter parenting (or attachment-parenting) demagogue out there? And that parents who actually have to go to work for a living - and therefore can’t have their babies pinned to their chests all day long for three years straight - will read these words and start rolling the eyes back in disbelief.

Though Junger cautions against romanticising tribal cultures, he sometimes does exactly that, and in ways that can be annoying.  Tribe aptly opens with Benjamin Franklin’s observation, decades before the American Revolution, that more than a few English settlers were “escaping into the woods” to join Indian society. Franklin noticed that emigration seemed to go from the civilised to the tribal, but rarely the other way around. White captives of the American Indians, for instance, often did not wish to be repatriated to colonial society. At this distance, it is simply astonishing that so many frontiersmen would have cast off the relative comforts of civilisation in favour an “empire wilderness” rife with Stone Age tribes that, as Junger notes, “had barely changed in 15,000 years.”

The small but significant flow of white men — they were mostly men — into the tree-line sat uncomfortably with those who stayed behind. Without indulging the modern temptation to romanticise what was a blood-soaked way of life, Junger hazards an explanation for the appeal of tribal culture. Western society was a diverse and dynamic but deeply alienating place. (Plus ça change…) This stood in stark contrast to native life, which was essentially classless and egalitarian. The “intensely communal nature of an Indian tribe” provided a high degree of autonomy — as long as it didn’t threaten the defence of the tribe, which was punishable by death — as well as a sense of belonging. Tribe is then essentially a critique of modern civilisation, beginning with Junger’s observation of the inexorable appeal of Native American way of life to early settlers (“The intensely communal nature of an Indian tribe held an appeal that the material benefits of Western civilisation couldn’t necessary compete with”).

“The question for Western society isn’t so much why tribal life might be so appealing - it seems obvious on the face of it - but why Western society is so unappealing.” Junger is making a provocative point, but he is no provocateur. He swiftly justifies this jarring idea:

On a material level it is clearly more comfortable and protected from the hardships of the natural world. But as societies become more affluent they tend to require more, rather than less, time and commitment by the individual, and it’s possible that many people feel that affluence and safety simply aren’t a good trade for freedom.

All of these points have been covered in other, heavier books. Jared Diamond’s The World Until Yesterday examines traditional tribal lifestyles’ usefulness in the present day. The entanglement of war with human closeness and purpose is the focus of Chris Hedges’s War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning. (Both Hedges and Junger include the same anecdote, in fact, about a teenage couple in besieged Sarajevo, that dies, sniper-shot, on the banks of the Miljacka River.) Junger also briefly mentions the work of seminal disaster researcher Charles Fritz, noting that Fritz could find almost no examples of mass panic during large-scale disasters. This plays into his overarching point that difficult experiences can be unifying rather than shattering. The exact same studies by Fritz and fellow researchers — and that exact same, crucial point — are detailed in Rebecca Solnit’s brilliant A Paradise Built in Hell.

Junger uses these insights towards another point. “Because modern society has almost completely eliminated trauma and violence from everyday life, anyone who does suffer these things is deemed to be extraordinarily unfortunate,” he writes. “This gives people access to sympathy and resources but also creates an identity of victimhood that can delay recovery.” This is an important observation. It, too, resonates quite closely with previous work - in this case Harvard psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman’s seminal book Trauma and Recovery, which remarks that “to hold traumatic reality in consciousness requires a social context that affirms and protects the victim and that joins victim and witness in a common alliance.”

At best what Junger tries to achieve, then, is to assemble parts of all those books into one slim volume. So much the better for the busy reader. Unfortunately, Junger’s quick look at violence, trauma, and modern anomie also omits important information from other books, and as a result ends up on shaky ground, failing to consider counterpoints or bring its own arguments to a close.

Junger in the second half of the book proceeds through an examination of how disastrous or violent circumstances can create similar human closeness, and includes a discussion of how our society’s distancing itself from such harsh conditions has inadvertently sharpened those events’ capacity to traumatise the people who endure them.

War is hell, so this scourge of loneliness may seem the inevitable price for those who fight in them. The second half of Tribe insists that this impression is gravely mistaken. “Studies from around the world show that recovery from war is heavily influenced by the society one belongs to,” Junger observes. Iroquois warriors, for instance, did not have to contend with much alienation because the line between warfare and normal Indian society was vanishingly thin. This is not to deny that the Iroquois were traumatised by combat, but it was generally acute PTSD, limited in duration and distress. Their trauma was ameliorated by the fact that the trauma was shared by the entire tribe.

War, then, for all of its brutality and ugliness, satisfies some of our deepest evolutionary yearnings for connectedness. Platoons are like tribes. They give soldiers a chance to demonstrate their valour and loyalty, to work cooperatively, to show utter selflessness.

Is it any wonder that so many of them say they miss the action when they come home?

Part of the takeaway from this book is that regarding military service as a source of permanent psychiatric disability is incorrect for most (American) soldiers. Junger includes a lengthy discussion of how the U.S. Veterans Administration mishandles former soldiers’ mental health issues, and how America’s cultural misunderstanding of war plays into that deleterious milieu. The information isn’t wrong per se, but what it has to do with the rest of the romanticising of foregone tribal way of life, etc., or why that necessitates anything more than the 2015 Vanity Fair article from which the book sprung is never quite made clear. Worse, Junger says that the low rate of combat engagement among U.S. soldiers means their diagnoses of post-traumatic stress disorder often aren’t real - but he fails to consider that some soldiers develop PTSD from military sexual trauma, or from other adverse experiences outside of combat or before their enlistment.

Worse, he seems to misunderstand the diagnosis entirely. Here, as in the Vanity Fair article, Junger describes his own bout with what he calls “classic short-term PTSD,” departing from this insight to further dissect trauma and the ways modern society misunderstands it. The problem is, there really is no such thing as “short-term PTSD.” It sounds like what Junger had was post-traumatic stress, a weeks - or months - long psychological adaptation to adverse events (in his case, exposure to war) that typically resolves on its own.

Although psychological care can sometimes be relevant, most mental health professionals don’t regard this as an illness. (Tellingly, Junger’s approach to his diagnosis involved little more than an acquaintance’s ad hoc comment at “a family picnic.”) Post-traumatic stress disorder is only diagnosable after three to six months, does not often go away on its own, and can endure for a lifetime if untreated. The implication that Junger’s case is typical PTSD is misleading - and to some extent, calls his conclusions into question.

The problems in his argument go even deeper. “In Bosnia — as it is now — we don’t trust each other anymore; we became really bad people,” Ahmetasevic tells Junger. “We didn’t learn the lesson of the war, which is how important it is to share everything you have with human beings close to you.” Junger’s thesis is that other cultures (the “Stone-Age tribes” white settlers once joined) did learn that lesson. But he assumes that violence is innate to humans and necessary for human closeness, never parsing evidence that it is not. And he doesn’t examine what this Bosnian journalist means by “really bad,” and how becoming so after the war might have arisen directly from the painful, long-lasting effects of the severe trauma Junger doesn’t quite seem to believe in.

If there is any doubt on this point, consider the alarming rates of PTSD among our warrior class, and the desire among many of them to return to war — a subject on which Junger has been at the leading edge of the public discussion. When combat vets return home, the alienation and aimlessness of modern society aggravates their psychological traumas and prompts them to yearn for the brotherhood of combat. It’s not for nothing that a recent book on post-traumatic stress is entitled The Evil Hours.

Many soldiers actually miss war. “Adversity,” he writes, “often leads people to depend more on one another, and that closeness can produce a kind of nostalgia for the hard times.” Soldiers go from a close-knit group in which everyone has a purpose to a society in highly individualised lifestyles are “deeply brutalising to the human spirit.” Soldiers who come home to situations in which there is no social support from family and community are more likely to suffer PTSD than others.

Thanking veterans for their service aggravates the problem, in Junger’s opinion. “If anything, these token acts only deepen the chasm between the military and the civilian population by highlighting the fact that some people serve their country but the vast majority don’t.” Tickets to games and other such perquisites can incentivise veterans to see themselves as victims, making their reintegration into society much more difficult.

What they really need is the one thing that will make them feel like valuable members of society: jobs. In their tribe-like military units, they each had a specific function without which the group could not perform. The worst thing that can happen to them when they return is to feel useless, marginalised. The suicide rate in America mirrors the unemployment rate, Junger points out. The best protection against devastating depression is meaningful work.

“Ex-combatants shouldn’t be seen - or be encouraged to see themselves - as victims,” writes Junger. Lifelong disability payments for PTSD, which is treatable and usually not chronic, actually debilitate veterans, Junger claims. In war, the passivity of victimhood can be deadly, he explains. Turning veterans into victims when they return is not only confusing but also destructive because it erases their sense of self. Instead of sympathy, “veterans need to feel that they’re just as necessary and productive back in society as they were on the battlefield.”

Of course much of this book is really around the American experience of war and the experiences of American veterans returning home. So some points don’t quite stick with either British or European experiences. For example neither British or other European societies thank veterans for their service as a matter of course. Of course there are special days to commemorate major war events and even an armed forces day but on a general day to day basis one doesn’t go up to a military person to thank them for their service probably because British and European servicemen and their service don’t enjoy a privileged standing. Respected and admired yes, but not deified. How British and other European countries take care of their returning veterans is hard to detail as the experience varies in terms of disability allowances and other measures. Certainly a misunderstanding of mental trauma or PTSD of returning veterans has led sometimes to a criminal mismanaging of taking care of those most affected. Again, it varies from country to country.  

Contemporary America is a considerably less consolidated society than it used to be. Cultural diffusion and economic stratification have increased the isolation felt by those who have borne the heat and burden of battle. I won’t a forget photograph shown to me by an older brother who had served with distinction in Iraq. He made a few American friends from the US soldiers serving there alongside and one day he was shown something that captured the dark humour and cynicism of war. The photo captured a graffito scribbled on a wall in Ramadi, Iraq, that read: “America is not at war. The Marine Corps is at war. America is at the mall.”

Multiple studies demonstrate that “a person’s chance of getting chronic PTSD is in great part a function of their experiences before going to war.” The relationship between combat and trauma seems to be a murky one. For instance, “combat veterans are, statistically, no more likely to kill themselves than veterans who were never under fire.” Junger says that even a significant number of Peace Corps volunteers report suffering severe depression after their return home, especially if their host country was in a state of emergency when they did. In Junger’s telling, particular burdens endured by socially disadvantaged Americans - from a poor educational background to chaotic broken family life - can make a candidate especially susceptible to PTSD. Indeed, these risk factors “are nearly as predictive of PTSD as the severity of the trauma itself.”

The decline of social order and solidarity has contributed to a loss of what researchers call “social resilience.” This has simultaneously supplied more potential candidates for PTSD and impaired society’s ability to help them recover. The United States must place a premium on boosting its levels of social resilience. Americans should no longer be content to simply thank veterans for their service; sporting events are not places of healing. Nor should they seek to outsource the responsibility to the federal government. The solution lies closer to home, in the mediating institutions of civil society — from families to churches to community and professional associations. I think this echoes the views of quite a few veterans in my experience with them.

More sensitively and perhaps controversially, ex-combatants shouldn’t be regarded, or encouraged to regard themselves, as victims. This I also agree with. America is still a tremendously affluent country, Junger writes, that can afford to perpetually care for a victim class of veterans dependent on government largesse, “but the vets can’t.” They have generally performed exemplary service for which they should be honoured, and they must know that their service is not over.

Next, Junger says, veterans (like most social animals) depend upon a sense of purpose that begins with a job and a position in society. Here the “hire vets” initiatives and retraining programs are necessary but insufficient. The traditional means of securing social resilience has been egalitarian social provision. Individualist America may blanch at that notion, but it should at least act to build a more open economy and inclusive culture where individuals can reliably advance by merit and develop social capital.

Not being an American I don’t wish to speak out of turn but as a veteran and especially in speaking with other British and foreign veterans I think Junger is on the right path. Victimhood and a lack of purpose are the unseen enemy that the returning veteran will continue to fight when he or she comes home.

To all this I would also that - arguably perhaps in America especially - a revival of national cohesion is needed if - as a nation that pays lip service to honour the sacrifices of its servicemen - it is to arrest the full savagery of battlefield trauma. This will require what Edmund Burke called “a revolution in sentiments, manners and moral opinions.”

One clue about how to achieve this can be found in the early pages of Tribe, when Junger tells an affecting anecdote about his father. Not long after the end of the Vietnam War, the author had received a Selective Service registration form in the mail, in case the United States government ever needed to conscript him into the military. When he announced that, if drafted, he would refuse to serve on political grounds, his father’s reaction caught him off guard. Although sternly opposed to the war in Indo-China, Junger’s father insisted that American soldiers had “saved the world” from fascism during World War II and many never came home. Junger writes;

“‘You don’t owe your country nothing,’ I remember him telling me. ‘You owe it something, and depending on what happens, you might owe it your life.’” This did not oblige anyone to enlist in an unjust war - “in his opinion, protesting an immoral war was just as honorable and necessary as fighting a moral one” - but it did mean that the country had just claims on its citizens, and refusing to sign a registration form constituted a dereliction of duty.

Year after year, Americans hear arguments for taking the stink out of their sulphurous political rhetoric. It would be better for congressional productivity. It would be better for our international dignity. It would be better for their national literacy, their local advocacy, their general civility and the future etiquette of their children. But the one argument I had not heard, until reading Junger’s book is that they should clean up their act for the sake of their returning troops.

Junger never makes this point explicitly. What he writes, simply, is this: After months of combat, during which “soldiers all but ignore differences of race, religion and politics within their platoon,” they return to the United States to find “a society that is basically at war with itself. People speak with incredible contempt about - depending on their views - the rich, the poor, the educated, the foreign-born, the president or the entire U.S. government.” Soldiers go from a world in which they’re united, interconnected and indispensable to one in which they’re isolated, without purpose, and bombarded with images of politicians and civilians screaming at one another on TV and cable.

It’s a formula for deep despair. “Today’s veterans often come home to find that, although they’re willing to die for their country,” he writes, “they’re not sure how to live for it.”

With that, Mr. Junger has raised one of the most provocative ideas for bitterly divided Americans to grapple with without mentioning a single political candidate, or even a president, by name.

In this age of social and economic fragmentation, many of America’s disadvantaged fellow citizens have begun to chafe against an elite class - left and right - that often behaves as if it were exempted from the national compact. Junger only hints at the necessary leap beyond a social-psychological view to a political-economic analysis. He writes, "As great a sacrifice as soldiers make, American workers arguably make a greater one…. [w]orking in industries that have a mortality rate equivalent to most units in the US military." He suggests, "It may be worth considering whether middle-class American life - for all its material good fortune - has lost some essential sense of unity that might otherwise discourage alienated men from turning apocalyptically violent."

Nobody then should be surprised if the ranks of disaffected citizens – not least those who have borne arms in our name and in their defence - ultimately decide that the sensibility of the tribe is superior to their own.

As a proud Brit who is guilty at times of poking fun at America but borne out of sincere fondness and respect for America I do sincerely hope during these turbulent times that they are capable of coming together and recognising their tribal identity is to be Americans first and other labels (liberal or conservative or red state or blue state) whilst not inconsequential are not important enough to undermine the primary American tribal identity. They did it so marvellously after 9/11, but that feeling as we all know soon dissipated. It can’t afford to be a house divided from within when there are predatory wolves pawing at the door (I’m looking at you Russia and China). Junger correctly writes America is a strong nation, “The only one who can destroy us, is, well, us…..which means that the ultimate terrorist strategy would be to just leave us alone.”

Tribe is an important, thought-provoking book that encourages Americans to see its veterans and American society in a fresh light. Policymakers of all political stripes would do well to consider Junger’s arguments, for as long as they fail to fully integrate returning soldiers, everyone will continue to pay a high toll for their incredible service and sacrifice.

Junger’s “Tribe” even if it was written in 2016, remains relevant and serves as an important wake-up call. Let’s hope we all don’t sleep through the alarm. But this too brief and too scattershot book with an important message won’t get us all the way there. There is an old South African Zulu proverb, ‘If you want to go fast, go on your own. If you want to go further, go together’. It’s up to all of us.

[spencers-renaissance]

Vivaldi on Full Volume

Summary: Spencer's done enough pining, so he decides to write a letter for Aaron telling him exactly how he feels and gives it to him on the jet. He cannot be held responsible for what happens when they land.

Tags: Love Confessions, Fluff, Getting Together, Insecurity, My Typical CM Characterisation: Protective Aaron, Shy Spencer oops

Pairing: Hotch/Reid

Word Count: 5.2k

Read on Ao3

The Love Letter, Uninterrupted

Spencer’s hands are shaking as he gets up from his seat in the corner of the jet. They’re 40 minutes away from landing, deliberately planned well in advance: everyone’s well and truly settled, there isn’t long to wait for a private conversation and people haven’t woken up to prepare for landing yet. This is well thought out, he tells himself, trying to be convincing. There isn’t much that can go wrong.

Except there absolutely is. He’s run all the possible outcomes over and over in his head, at night, on the jet, spare moments in cases; he knows pretty much every possibility in and out. The worst case scenario, of course, is Aaron flips and hurts him or never talks to him again, but he knows logically that this is unlikely. No, the most likely situation is a polite rejection and a rift in their relationship, but it’s a risk he has to take. This limbo is too painful to exist in forever: he has to give himself a chance at happiness, and if that doesn’t happen he needs a chance to get over him. 

Aaron is, predictably, sitting on his own at the other end of the jet, getting a head start on his paperwork. He’d shot Spencer a questioning look when he’d opted to sit on his own instead of opposite or next to him, but everyone knows that Spencer sometimes needs a moment to himself and after he’d responded with a reassuring smile, Aaron had smiled back and looked down. 

“Reid,” he greets him as he looks up from the plethora of forms and files and reports littering the table in front of him, that questioning look returning and bleeding into his voice. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks after Spencer stands there frozen for a moment, shaking him out of his head and reminding him of his mission. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says softly, chuckling a little. “Here. Can you do me a favour and… read this for me? All the way to the end? Leave your questions for the end, and we can talk once we land.” He hands him the pretty stationery wrapped in a tissue paper envelope. The seal is a deep navy that had reminded Spencer of Aaron the moment he saw it in the shop, and he used it even though he knew it would tear the tissue and was utterly pointless. His hands still shake a little as he passes it over, but he doesn’t blame himself. Anyone would be nervous. This isn’t just a Spencer thing.

Once Aaron has the letter in his hands he turns it, looking it over, before meeting Spencer’s anxious gaze with his own steady one, now filled with growing curiosity. “Of course,” he says, indulgently. It’s one of Spencer’s favourite things about him, his stoicism in the face of a surprise. He doesn’t react in a way that might further upset somebody when they share something with him, and it makes him an excellent leader. 

Spencer shoots him another nervous but meaningful smile, the kind he uses with his friends, with Henry, with people he cares about. People he’s been in love with for five years. Whatever. 

He turns away and doesn’t look back.

★

Aaron struggles to contain his curiosity long enough to wait until Spencer is settled back in his seat on the other side of the plane. This must be why he’d chosen to sit somewhere other than next to him on this flight which had admittedly confused him a little, Spencer usually liked the familiarity and comfort of sitting next to him. He’d suspected he needed space but now it seems as though he was psyching himself up to hand this letter to him. 

It’s not a resignation letter, Aaron is fairly certain of that, Spencer would never use such beautiful stationery and a seal in his favourite colour for something so straightforward and professional. He’d also given him one of those heart-warmingly open and trusting smiles before turning back, even if it was a little anxious. This is something personal. 

Finally giving into his curiosity, he carefully opens the handmade envelope and pulls out the letter written on high-quality paper in Spencer’s delicate script. 

Aaron,

I have debated sitting down and putting pen to paper to write this letter for a long time, much less handing it to you to read. This is perhaps the most forward thing I have ever done, and you will understand that it is also the bravest. I know I am crossing a line in writing this. I have never been one to break the rules, it's something we have in common, isn't it? We're both straight arrows. Perhaps I am hoping for too much. I am not the object of many's desire and maybe it is foolish to hope that someone as amazing as you could possibly be the exception, but if I don't get it out of my system I'm afraid this secret may bubble up and swallow me whole, its acidic aftertaste never quite leaving my mouth.

Immediately, Aaron’s heart starts beating out of his chest. Spencer rarely calls him Aaron -- the whole team operates on a largely last-name only basis -- but he’d be lying if those infrequent times when his first name leaves Spencer’s lips don’t make his heart flutter and insides warm. His face betrays him, he knows, but this might just be everything he’s been hoping to hear for the last four years and the team is asleep or preoccupied right now, thanks to Spencer’s clearly well-planned timing. He can afford to let his guard down a little.

His stomach clenches, though, when he sees Spencer’s insecurity bleeding into his writing, the ink revealing his painful self-doubt where his lips keep them tightly sealed away. He’s absolutely everything Aaron is craving, and if others can’t see that then it’s their own loss. He knows, though, that Spencer is too oblivious for his own good: the rest of the team don’t miss the looks he gets when they go out for drinks, but Spencer does. Spencer could get anyone he wants, even if he doesn’t realise it, and the honour of being the chosen person isn’t lost on him.

The truth of the matter is we live dangerous lives. This plane could crash, one of us could get shot, stabbed, blown up and not survive it next time. I need to take advantage of the fact that right now we are alive, and if there is any chance that I could live my life alongside yours then I must take it.

That makes Aaron let out a small, breathy laugh. He’d thought the same exact thing so many times, but Spencer was a lot braver than he was. Even if it didn’t have the potential for a sexual harrassment suit and the loss of his job, he’s not sure he’d have the bravery to tell Spencer just how in love with him he is. Not in a letter written with a fountain pen on pretty stationery, not to his face, not in front of others, not alone. Spencer has guts he’d lost a long time ago. A risky job had led to a tightly controlled personal life. He plays it safe. Spencer doesn’t.

Here is what I want:

I want to throw caution to the wind and live vicariously with you. Let's eat pancakes for dinner, drive down the interstate with the windows down and listen to Vivaldi on full volume, let's hold hands in the street in Virginia and say fuck it to anybody who has a problem with it. I want to get stuck in your head the way you're stuck in mine: when you're doing paperwork, I want to be in the back of your head. I want to excite you when you think of me naked, when you think of me spread out beneath you. Not a moment goes by where I don't think of you, Aaron. I wish I was on your mind in the same way.

Aaron’s face breaks out into a much wider smile. Oh, God, Spencer, he thinks, sending his eyes to the ceiling of the jet. You have no idea. Spencer doesn’t have to wish for this, to crave such a thing, it’s already happening. It feels like paperwork takes twice as long as it used to do before he fell in love with Spencer. It’s not even limited to his job: doing laundry, washing the dishes, cooking dinner, driving Jack to a soccer match, watching TV -- everything he does is consumed by thoughts of Spencer.

And Jesus Christ have mercy, the thought of Spencer spread out naked beneath him, what he looks like under those conservative button ups and cardigans, plays out behind his eyelids far too often. It’s made him feel like a pervert for years, fantasising about his much younger coworker and wondering what he likes in bed, how he could make him feel good. The idea that the same thoughts about him fill Spencer’s brain has him weak at the knees and hot under the collar. Of course he chose the jet to do this, he thinks amusedly. 

Let's find new TV shows and movies together! There's nothing I'd like more than to cuddle up against your chest after a hard case and watch something that we both enjoy, that gives us a sense of comfort and familiarity. On the weekends, let's get dressed up and visit fancy restaurants only to have a cheap crepe at the end of the night before rushing back home to get undressed again. I want to be yours, and I want you to prove that to the world.

Aaron’s heart is melting slowly, dripping down the inside of his chest, he’s sure of it. He’s walked into his apartment after a hard case feeling empty and defeated, wishing Spencer was there to give him a hug and take away the pain far too many times. It only ever made him feel worse, the belief that that would never happen, it never could happen, only now he’s being proved wrong. 

He already knows the first place he’ll take Spencer. Rossi had treated him to dinner there once after Haley passed away, and the ambience and seafood paella had wedged itself firmly into his mind. He’d fantasised many times about how Spencer’s eyes would look in the soft lighting, how he’d laugh in the relaxed setting, how he’d feel spoiled and loved when Aaron footed the bill, ignoring his protests. His heart feels full and bursting at the thought that soon these ideas might not be as far-fetched as he’d convinced himself for so long. He wishes he could see Spencer right now, but he knows he’s probably panicking quietly in the corner, and he was told to save his questions for the end. He’ll play on his terms, especially since it was Spencer who’d had the bravery to do this in the first place.

My biggest fear in writing this letter, though, may not be that you simply won't return my affections, but that you're still in love with Haley. I could never seek to replace her, but I know how deeply you loved her and how painful the wounds of your grief still are. I hope you know, Aaron, that if you do love me back, I'm not jealous of Haley. Not at all. I respect her and I respect your grief.

He can’t help the stab of pain in his gut at the mention of Haley. He’d loved her so deeply and he knew the team was acutely aware of that, Spencer probably more than anybody else if this letter was anything to go by. It strikes him then, just how kind Spencer is. He’s always known it on some level, of course, but the selfless compassion and love for the people around him is so overwhelming when he takes a moment to properly comprehend it. He could have glossed over his late wife in such a letter, but instead he chose to promise Aaron that he could share his heart with Haley. He knows Spencer will keep such a promise. 

I've tried for years to hide the way I feel, Aaron. I went on dates to try and get over you, I dodged you in the break room and bullpen to avoid conversing with you which only made my infatuation worse each time, I feigned plans to get out of family nights because seeing you in a casual setting is so cuttingly painful. I can't hide it anymore, though. I'd rather transfer out of the BAU than continue in this limbo of awkward pining. If you hate me, that's okay, I can deal with that. But there isn't much I don't know, and not knowing this? It's agonising.

Aaron’s stomach clenches again. He wishes they hadn’t been pining all these years so Spencer didn’t have to exist in the parallel of his own realm of wistful agony. The thought of him avoiding him in the break room with the empty ache of unrequited love filling his insides, believing he could never have him when Aaron had been doing the same thing is almost laughable: they were both so oblivious.

Seeing Spencer dressed in jeans and a t-shirt last year when Morgan had invited them all to one of his renovation projects had tortured him for weeks afterwards, and now he was being told that he’d done the same to him; Spencer had gone home after those gatherings and thought about him casual and relaxed, unbuttoned polo shirts and all. It’s almost unbearable. 

It’s reassuring, though, to know Spencer is as committed to this hypothetical as he is. Aaron would leave the BAU, too, if it came to it. If it meant he got to come home to Spencer and cuddle him on the sofa with history documentaries playing on the TV that Spencer was subconsciously memorising and would repeat the next time it was even slightly relevant in conversation. If it meant he could smile knowingly, and wrap an arm around his oblivious boyfriend’s waist, proving to the world that Spencer was his, just like he asked. 

The only way to end this letter is with hope. Any answer you give me I will respect, but I am holding out hope that you will say all this back to me, that you will write your own love letter or profess your own love. That you have similar fantasies and daydreams about me, that you've thought of all these things, too. Thank you for reading this all the way through, Aaron. All that's left to say are five simple words:

I'm in love with you.

Spencer.

Aaron reads the letter over once more before folding it carefully and placing it back in the envelope. He’s completely floored, to be honest. The last thing he expected after a fairly straight-forward case in Seattle was a love confession from the man he’d been in love with since before Haley even passed away, but he’s going to take it and run with it, consequences be damned. 

The plane starts to descend and the rest of the team begin rousing from their naps or putting their books down as chatter starts to rise. “Right,” Aaron says, grabbing everyone’s attention, though Spencer keeps himself carefully tucked away in the corner. “We should have the next few days off though we are on standby, okay? Everyone get some rest, make sure you come back refreshed and ready to tackle the next case. Don’t forget your reports though, have them emailed to me or on my desk by Monday.” He gives everyone a tight smile before turning away as conversations resumed. 

He knows Spencer is tormenting himself by analysing every cadence in his voice, trying to gauge his reaction and he longs to walk over to him and kiss his anxieties away, but he can’t. Spencer specifically asked him to wait until they landed, and he can’t reveal anything to the team so early, certainly not without discussing it first. Instead, he sits back in his seat, abandoning the paperwork in front of him in favour of fighting the fond, excited smile off his face and imagining his first kiss with Spencer, the anticipation making it so much more intense now that it’s actually real.

Time, as it always does, passes, however slowly. They eventually land and Aaron schools his face as the rest of the team pour out onto the tarmac. “Right everyone, I’ll see you in a few days but keep your phones on in case we get called up,” he calls once they’re all off the plane. As everyone starts to peel off to the garage or the office, he turns to Spencer, still keeping his face straight for the sake of others around them. “How about we go to my place and talk.”

“That sounds good,” Spencer says, small smile taking the edge off the anxiety on his face. 

★

The car ride back to Aaron’s apartment is quiet. “I don’t need to pick Jack up until the morning, so it’s just us tonight,” he explains, and Spencer is relieved to see his face soften significantly now they’re alone. He allows a dash of hope to flare in his chest before forcing himself to temper his expectations. You don’t know anything yet. He could be letting you down easy, this could be a pity thing. His fingers drum anxiously against his thigh as Aaron drives, eyes focused straight on the road, his face still unreadable. God, does he have to be so sexy when he drives? 

Just like the time on the plane, though, the time in the car eventually passes, the tension thick between them by the time Aaron pulls into his apartment complex. He smiles gently at Spencer as he takes the key out of the ignition. “Shall we head up?” he asks, and Spencer’s floored at what he sees in his face: he’s wearing the expression he only pulls when he looks at Jack or the team as a whole on a relaxed evening out. To see it directed at him exclusively is a kind of intensity he isn’t prepared for and it bowls him over for a second. 

“Yeah,” Spencer laughs breathily. “Sorry, yeah. Let’s go up.” 

The apartment door closing behind them sounds way too loud to Spencer and, sick of the tension, he decides to try and clear the air. “Look, Aaron, Hotch, can you just tell me--”

He’s cut off by Aaron’s lips pressing firmly against his own, a hand coming to rest on his waist while another grips his face gently. It takes him a second to catch up before he’s kissing back, overwhelmed by the feeling of Aaron’s hands on his body, the very hands he’s admired for years, the hands he’s fantasised about, the hands that make him feel things. He reaches up to place his own on Aaron’s chest, feeling the broadness there, the strength in the body against his making him weak at the knees. 

Aaron pulls away eventually. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says, voice as breathless as Spencer feels. 

“Me too,” he replies, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “Maybe… maybe we should do it again.” He smiles shyly at Aaron before leaning in again, this time gasping a little as Aaron pushes him back against the door for leverage, tracing his hand up and down Spencer’s sides, making him tremble in his grip.

“God, Spencer, you’re so damn breathtaking,” Aaron says in between fervent kisses. “Literally.” They both giggle into each others’ mouths at that, relief filling both of them up to the brim as the knowledge that finally, finally, their pining is over sets in. This could be it, they could build something real. 

“Aaron,” Spencer moans, trembling more as Aaron presses himself closer, right hand moving to grip the back of his neck gently, holding him firmly against his body. It overwhelms Spencer a bit, feeling completely surrounded by a man who was so unattainable for so long, by the person he’s been in love with for years. 

It was completely involuntary, but it makes Aaron pull away, resting his forehead against Spencer’s as they both breathe deeply. “We should talk,” he says softly, pressing a final chaste kiss to Spencer’s lips before pulling back completely and taking his hand, leading him to the sofa. 

“Could I have a blanket or something?” Spencer asks shyly, looking sheepish. “I’m a bit chilly.”

He sees realisation dawn on Aaron’s face along with a little bit of guilt. “Of course, Spencer,” he says. “Sorry this is so backwards. Do you want anything else? Something to eat or drink?”

“No, I’m fine,” Spencer says lightly. “Let’s talk and then we could order some dinner?” 

“Sounds perfect,” he smiles, reaching over into a cupboard and bringing out a thick, fluffy blanket. He drapes it over Spencer and makes sure he’s completely comfortable before sitting down opposite him on the sofa himself. “So. Your letter.”

Spencer ducks his head, a light flush tinting his cheeks. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t know how else to say it?” he says, a question colouring his voice. 

“No, I’m not criticising you,” Aaron rushes to clarify. “It’s possibly the most romantic, beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me, and the truth is, Spencer, I’m in love with you, too.”

Spencer’s head darts up, wide, earnest eyes meeting Aaron’s serious gaze. “You are?” he asks, voice filled with the surprised sort of wonderment that always betrays him whenever any sort of love or affection is revealed to him.

“I am,” Hotch chuckles fondly. “Very much so. I’ve loved you since before Haley passed, to be honest. I’ve done all the things you wrote in your letter, too; I want all the same things you do.”

Spencer’s blush darkens a bit at that, remembering… certain parts… of his letter that he hopes Aaron includes in that statement. “All of it?” His voice is a little squeaky, almost cracking as he clears his throat at the awkwardness. 

“Yeah,” Aaron grins cheekily, loving that he can appreciate the blush on Spencer’s cheeks openly now. There’s no more room for hiding. “All of it.” 

Spencer clears his throat again. “So, is this what you want? Me? A relationship?” he asks, still a little uncertain, not quite secure in the fact that Aaron won’t back off and say this was an experiment, he’s not really committed in the same way Spencer is. 

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Aaron says earnestly. “I want you. I want everything that comes with you, I want the highs and lows of a relationship, I want commitment, I want fun, I want seriousness. Spencer, will you be my boyfriend?” 

Spencer’s brain short circuits for a second before he looks up with the widest smile, one usually reserved for Henry, the kind that reveals unadulterated, unconditional love. “Yes,” he whispers as he launches himself across the sofa and into Aaron’s arms, resting his head on his chest as he revels in the comfort of that exact moment. Finally, though, the extreme emotions of the evening catch up with him and he can’t quite fight them off anymore, maybe his brain is finally convinced that he doesn’t have to, that he’s safe here. Whatever the reason, he can’t help the tears that start to leak from his eyes, or the sobs that softly wrack his shoulders. 

“Spencer,” Aaron whispers back, voice dripping in concern. “Spencer, what’s wrong?” 

“It’s just… it happened,” he tries to explain through his snivelling. “What I hoped for… at the end of my letter. I wrote ‘I am holding out hope that you will say all this back to me, that you will write your own love letter or profess your own love. That you have similar fantasies and daydreams about me, that you've thought of all these things, too.’ And you did. You do.”

“Yeah,” Aaron says, struck with awe, too. “It’s pretty overwhelming for me, too.”

They lie like that for a while longer, finding comfort in one another’s arms, the weight of Spencer weighing Aaron down in a way that feels like security and Aaron’s arms wrapping around him in a way that gives him all the comfort and protection he craves.

Eventually, Spencer picks his head up and meets Aaron’s tired eyes. It had been a long case and an emotionally exhausting evening, and it was nearing midnight. “Shall I order some pizza?” he asks, playing with the tie Aaron was still wearing, slightly loosened but still sexy enough for Spencer to very much appreciate. 

“Please,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Spencer’s lips. “I can’t believe I just get to do that now.”

Spencer hums in content. “Well, by all means, Mr Hotchner, do it again,” he says in a sultry tone.

Aaron groans. “You’d better not talk like that, Spencer, or we’ll never get our pizza.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles. “You get us some drinks and get the telly set up. I’ll be right back.” 

Aaron closes the curtains, turns off the overhead light and turns on some lamps and lights some candles. Spencer raises an eyebrow at that and he puts his hands up defensively. “What? They’re cosy!” Spencer giggles at that, kissing him again. 

“Can we put the history channel on?” Spencer asks while Aaron turns the TV on and fiddles with the volume. 

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, sweetheart.” Spencer ducks his head and blushes, insides warming and tingling at the affection. He’s still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. Aaron, unfortunately, doesn’t miss it. “Aw, are you blushing? Do you like that, you like it when I call you sweetheart?” he teases, smiling warmly at Spencer, clearly relishing in the deep red colour of his face. “Or is it just any pet name? You like it when I call you pretty names, baby?”

Spencer nearly outright moans at that but manages to stifle it, not that it makes much of a difference in Aaron’s delighted expression. “Stop, Aaron,” he whines in a manner that conveys he would very much not like Aaron to stop. 

“God, baby, you are too much to handle,” he groans, leaning across the sofa to pull Spencer away from his perch against the corner and into his chest. They lay quietly like that for a few minutes while the history channel plays a documentary about the Battle of Trafalger, breathing deep and slow as they appreciate this little slice of serenity while they wait for their dinner to arrive.

Once their pizza boxes are empty and they’ve finally had something to eat, Aaron turns to Spencer who’s meticulously wiping the pizza grease on his fingers away with a napkin, making him smile fondly. “Hey, Spence?” he asks, grabbing the attention of the younger man. “I wanted to talk to you about something you wrote in your letter.” 

Spencer looks a little bit like a rabbit caught in the headlights, hesitant as to what Aaron is about to say. What if he was mortally offended by something, or he didn’t like something I wrote? Was I too forward?

“First of all, I’ll always love Haley, but in a distant, wistful kind of way that I can’t quite explain. She’s been gone for a while now and I’ve moved on,” he explains, and Spencer’s flush returns. It’s one thing to write the letter, hell, it’s one thing to hand it to Aaron, but it’s another thing entirely to discuss the ins and outs of his heart in such graphic detail. “I fell in love with you very slowly, but I’d realised it around four months before Haley died. I’ll grant you that in the following year I didn’t really have much time or emotional capacity to dwell on it but it was always there in the back of my mind, and it’s only intensified over the last two years.”

“Really?” The flush is still firmly rooted to Spencer’s face, but his eyes are wide now, staring into Aaron’s with an earnest sort of intensity. “I had no idea.”

“Well I had no idea that you wanted everything I did, either,” Aaron chuckles. “Instead we’ve just been existing in a state of perpetual mutual pining and if you hadn’t had the bravery to do what you did, maybe we never would have known.”

“It was rather brave,” Spencer smiles, joking a bit, but they both know it’s the truth. “I’ve been in love with you since the Tobias Hankel situation. After you understood me and knew how to find me, how you saved my life. It spiralled from there and no effort to try and get over you has succeeded.”

“Mmm you mentioned,” Aaron hums. “I must say, I’m a bit jealous of these other dates you speak of.”

“Well you shouldn’t be,” Spencer says. “They didn’t hold a candle to you, and the few that made it past the first couple of dates knew that all too well.”

Aaron chuckles lightly at that before they settle into a comfortable silence, the TV still playing the background. “Do you want to stay here tonight?” he asks, voice low and a bit unsure. “No funny business, I just… don’t want to let you go yet.”

“Me neither,” Spencer says honestly. “Of course I’ll stay.” He can hear his voice still sounds a little squeaky, still vulnerable in this new situation. 

Aaron smiles back and turns the lights and TV off, blowing out the candles before offering a hand to Spencer as they make their way to his room. 

“Oh,” Spencer says, stopping in his tracks as soon as they step into Aaron’s bedroom. “I left my go bag in the car.”

“I’m sure we can find a solution to that,” Aaron smirks, pushing the bedroom door closed with his left hand and crowding him up against it with his right, diving for his neck. Spencer moans high in his throat, pressing forward further into Aaron’s hold. “You can wear one of my shirts. God, I’ve fantasised about you in my clothes for years, baby.” 

“So… so possessive,” Spencer teases through Aaron’s kisses.

“Yeah, you love it.”

“I do. I love you.”

That gets Aaron to pull away, looking deep into Spencer’s eyes, awe filling his gaze. “I love you, too. Fuck it feels so good to hear that, to finally say that.”

“I know.” Spencer’s blushing slightly, the forwardness of his remark embarrassing him slightly. 

“Come on,” Aaron says, pressing one final kiss to Spencer’s lips. “Let’s get ready for bed. I’ll find you a top and I know I have a spare toothbrush around here somewhere…”

Spencer smiles, sitting on the bed as he watches Aaron bustle around the room, finding the stuff he needs for the night. This could be it, he thinks. This could be my life now. Domesticity had never much appealed to Spencer, but sitting there now as Aaron chatters away about the visit to the shopping centre that has resulted in buying the top he tosses Spencer’s way, he knows he was right to change his mind. He was right to crave this, to crave pancakes for dinner and new TV shows and lazy mornings.

And when they’re finally cuddled up in bed, warm under the covers and safe in one another’s arms, he knows he was right to share that craving with Aaron. 

[jed-thomas]

Debt and Unreality at a British University

Most of the time, when journalists or researchers ask students in Britain about their “concerns” and their “experience”, they’re not looking for answers like: ‘I don’t feel real.’ Because, well, what do you do with that?

A friend of mine sat on a stiff leather couch in the hallway, tiredly scrolling. She’d just clocked out. For nine grand, we were getting about 7 hours of teaching a week. The rest of the time, of course, was supposed to be devoted to reading all the material we’d be discussing in seminars or attending lectures on. But she was working part-time at a Pizza Express. The maintenance loans only stretch so far, especially with rent around here. And you have to catch a bus to get to campus. Lots of us, our parents helped out. But if the ‘rents can’t or won’t pay, you’re a little stuffed.

In 2019, it was reported that over half of young people are now attending university. These figures represent the fulfilment of a target set by Tony Blair at a Labour Party conference in 1999, during his first term as Prime Minister. In July of the year before, Blair’s parliament passed the Teaching and Higher Education Act, introducing tuition fees for universities across the UK. In 1990, around 25% of young people stayed in some form of full-time education beyond the age of 18. Today, most young Britons will have experienced the presumption that they’re a university student and frequently, the expectation.

Yesterday, the University of Warwick’s official Twitter account shared a link to a blog post on how to ‘relieve intense stress in 60-seconds.’ The post was written by a current student.

In 1962, towards the end of Harold Macmillan’s Conservative premiership, “ordinarily resident” students were exempted from tuition fees and made eligible for a means-tested maintenance grant. Shortly after the Teaching and Higher Education Act of 1998, maintenance grants were replaced with loans. In 2004, the cap on tuition fees rose to £3,000 and by 2010, it had risen to its current rate of around £9,000. There were protests over that last increase, of course. The protests were in 2010 and I went to university in 2017. I now owe the British government around £27,000 for tuition and around £10,000 for maintenance. If you’re going this year, you’ll end up owing roughly the same - more, if your family earns less than mine.

You hear things. “Oh, they’re antidepressants.” A friend with a weird flatmate who never leaves their room. Oddly intense desperation eking out of drunk students from some corner of a smoking-area. Vaguely recognisable names and their time of death. “Honestly, just couldn’t be bothered to get up.” An acquaintance from your course drops out and moves back home. Barely concealed frustration in your professor’s tone, hushed rants in faculty corridors. And you notice other things. Admissions of 'suicidal ideation' and life-crises on a FaceBook page which is supposed to be about students sending anonymous messages of romantic interest. Sarcastic tweets about ‘mental health dogs’ and ‘mindfulness seminars’ have become cliché. A routinely empty chair in your seminar room. Strained eyes staring into the middle-ground, silence attending the teacher’s question. Dysfunction as normality. Your diagnosis in your bio next to where you go to uni.

In 2014, it was reported that one in seven full-time students also work full-time. The same report put the proportion of full-time students working part-time at a third. A number of reasons were given as to why they were doing this. I wonder, when they look at their bank accounts, or their accommodation, or their text on sociology, on Latin American history, on virology, existentialism, do they feel they have a handle on things? "I’m a full-time barista, full-time student." "Hello, I’m an impossibility."

For students, the British university is an experiment in unreality. Am I a customer or a pupil? Am I demanding a service from a business or being educated by my elders for my own good? Will it be my fault for selecting a ‘non-applicable’ degree or their fault for selling it to me? Everything is optional, even when it isn’t. You spend all week pouring over the text but feel embarrassed to correct or question the people who clearly didn’t because the professor doesn’t: “Don’t worry if you haven’t done the reading.” Next time, you just put in a sentence or two to fill one of the many silences, improvising off of what others have said, pretending you read whatever it was. Then, of course, coursework is set assessing your knowledge of the curriculum. You spend a couple of days stressed out, hoping to turn your lack of knowledge into a scholarly tone of caution and hedged bets. You go to a careers fair, a student union election, a party, a debate. Nothing sticks, tomorrow is the same day. Your teachers are devotees of a faith but you have to fill the ranks of their picket against the Church. The protestors mass, fill the campus with tension and noise, and then, in a couple of weeks, you’re sitting in the same seminar room with the same professor doing the same thing. You have to think surprisingly hard to remember that past, fugitive now in an opaque present. The only thing that changes is that a few new buildings emerge from their shells of scaffolding. When you miss almost five weeks, there is an email or two. One time, because of your chronic truancy, you get some mark or something, some strike against your name. Nothing happens. In fact, you find it incredibly hard to even find the place where that warning is actually recorded, displayed. You graduate with a First.

Recently, there has been a steady trickle of data, news items, and reports, gradually exposing the rate of suicide in higher education in the UK. It came to a head last week, as a Conservative peer, Lord Lucas, called for a bill which would give British universities a duty of care in the mental health outcomes of their students. Lord Lucas’ plea represents the mainstream of a movement by aggrieved parents of young people who took their lives whilst at university. One of these young people was Benjamin Murray, a 19-year-old in his first year studying English Literature at Bristol University. Shortly before falling to his death, Murray was told by the university that he would have to leave. A local newspaper reports that, according to sources at the university, his attendance was ‘sporadic’ and he had ‘failed to hand in expected work’. Discussing interactions he had with Murray which revealed that the undergraduate was suffering with an anxiety disorder, senior tutor Ben Gunter remarks that: 'A large number of students we see have varying levels of anxiety.’

I mean, look at it this way. You’re saddled with a debt, a sizeable debt. It makes you nervous just looking at all the zeroes. But this moment of selling your soul was planned, it was expected from the beginning. And there are voices all around you that keep coming up and whispering in your ear. It’s just a tax on spending after education. No-one’s expecting you to pay it back. It all gets forgiven when you hit 40. What’s a person to do in that situation? The same government that portrayed the national debt as an existential threat is the same government that turns around and says: Don’t worry. Does debt matter or doesn’t it? Is this real or isn’t it?

People are screaming, again. It's 5:35 in the afternoon. Earliest you’ve heard it this week. They’re really drunk. Or on something. You’re only dimly aware of it, really. It’s ubiquitous, it’s ambiance. Dimly, you wonder if they realise how loud they are being, how obvious their public intoxication is. You perk up when you recognise a few voices. People on your course - you’ve got an essay due tomorrow at noon. Down the ages, goes the cliché, students are drunk and reckless with deadlines. But you’ve been wondering whether it really matters if you get a 1:1 instead of a 2:1. Don’t they inflate the numbers, anyway? And besides, it's experience that matters on a CV, everyone’s got a degree these days. I’d just be another idiot with a 1:1. Your flatmate drunkenly knocks on your door and you seriously consider going back on your refusal to go out tonight.

A survey of undergraduates in seven universities in England reportedly found very high rates of dangerous drinking, with 41% identified as ‘hazardous drinkers’. It also considers that one in five students were likely to be diagnosable as alcoholic.

Every weekend students give in to the unreality. I know what you're thinking. Of course, young people have always experimented with substances, acted like they were invulnerable, ignored consequences. But many of the young people before us were unfamiliar with this level of unreality, this level of confusion. So the recklessness intensifies in those claustrophobic spaces that remain open to us.

I have deadlines, right now. A few days to go. I’ve been looking at the news, all the statistics on internships and jobs falling through for graduates and young people, in general. The worst hit. I’ve been talking to my friends, moaning about the job hunt, the rejections and the no-replies. Anecdotes tumble down the grape-vine of graduates from respected universities not even being able to get a part-time job at a supermarket because of the number of applicants or whatever. A couple of my friends are intermitting due to mental health problems. When I was home, before the most recent lockdown, a number of my friends and I worked at a pub. I’m back at uni and they’re still there. Class of 2020, all of us. Of course, they like it, it’s fine. But where do we go from here?

Don’t ask me, mate, I’ve got deadlines.

[valeriethepussycats]

Speed

Chapter 1

Pairing- Dean x Reader

Warning- cursing

A/n- to anyone who with read this. I trying to make it as close to the movie as possible so it’s gonna take a lot longer for updates i’m trying to get Word for Word because the script is different from the movie.

Highrise in downtown L.A., framed tall against mountains. People stream out of the front door, the leaving work. In the near darkness of basement, a security guard makes his way into an inner cellar. His flashlight finds a man in work clothes bent over a panel, his back to the light.

 “Hey. This area's restricted.” The guard told the man.

The man doesn't look around. We can just almost see his face as he talks.

 “Yeah, I, uh, got called in ... some of this wiring got screwed up.”

“Nobody called gonna have to.”

“Yeah ... Just one second... reaches into his toolbox.” He rises, turning, and A knife is through his ear. It is pulled back out with calm efficiency. The man turns,wide-eyed, hand to his ear. Mouth open in silent protest. Out of his hand drops the work order. He slumps over.

“Nothing personal.”Chuck Shurley takes off the guard's hat. Dripping knife aside, he is an ordinary-looking man. His face is dead calm, only his eyes betraying the sea of hate behind it. He drags the body into a dark corner, grabbing a duffle bag from out of the shadows. Then checking his watch, he goes to the panel and begins making adjustments of his own. He then Walks over to the door of the panel. It reads: elevators

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ��

It's the end of the day and people are waiting for the elevator. The doors open, it's already crowded inside.NPeople groan, shuttle on. A Young exec moos. A few people laugh. Young exec's friend presses the  lobby button, even though it's already lit. The young exec nods.

“Thanks for pushing that, Bob. You never know -- the light's on, but maybe it's really broken.”

“Oh shut up.”

A Sweaty man, 50s, overweight, presses tighter into the corner beside his Secretary. Pats at his brow with a hankie. The elevator descends quickly. Something wired to the cables, just above the elevator car -- a slab of white putty, a black box, wires. A small red light flashes on the black box a split second before it Explodes. The cables Whip and snap up the shaft like retreating snakes.. Blackout.

“What the hell?”

The elevator drops fast. The voices yell. Pop out, dig into ratchets in the shaft walls. Spark shoot out. The elevator shudders to a halt.

“Ooh! Jesus, Bob. What button did you push?”

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

A car comes SCREECHING to a halt near the front of the building, a red and blue light flashing on top. The door is thrown open and SWAT officer Dean Winchester steps out from behind the wheel almost before the car has stopped. Dean heads straight for the entrance as Benny Lafitte, his older partner gets out the other side and follows, tossing Dean his flak jacket. Dean puts it on without ever taking his eyes off the entrance as they make their way through police cars, fire trucks and various uniforms. We see these two are a team, and that when they move, Dean takes the lead. We are still tracking with Dean and Benny as we see two more SWAT guys emerge from another car, fall into step. Another team joins them as they enter the the Lobby. Just as another pair burst in through another set of doors finally eight SWAT members all wordlessly sync, walking with Dean and Benny until the whole unit stands in front of Captain Bobby Singer, 40s, on the phone... Garth, his technical assistant, looks at Blueprints with bagwell, a middle-aged guy with "building maintenance supervisor" on his worksuit.

“Mr Bagwell, make sure these other elevators remain locked down and empty.” Bobby order.

“Yes, sir.”

“There's no other way... no doors... no other way in or out..except through access panels, is that correct?” Bobby questioned.

“Yes, sir.” Bagwell answered.

Bobby then turns to addresses the group.

“Gentlemen, what we have here are passengers in an express elevator below floor 30. The bomb's already taken out cables. The bomber wants $ 3million or he blows the emergency brakes.” Bobby stated.

“What's our clock?” Benny asked.

“He gave one hour. That leaves us 23 minutes exactly.” Garth declared.

“Anything else that'll keep this elevator from falling?” Officer Jacob asked.

“The basement.” Dean remarked.

“The city would like to avoid that event, Officer Winchester.” Bobby informed.

“We can't just unload the passengers?” Benny wondered.

“This is an express elevator. Gentlemen The only way in or out is through access panels. The bomber's also wired the hatch to trigger the bomb,... which seats him in the 'crazy but not stupid' section.” Garth stated.

“Sir, Benny volunteers to examine the device.” Dean voiced.

Benny looks over at Dean jaded. “Yeah, right.” Benny mocked.

“Fine. The two of you check it out.” Bobby order.

The nearest access panel's on the 32nd floor in the lobby.” Officer Jacob

“I want reports only. We're in a holding pattern. Worthy, Briggs, I want you to secure the base area. No-one in or out.Everyone else, I want you to affirm building evac. Move!” Bobby disclosed.

“Looks like we're walking.” Dean grinned As him and Benny rushes off.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Combat boots thunder up a metal staircase. Dean and Benny sprint up the stairs.

“Hurry, folks, but watch your step!” And officer Addressed the people. “All the way down to the lobby! Let's go, folks!”

“49.....30....31...32”

As Dean and Benny make it to the 32nd floor they proceed with caution as they enter the floor. Benny scouts ahead with his gun raise as Dean is hitting the walls for a panel to get into the elevator.

Blackness. Sounds of a power drill, muffled, through a wall. A three-by-three foot metal access panel is lifted away; light enters the shaft.

“Hello!”

“Come on, man. Get us out of here!”

“Hello!”

“Please, help us!”

“Come on, man!”

“Who's up there?”

“What's going on?”

Dean and Benny crawl through and stand on top of the elevator, Dean addressing the passengers while Benny checks out the bomb. Jack has to raise his voice to be heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the LAPD.” Dean announce.

“Thank God. - What are you doing up there?”

“There's been an elevator malfunction, so just relax.” Dean disclosed.

“Hey, come on! What are you guys waiting for?”

“We'll have you out of there as soon as possible.”

Benny stands, gives Dean a significant look.

“Am I lying?” Dean asked smiling.

“How come they sent cops here? Shouldn't they send repair guys?” One guy wandered.

“Yeah. - Makes no sense.”

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Dean squat down holding a flashlight at the bomb.

“What do you think?” Benny questioned.

“You're the expert. I just work here.” Dean answered.

“Looks pretty solid.” Benny commented

“Anyone we know?” Dean asked.

“I don't recognise the work, but he's a pro.” Benny said looking down at his watch to check the time. “He’s cutting it close.”

“I don’t like it.” Dean shared.

Well, what’s to like?Bob said we hold, so we hold.”

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Chuck has a radio set-up, is listening in on the various police exchanges. He suddenly hears sounds of Benny and Dean echoing down the elevator shaft.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Dean clams over near Benny and examine the elevator shaft.

“All right. Pop quiz. The airport. Gunman with one hostage. He's using her for cover. He's almost to a plane. You're 100feet away.

Not paying attention to what Benny is saying Dean is still examining elevator shaft.

“Dean.”

“Shoot the hostage.” Dean finally answered.

“What?”

“Take her out of the equation. Go for the good wound. He can't get to the plane with her. Clear shot.”

“You're deeply nuts. You know that? "Shoot the hostage." Benny scoffed.

“Benny, this is wrong. He's going to blow it anyway.” Dean started.

“Why?” Benny Asked.

“I don't know. Gut feeling.” Dean replied.

“Right now, Bob outranks your gut, so we sit.” Benny disclosed.

“This is taking way too long.” Said one of the people in the elevator.

“How much you think that elevator weights?” Dean wondered.

“Dean , come on.” Benny trailed off.

“Maybe we can do something about those hostages.” Dean stated as he starts out of the shaft.

Benny follows.

“We're not going to shoot them, right?” Benny joked.

“Hey, where you going?” Someone yelled

“What's going on?” Another person Asked.

“Don't go!” begged one person

“Don't leave us here!” Someone pleaded.

Dean bursts out of a roof for something. Harry follows him. Jack runs over to the edge of the roof where there is a winch used by window-washers. Large, heavy-duty.

“No, we just take 'em out of the equation.” Dean answered.

Dean and Benny lug cable from the winch into the elevator housing on the roof.

“Are you sure it'll hold?” Benny questioned.

“It'll hold.” Dean declared.

Benny looks at his watch. “Six minutes.” Benny replied.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Captain Singer paces with his walkie talkie, talking to the brass at city hall.

“I can't get any more time. He's not talking! I need the goddamn money now.” Bobby yelled.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Dean is being lowered headfirst on a rope down the center of the shaft. He holds the window-washing cable with a hook on its end. He and Harry are speaking through their microphones.

“Tell me again, Benny. Why did I take this job?” Dean Asked joking manner.

“Aw, come on. 30 more years of this,you get a tiny pension and a cheap gold watch.” Benny answered.

Dean continues down. The elevator approaches. Dean comes to the elevator car...He signals and Benny stops. Dean looks leery at the hook to part of the C4 by his feet. Quietly secures the elevator's frame. “Cool.” Dean Said sarcastically

“God, it's hot in here.”

“There's no air.”

“Can't they just pry the doors open?”

“I can't breathe.”

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Chuck listens, hears the winch faintly. He fingers a small box with a plastic button and a timer counting down. Three minutes left. We notice that the hand fingering the box is missing its thumb.The hand starts moving more agitatedly. Chuck’s face registers growing concern. Two minutes fifty-three seconds. “Don't fuck with daddy.” With sudden violence, he jabs the button. On the bomb, a tiny red light comes one.

The bomb BLOWS.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

The passengers SCREAM as the elevator shakes, begins to drop as the bomb went of the big gaping hole, appears at the bottom of the elevator and a woman falls halfway through it.

“Grab her hand! Grab her hand!” Someone yelled.

Everyone listening to the TWANGING of the cable echo down the shaft.

“Usually they fall down now.” Bagwell Announced.

“Oh, my God!”

“Get her out of there!”

“He's early! Son of a bitch is early! Bob, we need more help up here now!” Benny shouted.

The weight on the cable is starting to pull it from its foundation. It groans and starts to crack --can't bear this weight for long. The wheels start to come off the track. Then with a loud bang, the winch breaks free, flies across the roof and comes to a stop at the door to the elevator machine room.

Dean and Benny look at each other. And bolt

To another floor.Dean and Benny Emerge from the stairs, race over to the elevator access panel... Get the last screw out of another access panel. They can see the bottom two feet of the grunt they pry open the doors. sounds of panic.

“Oh, please!”

“I don't want to die!”

“Please save us!”

“Open the door!”

Getting the elevator doors open a woman looks down at at Dean. “Please help me!Get me out!”

“We'll get you out!” Dean said promised.”Come on. Give me your hands! It's OK, give me your hands.”

“Watch your head.” Benny told the woman.

Women reaches out for Dean. Dean and Benny grab her hands, pull her out.

“OK, I've got you.” Dean told the women.

“Take it easy.” Benny said trying to calm the women

“Oh, thank you.” The women said grateful.

“You’re fine.” Dean voiced calmly.

Two more SWAT guys arrive.

“Take her. Let's go. Who's next?” Dean asked.

Dean and Benny pull out another woman.

“Thank you.”the second woman said

“We've got you, ma'am.” Said one of the SWAT guys

The winch About to break free.

Dean and Benny Pull out two more people.

the windows washing winch rips through the door frame, wedges against an engine The elevator drops sharply. Oh God... But then it stops, now with only the top three feet of the elevator showing. The cable Is being held by what's left of the platform -- some slats of splintering wood and lengths of bending metal. It's giving way slowly, an inch at a time. Dean and Benny Now pull people up to get them out. They see the elevator sinking, the opening closing.

“Come on, lady! Come on!” Urged the man in the elevator.

“No. No.”

“Come on, lady! Come on!” The Man tried one more time before he jumped up and Dean grabs his hand and pull him out the elevator.

“Grab my hand!” Dean insisted. “Come on! Let's go! It's going to fall!”

“No! I can't!” The woman said Frighten.

“Just take one step, reach out, and take my hand.” Dean urged the women.

The woman hesitant looks over at Dean not really convinced she should move from the corner of the elevator

“Come on! Come on!” Dean shouted at the woman.

Finding some courage the woman takes a step forward and Grabs Dean’s hands. “Oh! Oh, God!”

Dean starts to pull her up out of the elevator. “Don’t let go of me.” The woman told Dean.

Dean have the woman to pull her waist still in... The cable Pulls free as the mass of wood and the elevator Drops. Dean Pull the woman as hard as he can flies down, shooting out sparks -- and a half feet. Two out. She's halfway... metal finally gives way as the huge metal box. Elevator drops like a rock, trailing cable. It drops so far that it disappears from sight. A huge sound when it hits bottom.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Singer and the other SWAT and bomb guys are almost knocked off their feet by the impact reverberating throughout the building. elevator doors In the lobby buckle out from the air concussion.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

The other SWAT guys usher the rescued passengers to the stairwell as Dean and Benny lean against the wall, a little out of breath.

“Was it good for you? Dean asked Benny.

“It was great for me. How was it for you, honey?” Benny replied.

“Elevator dropped.” Dean pointed out.

“Oh, good. That's good to know.”

They both sit down in front of the open Panel breathing heavily.

“Is your watch slow?” Dean asked.

“Uh-uh. He jumped the gun. We had three minutes left.” Benny informed Dean.

“Why does he do that? He's losing his $ 3million.” Dean Wandered.

“I don't know. Maybe he couldn't hold his wad long enough. It's a common problem among middle-aged men. So I'm told.” Benny remarked.

Dean gets up and starts walking away. “He’s here.” Dean Started.

“He could've blown that thing from Pacoima.” Benny told Dean still sitting down.

“No. He knew we were up to something. He's close by.” Dean declared

“He's not going to corner himself in a building we evacuated anyway. Come on.... He'd want to be here, but he'd want to stay mobile.” Benny commented.

“Right?”

“The elevators.” Benny answered.

“Passenger cars were stopped. They checked them out.” Dean told Benny.

“What about the freight elevators?” Benny question.

They get to the freight elevator doors, pry them open.They look down. The freight elevator is stopped five floors below them. They can hear movement in the elevator and a man coughing.

“Will the mystery guest please sign in...” Dean trailed off as he slides down the elevator cable.

“What Dean.” Benny called Dean. “Damn it.” Benny starts to climb down.

As Dean arrives. Pulls his 9mm Glock and steps from the rungs lightly onto the car. Benny right behind him. The car sinks slightly from their weight.

Dean points at the hatch cover on the elevator roof. Benny nods and pulls his Glock. He and Dean kneel by the hatch cover. Dean grabs the handle. Benny makes the countdown hand signals. A shotgun BLAST nearly takes their heads off, splintering part of the hatch cover. Both men jump back. A second shot right by Benny 's foot sends him jumping away, he steps on the hatch cover and it gives away. He falls into the elevator, hitting his head badly.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Benny swore.

“Up! Get your ass up!” Chuck shouted at Benny.

Dean wants to return fire, but hears Benny yelling in pain and doesn't know where to shoot. Another blast right next to him keeps him prone in the corner. He senses something and looks up.

The elevator barrels toward the ceiling of the shaft. Dean has no other choice, jumps feet first through the pen hatch. Dean comes crashing down into the elevator, lands hard. The few lights not shot out flicker. Dean looking into... the barrel of a shotgun.

“I don't suppose anybody will give me million...just for you.” Chuck made known.

Chuck chuckles. Then a loud, dull click. Another click.The shotgun is empty. Dean flinches and and tries to grab the gun but struggles and get pushed way and then reaches for his and points it at Chuck who in the mist of all of it grabbed Benny.

“Hold it! Pop quiz, hotshot. Terrorist holding a police hostage. Got enough dynamite strapped to his chest..to blow a building in half. Now, what do you do?” Chuck questioned Dean.

“There's gonna be 50 cops waiting for you in the basement.” Dean informed Chuck.

“Standard flanking deployment, right? Maybe we'll get off on the third floor, huh? At least that's what they'll think.” Chuck told Dean . Chuck then opens the elevator control panel. Wires feed into a small box Chunk has hooked up. He hits a couple of buttons.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

“I want a location on those goddamn shots! Garth! Where's Benny and Benny?” Bobby questioned.

“Lieutenant, we've got movement on the freight elevator.” Garth answered.

As Bobby and the SWAT guys watch The elevator indicator light stops at the third floor.

“It's on three. Let's move!” Bobby shouted.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

Ding! The elevator reaches P1.

“End of the line.” Chuck grinned. “This day has been real disappointing, I don't mind saying.”

“Why? Because you didn't get to kill everyone?” Dean mocked.

“There'll come a time, boy, when you'll wish you never met me.” Chuck replied.

“Mister, I'm already there.” Dean agreed.

Chuck starts to back up out of the elevator, dragging Benny with him.  

“You can see I'm in charge here.” Chuck Stated.

Angle on Benny The Deadman's stick right before his eyes. “I drop this stick and they pick your friend up with a sponge. Are you ready to die, friend?”

“Fuck you.”  Benny voiced with fire.

“Oh in  200 years, we've come from "I regret but I have one life to give for my country" to "fuck you"?” Chuck mocked.

“Go ahead. Drop the stick. Do it.” Benny declared.

“Shut up, Benny.” Dean urged.

“We've got all the balls in the world here, man.” Chuck grinned.

“Give it up. You got nowhere to go!” Dean shouted.

Chuck drags Benny out. Dean doesn't know what to do. Benny looks at Dean . He barely making the words. “Shoot the hostage.” Benny told Dean.

“Say goodbye, Benny.” Chuck laughed.

Chuck and Benny head toward swinging doors that lead to the garage. Dean shifts aim and BLASTS Harry in the leg. Harry goes down

and Fisk can't take him anywhere.

“Ahh You fuck!” Benny cried out.

Dean shrugs and then points his gun at Chuck

“Freeze! Freeze!.....Give it up! You're out of options!”

Chuck looks at Dean in disbelief then gives him a strange grin then starts running. When Dean goes to follow him the garage that Chuck ran into Blows up blasting him back into a wall.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

The elevator hostages and cops in attendance. Dean and Benny stand to one side of the podium in full dress uniform as the Mayor gives a droning speech. Benny has a cane.

“Through dedication and bravery, these next two officers effected the rescue of 13 citizens of this city. And thanks to them, the only life taken by the terrorist's bomb, was his own.”  The Mayor proclaimed.

“You shot me. I can't believe it. They're giving you a medal for shooting me, you little prick.”  Benny remarked.

“Benny, you told me to.” Dean replied.

Benny gives Dean you’re unbelievable look.

The highest honour bestowed upon a member of the Los Angeles Police Department. Officer Benny Lafitte. Congratulations.” The Mayor praised Benny.

Commissioner pins on Benny’s medal. There is applause.

“Thank you.” Benny whispered.

“Officer Dean Winchester.” The Commissioner moves to pin on Jack's medal and we Chuck 's  garage continues. We see the ceremony on TV, a close-up of Dean's face as the audience applauds again, somewhat louder. Pull out to reveal a bank of four TVs, all showing the same shot of Dean. The TVs are all fairly old, not fancy.

Chuck sits before the screens, stone faced. Slowly, loudly, he applauds.

“Way to go, Dean. Way to go.”

Part 2

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

Good Kids, Bad Ideas

Summary: Bucky’s rivalry with Edward Rooney, a power hungry Coney Island ride operator, ramps up to a whole new level. During the dog days of summer, you and your boys are desperate to cool off. Pairing: Bucky x Reader, Eventual Stucky x Reader Warning(s): Cursing, Smut 18+, Kissing, Fingering, Oral (female receiving) Word Count: 3,856, he’s a long boi. sorry. Beta Reader: My darling honey bun, @supersoldiersruined-me Notes: This is my entry to @suz-123 1.5K writing challenge. Congrats darling! Rules was one of my first things and read and still a huge favorite to read. I’ll never forget my little freakout when you commented on She’s So High. You deserve all the followers and million’s more.

My prompt was “First of all, you can never go too far! Second of all, if I’m going to be caught, it’s not gonna be by a guy like that!” from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I tried to sneak a couple other movie references in there too. ;) Looking up 40’s nsfw slang at work was super fun. Also, I’m pretty sure Coney Island never had love boats, but it sounded the most fun for plot. It’s an 80’s challenge...so naturally I wrote 40’s Stucky.

Picturesque fluffy white clouds float past you on the brightest background of blue sky you’ve ever seen. You only get to enjoy it briefly before your vision is tunneling. The smell of cotton candy, fried dough, and buttered popcorn gets banished from your nostrils by a scent so distinct you’d never mistake it. You can still hear the delighted screams of children coming from one hundred and fifty feet below but it’s faint compared to the whispers in your ear.

“That’s it, baby girl. Fuck you squeeze me so tight when you cum.”

Once you come down from your high, you’re able to pry open your eyes once more. Gone is the vast expanse of sky in front of you. You’re now level with the flashing flights and whirling rides as the sun basks its rays over Coney Island. Your senses come back to you one by one and you become acutely aware of the man sharing the seat with you.

James Buchanan Barnes was nothing but trouble. At least, that’s what your mother had always said. You’d known him since elementary school, but your paths had deviated when you attended a women's only college preparatory high school. Your father had hoped it would dissuade you from your habit of running around with the block trouble maker and his best friend Steve Rogers. It had deterred you, until one night at the dance hall where you felt a tap on your shoulder followed by the bluest eyes you’d ever seen.  

The three of you had fallen right back into where you’d left things off. Much to your parent’s disgust, you’d moved into the same apartment with Bucky and Steve once things between you and Bucky had left friendship territory. Your revere is interrupted by another jolt of pleasure as the Wonder Wheel comes to a halt.

“You got one more in you darlin’?” Bucky coos into your ear,  fingers still inside you. You can smell the slightest hint of powdered sugar mixed in with his intoxicating aroma; no doubt fallout from the funnel cake he had demolished prior to the Ferris wheel.

“Bucky, if Rooney catches us again, I swear he’s gonna ban us.”

**************************************************************************************************

Early on in your physical relationship, Bucky had discovered a little quirk of yours. You’d always seemed to cum the hardest when you knew there was a risk of Steve walking in on you. Bucky decided to test a theory. One day at the movies, you two had been necking when he had slowly slid  up your skirt. You didn’t even protest. Later on when he’d asked your thoughts, you’d confirmed that you enjoyed the danger of it. He’d since coupled the rush from getting caught with the rush of amusement park rides making you some of Coney Island’s best customers this summer.

The only problem with this newfound exhibitionist habit was one Edward R. Rooney. All the other Coney Island employees seemed oblivious to the blushing cheeks, stifled moans, and quick skirt and trouser adjusting. Not Rooney.

Turns out Bucky had known the weasley faced carnival worker in high school. They had it out for one another. This summer, Rooney had made it his personal mission to get you and Bucky caught in your scandalous activity and kicked out once and for all. The rivalry was childish and stupid, but then again, so was high school.

**************************************************************************************************

The fire of your second orgasm flares low in your abdomen with each pump of his fingers. You pry your naked thighs from the plastic seat of the Ferris wheel car to open them wider for him. You’re right on the brink and so ready to fall over the edge once more.

“That’s right baby. So close. So fuckin’- ah fuck.”

“James Barnes. Oh, and Y/N Y/L/N. Publicly fornicating once again!”

Your bliss is shattered. Your eyes open in embarrassment realizing the Ferris wheel had descended the final distance and it was your turn to disembark. Standing in front of you was none other than Edward Rooney. You hurriedly fix your skirts; skin blushing from chest to cheeks. You’re hoping to simply push past Rooney to safety, but he has other plans. He grasps your arm roughly and berates you.

“Running around with scum like Barnes; such a filthy hussy. I wouldn’t-”

“Hey Punk! Get your hands off my girl?!” Bucky shoves between you and Rooney. You’re helpless to stop the altercation. Thankfully the next car has descended and out rushes Steve.

“Stevie! Please go talk him down. I don’t want a scene.” You knew sending a scraper like Steve into the disagreement could have been simply adding fuel to the fire, but you alone stood no chance of talking Bucky down.

Rooney has called the manager over and the argument has escalated. Everyone is heated in the already sweltering summer day. The final verdict is handed down. As the manger has never seen anything first hand, you and Bucky aren’t banned. However, as a caution you’re not allowed on rides without supervision of another patron. Next offense and the manager would call the cops for public indecency and you’d be banned for the summer. No one is happy with the outcome, but you’re allowed to go on your way.

“If you weren’t such a floozy, Y/N, I’d show you what a real time looks like!” Rooney calls as one final taunt. Before Bucky can retaliate, it’s Steve who comes to your defense.  

“Pardon my French, but you’re an asshole. Asshole!”

**************************************************************************************************

You all decided to let a couple weeks pass for things to die down with the Rooney/Bucky rivalry. The three of you are laying on the floor in the living room of your apartment. You have every window in the place open, but the air feels stagnant and stale. The coolness the wood floors had originally offered was now spent and you could feel the sweat collecting in the small of your back. Bucky and Steve had been arguing if it was better to go out or stay in with the heat.

“I’m dying.”

“Oh shut up, Buck. You’re not dying. You just can’t think of anything good to do.” Steve turns his head to look at you and mouths “Melodramatic ass.”

“I heard that!”

“I don’t care, ya melodramatic ass.” He repeats again, earning laughter from you.

“Don’t make me laugh, Stevie. Laughing makes me hot. If I get any hotter, I will spontaneously combust.” Steve moves to nudge you back in the stomach. His hand pulls away quickly. He’d forgotten you all had stripped down to cool off; the boys in their undershorts and you in a nearly transparent slip lacking a brassiere. He wasn’t willing to have to explain a sudden tent in his shorts.

“Let’s go to Coney Island.”

“You wanna go see your best friend.” Steve pokes at Bucky again.

“No... but the movement from the rides will at least make a breeze. Plus, they have ice cream.”

“Darling, how do you plan on working around our little supervision stipulation?”

“Steve is supervision!”

“Oh no I’m not!”

“Please Stevie,” you beg. “Ice cream does sound really good.” You turn and bat your eyelashes at him.

“How could I say no to that face?” You thank him profusely as you plant a kiss to his cheek. You’re up and already to the bedroom so you don’t see the deep crimson in Steve’s cheeks, but Bucky does.

“Looks like she’s got us both wrapped around her finger, huh bud.”

**************************************************************************************************

Avoiding rides with only two seats proved difficult. The Ferris wheel was out of the question. You did manage to convince Steve to join you on The Cyclone. You’d apologized profusely afterwards seeing his green face. The B&B Carousel was fine but hardly moved enough to cool you off. You were all sitting on a bench enjoying some ice cream and planning your next move.

“Let’s do another coaster,” Bucky says before taking an insanely large bite out of his cone.

“NO! Buck, my stomach can’t handle another coaster.” Steve protests. “Especially not after this ice cream. Do you want me to blow chunks all over the both of you?”

“But the coasters give us the best breeze!”

“Darling… Steve isn’t gonna wanna be our supervision chaperone if we make him sick every time.” Steve’s mouth is now filled with ice cream, but he shakes his head vehemently. “Fank ooo!”

“Fine!” Bucky contemplates for a bit; scanning around the park for a solution. “Let’s do the love boats! It’ll be cooler in the tunnels on the water. Plus, the bench seat is wide enough for all three of us if we don’t mind getting cozy.”

The three of you demolish your cold treats and head over to the love boats. The line is long, but it gives you a chance to tease your boys. It felt so nice having them both back in your life. You wondered how you’d coped without them.

You’ve made it to the head of the line when your least favorite nasally voice screams.

“Nope! Bold of you to show your face here, Barnes.” Edward Rooney is wearing a smug smirk as he prevents the three of you from stepping onto one of the swan shaped boats. “You managed to bring Rogers and your tramp along with you.”

“Eddie, sweetheart.” You say sweetly, cutting off the surely livid replies of both Bucky and Steve. “It’s far too hot to argue. The three of us just wanna be on a cool ride. Steve is our chaperone and I promise we’ll be on our best behavior.”

His eyes narrow as he contemplates what you could be up to. The other ride goers behind you are getting antsy as the line is held up. You plaster on your most innocent face hoping to sway him the final bit.

“Fine, I guess I trust Rogers. But if I see any funny business, I will take so much pleasure in-”

“Yeah yeah we get it. You’ll pop a stiffy if you get to throw me out of the park.” Bucky says as he’s already stepping onto the boat. You and Steve follow quickly, jumping into the craft next to Bucky before the safety bar is pressed into your lap.

**************************************************************************************************

Turns out Bucky may have been onto something. The love boat ride utilized a mixture of the Coney Island Creek and ocean to travel through the park. The air on the water was much cooler than everywhere else. The tunnels were the best with their protection from the sun. The ride was the longest in the park running from west side of the main park all the way further east near Brighton Beach.

All of you had gone silent. It was enough to enjoy the breeze and gentle lapping of the water as the boat moved through it. With the bar across your hips, you couldn’t maneuver much but you’d managed to angle and lay against Bucky’s chest. His fingers run up and down your arm. It isn’t long before his lips were against the sweet spot on your neck behind your ear.

“I thought you said you were gonna behave, James.”

“Don’t know the meaning of that phrase, doll.” He continues to kiss gently on your neck, fingers wandering across your breasts.

“Buck… Stevie’s here.”

“Yeah, Stevie is here.” Steve interjects, broken out of his revere now aware of Bucky’s intentions. Steve has heard the sounds coming from your guy’s room in the night (and day). He’s walked in on you both more than once covered solely with his mother’s quilt on the couch. It wasn’t something he was a stranger to in the slightest.

“Y/N likes that Stevie is here.” Bucky’s voice is now low with desire. His hands palm and push your breasts. “I used to think she liked the thrill of being caught… but now I know my girl has a little crush on my best friend. Isn’t that right darlin?”

You hesitate a half beat too long. Bucky chuckles before kissing you on the temple. “I knew it.”

Steve’s eyes no longer are staring off into the distance filled with daydreams. One of his recurring ones is now playing out right before his eyes. His gaze flits back and forth between your blushing face and Bucky’s. This must be some trick. You’re Bucky’s girl; always have been all the way back to elementary school. He knew you were off limits. Besides, if Bucky was your type there was no way you’d go for a skinny twig like him. He assumed Bucky was pulling his leg.

“Buck, this is a cruel joke.”

“No joke, Stevie. I can feel how fast her pulse is right now. She’s turned on.” Steve’s eyes lock with yours. “She’s probably got her panties soaked.”

You’re leaned back fully in Bucky’s embrace. Between words, he’s still peppering feather light kisses to your neck. You can feel his erection forming against the small of your back. He liked this! He wasn’t mad at your crush on Steve. He wanted this as much as you did.

On the next squeeze of your breasts Bucky pulls the top of your dress down to let them spill over the cups. Steve expects the joke to be over now and for you to rush to cover yourself; angry Bucky has taken it too far. What he hears is far more interesting. At the sight of Steve’s eyes on your now exposed breasts you press back into Bucky’s chest and let out a throaty moan.

“Told you she wants you, Stevie.”

Steve’s still frozen on his side of the bench seat. He’s afraid if he moves or says the wrong thing all this before him will disappear.

“Wanna see how many times I can make her cum the rest of the ride? You’ll have a front row seat.”

“If Rooney catches you Buck, we’re all banned.” Steve looks towards your face still expecting you to change your mind. “Buck, come on. You’re taking this too far.”

“First of all, you can never go too far! Second of all, if I’m going to be caught, it’s not gonna be by a guy like that!”

Perhaps appealing to you would work. “Y/N, you can’t be serious with this?”

“If you don’t want this, Steve, we’ll stop right here right now; but you’re not going to hear me complaining.” You eye him coyly while your thumb makes small circles on the back of his hand.

He meets your eyes double checking for a lie and finds none. You raise his hand and kiss it not wanting to push him too far too fast.

Bucky has other plans. His hand hikes up your skirt enough to get his hand under but still keep you from being exposed. He can feel the damp patch that’s formed on your panties and it makes him swell more in his pants. He loved how you managed to be demure with this rampant filthy streak. He slides his middle finger inside you easily and sets out to see what sounds he can pull from you.

Your breath hitches from Bucky intruding into you and Steve almost pulls his hand away. You anchor it gently to your cheek. “You can kiss her, Steve.”

You moan gently from Bucky’s offer. “Please kiss me, Stevie.”

Collecting the courage, he slides closer to you on the bench seat and leans in to place a gentle peck against your lips. His lips feel different than Bucky’s; softer somehow and more hesitant to be sure. You caress the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck pulling him deeper into a kiss. Bucky ruts against your back with his erection clearly enjoying the view of his best friend locked in a sensual kiss with his girl.

“You’re turning her on even more, Steve. I can feel her fluttering on my fingers.” Bucky moans into your neck as he nips and kisses your contours; fingers still pumping into your wetness.

Steve comes up for air and assesses you. You’re still leaned back to Bucky’s chest. Your hips move in a stuttering rhythm no doubt along with the pace his fingers have set. Your hand now rests on Steve’s upper thigh clenching it looking for something to anchor you.

Bucky stares at his best friends face with a grin. “You did that to her Stevie. Got us both so hot and bothered.”

Surging with confidence, Steve surprises you and Bucky both and lunges forward to plant a bruising kiss to his best friend’s lips. The sight of your two favorite people kissing passionately was enough to send you over the edge in your first orgasm.

“Boys, that’s so hot.” You manage to pant coming down from your high but feeling ready for another. Bucky and Steve are fully going at one another at this point. Each of them has a palm on one of your breasts and Bucky’s still managing to rub small circles on your overstimulated core.

Your boyfriend’s cock rubs freely up and down your ass as hard and deep as the safety bar will allow him to move. Steve’s hand joins Bucky’s under your skirt, you suck deep kisses onto Bucky’s neck. It’s a contorted tangle of limbs and mouths and you’re nearing another release. Bucky moans deep and sultry into Steve’s mouth and that’s what does you in; your orgasm rips through you fast as lighting. All three of you pause as if coming to.

Between gasps of air you manage, “Buck…”

“Yes, darling.”

“Why does my ass feel warm?” Steve looks at you with a smirk knowing what you’re getting at, but Bucky feigns innocence. “You came!?”

“Maybe I did! What of it?”

“I’m not complaining, love. You and Stevie are so sexy together. I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard.” You lean back and brush your lips against Bucky’s. “Stevie! You didn’t get to finish!”

Steve doesn’t seem the least bit phased by your words. In fact, it would appear he’s completely ignoring you both. His petite frame is slouched nearly all the way down in the seat as he slips underneath the safety bar of the boat.

“What are ya doin’, punk?”

“Buck, remember when you told me about how hard Y/N comes when you lick her?” You glare briefly at your boyfriend not adoring he’s shared bits of your sex life outside the bedroom.

“Ya I remember.”

“I wanna see if you’re right.” Steve’s managed to wedge his frame in front of you, straddled by both of your knees.

“Steve, darling. You’re the only one of us who didn’t finish.” Before you can mount additional protests, he kisses your lips again.

“We can save that for when we get home. After all, Buck told me I’d have a front row seat to seeing how many times you can cum. What’s more front row than this?”

With a flourish he flips your skirts up and dives beneath them. You look at Bucky for some guidance in this situation. He simply shrugs knowing there’s no talking Steve out of something once his mind is set. You look at your surroundings frantically hoping maybe if you were near the ride end it would deter the blonde.

You do in fact recognize you’ve re-entered the amusement park, but the ride still has a few minutes left just as Steve’s tongue makes its first pass against your core. Vibrations from Steve’s moan from your taste have you jolted once again with pleasure. Your legs close around his head drawing him further into you.

“Hold her legs, Buck!” a muffled demand comes.

Bucky looks like he won the lottery. His large palms rest against your knees on top of your dress prying them apart to allow Steve better access. Your blissed-out face has him worked up once more and he dives in to taste your lips.

To any onlooker, you and Bucky would look like a vocal couple necking on the love boat ride; a couple with poor posture. Steve was completely concealed by the boat and your large skirts. Steve manages to draw not one but two more orgasms from you.

“Stevie, use your fingers and your tongue at the same time. That’s her favorite.”

“Boys, really- I can’t take anymore-”

You hear them both chuckle before Steve’s more slender artist's fingers pump into your core. You manage to open your eyes and check your surroundings as Bucky has moved to kissing the crook of your neck.

“Fuck!”

“That’s right baby, let Stevie make you feel good.”

“No Bucky… LOOK!”

Bucky’s eyes go wide seeing the boat approaching the platform to get off. Gathered around the exit is an assortment of security guards, Rooney, and the park manager from before. Looks like Rooney didn’t trust Bucky to behave; which you suppose was deserved.

“Steve!” Bucky whisper yells, nudging him not so gently with his foot.

“Ass!”

“Get your ass up here. But make it look like you dropped something.”

“Bucky… he’s still… “Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder as a Steve’s fingers caress your g-spot. His tongue works perfect pressure right on your clit. You can’t hold it in any longer. Biting on Bucky’s shoulder helps muffle the moans as your release hits you in full force. The boat pulls up to the docks right next to a snide Edward Rooney.

“Well Buck-O. Looks like you managed to control your perverted urges just this once.” Rooney looks around the boat; eyebrows scrunched together as if searching for something he could ding you on.

“Holy shit, Buck. You weren’t kidding about the fingers and tongue combo!” Steve has chosen this moment to flip your skirts up and shuffle back out into the sunlight. His hair is a sweat matted mess, glued to his forehead and scalp. The flush of his cheeks is a deep crimson.

“Thanks for looking for my ear ring-”

Steve wipes his hand across his mouth. “No wonder you’re always on her, Buck. That cunt tastes so damn sweet.”

You drop your face into your hands. All deniability of Steve’s actions flew out the window. You’re waiting for Rooney to snap.

His face is stunned. It’s as if he’s seen a ghost. The safety bar of the ride raises and you’re all able to disembark the ship. You have thoughts of making a run for it but think better. You’re an adult and you’re responsible for your actions. Rooney’s ceased babbling to form a coherent word.

“Rogers?!”

You stifle a giggle. Poor timing on your part but you could understand Rooney’s shock. The manager feels the need to but in.

“I think you all know what’s gonna happen next. Do I need security to escort you out?”

“We’ll be going now!” Bucky grabs both of his two trouble makers by the arm. “Guys, I’ve never been that fucking reckless.”

“Who do you think taught me, punk!?” Steve retorts. You’re giggling once more as Bucky drags you both out of the park. You can’t help but think of what the rest of the summer could hold for the three of you.

“Steve Rogers you’re my hero!”

[sunmisgirl]

Strangers

For ☀️ anon: The Exo reaction to their fight with their girlfriend was so good. I really enjoyed reading it. Would it be possible to get a full scenario with maybe Lay or Sehun?

Couple: Sehun x female reader

Genre: Angst with some sprinkles of fluff

Length: 1.3k

Nina’s Note: This scenario developed from an EXO reaction I wrote previously. Italics indicates internal thoughts.

Sehun scrolls through a social media app on his phone and briefly looks up the second you enter the bathroom and turn on the shower. “In three, two, one…” he counts aloud while inserting ear plugs. 

On cue, your strangled rendition of yet another Top 40 Hits song overcomes the sound of running water and echoes throughout the apartment. He laughs when Vivi whimpers at the singing and scurries off to find a quiet place. 

This is the typical morning routine for the three of you: Sehun awakening first to pick up coffee at a local cafe, you singing your heart out during showers to whatever overplayed song circulated the radio waves, and Vivi avoiding you until the singing stopped.

Weeks later…

Every relationship contains its obvious highs and lows. Sehun can’t remember how this all started but one argument led to another which soon created a snowball effect driving you two further apart. 

The apartment used to feel warm and loving but now it is awfully silent and tense. You barely make eye contact and practically ignore each other’s existence. 

Dinners are filled with the sound of clinking utensils instead of occasional laughter and stories shared over a meal. Some nights he even sleeps on the sofa instead of the bed with you.

On the way home from work one day, you think about the current situation with Sehun. You find it ridiculous that you share an apartment yet feel like you’re living with a complete stranger. He has no clue what is going on in your life. 

He doesn’t even know you’re planning a short trip to visit your best friend tomorrow. Just as that thought crosses your mind, you receive a text from your bestie expressing her excitement to see you for a few days. 

Before entering the apartment, you take a deep breath and try to dispel any negative energy. Vivi immediately approaches you by the door so you bend down to greet him and avoid Sehun’s stare. 

Sehun eyes you from the kitchen and continues drinking his glass of water feeling bitter about your distant behavior. He cleaned the apartment earlier and found your airline ticket on the nightstand. He acknowledges the current strain between you two but never expected the relationship to end so abruptly.

“You could’ve told me you were planning to end this relationship.” Your brows furrow in confusion for two reasons: 1) this is the first time he’s spoken in weeks and 2) you’re surprised he’s assuming you’d break up. 

“What are you talking about?” you question while approaching him in the kitchen. He sighs and leaves momentarily to retrieve the airline ticket he found on the nightstand. 

The frustration bubbling within you for weeks reaches its point and you swipe through your phone to show the texts from your bestie instead of responding to him. Sehun instantly feels terrible for jumping to conclusions and starts to apologize, his heart growing weary from the lack of warmth and love in the apartment. 

“Listen, I’m sorry. We’ve been fighting for so long--”.

“Save your breath. I’m so tired of this. I planned to share this information with you tonight over dinner but it seems you already came to a conclusion on your own,” you interject and storm away to the bedroom slamming the door behind you. 

Your hand still clutches the door knob while your head rests on the wooden door contemplating your next move. Memories of the relationship start flooding your mind but one moment in particular stands out.

The first date. Sehun took you to the movies and stopped by a bubble tea shop afterwards. He couldn’t stop staring at you during the stroll through town but you were completely oblivious while looking at store fronts and drinking your bubble tea. 

Suddenly he walked straight into a light pole and bumped his head causing you to burst out laughing. Although he sulked in embarrassment, Sehun would easily make a fool of himself again if it meant he could see that radiant smile gracing your face. 

Times were easier back then. Your relationship bloomed like a flower does in the spring---slowly but beautifully. He was a bit shy in the beginning but eventually opened up to you and vice versa. You suited each other so well, almost like finding the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

Tears form in your eyes remembering when the relationship went smoothly with hardly any rifts between you two. Now the arguing puts such an emotional and mental strain on you. Maybe leaving for a few days won’t solve anything. Maybe you need more time than that.

Sehun decides to sleep on the sofa that night too ashamed to speak to you after assuming the worst. Vivi keeps him company for the evening, sitting close to the sofa and peering at him curiously. “Don’t worry about us,” he mumbles to his loyal companion and reaches out to sleepily rub his head before making himself comfortable and dozing off into a deep slumber. 

The next morning, he awakes in a groggy state but nonetheless determined to put a smile on your face. However, his heart drops the second he reaches the bedroom door. 

Sehun walks deeper into the room finding the king sized bed neatly made with no signs of you besides the spare apartment key resting on the sheets. He then surveys the dresser and discovers empty drawers along with missing clothes from the closet. 

She left. She actually left. 

He stands there frozen in astonishment and anxiously combs his fingers through his dark hair, pondering why you unexpectedly departed without saying goodbye. In the midst of his thoughts, he remembers the time of departure and gate number on your airline ticket. 

His mind and heart plead with him to chase after you but the clock on the wall ticks louder, taunting him and counting the little time he has left to catch the flight. Sehun throws caution to the wind and quickly changes into outerwear before rushing out his apartment.

Upon arrival to the airport, he runs like a madman through the terminal bumping into travelers and ignoring their questioning stares and outbursts. His eyes dart across the masses of travelers searching for your face in the crowd, still hopeful you had a change of heart and decided to stay. 

Sehun finally locates your gate and races over to an employee in the boarding zone. The employee gives him a look of pity while he catches his breath from sprinting through the airport. “I have to speak to someone on that plane. Has it taken off yet?” 

His heart almost stops beating when the employee utters the words he dreaded to hear. “I’m sorry, sir. That flight departed ten minutes ago.”

Sehun wordlessly walks away dejected by the reality of his new life without you. He returns to his car and remains quiet the entire drive home making no attempt to play the radio or even beep at drivers that cut him off on the road. 

He drags himself into the apartment heading straight for the bedroom and closes the door ignoring Vivi’s barks. The first thing his eyes land on is a framed picture of you two during a road trip smiling without a worry in the world. 

Sehun impulsively snatches the frame and stares at it with watery eyes. All of the memories you made together. The joy in his life. His home. He can confirm whoever says home is a place is a clear liar. 

You were his home and now he has nothing left with your absence. He instantly hurls the frame at a nearby wall with a pained scream and breaks down while sitting on the edge of the bed.

[lady-divine-writes]

Need for Speed:New York - Chapter 2 (Rated NC17)

Summary:

It's been years since high school graduation, and Kurt and Blaine are living the lives of their dreams in New York City alongside their best friends, Nick and Jeff. Car racing behind them, they're working towards the future - Kurt and Jeff at NYADA, Blaine and Nick at NYU. But soon after moving from their tiny apartments to a bigger loft, bits and pieces of Ohio start to weed their way in to their lives - along with some New York grown angst, causing rifts that hopping behind the wheel of a Mustang might not be able to solve.

Notes: This was supposed to upload on Saturday, but I need a little positivity today, so I'm indulging. But there will be another chapter up Sat/Sun. Thank you all for your support <3

Read on AO3.

“A new bed, a new dresser, a new desk, a refrigerator … wait. I thought the loft came with a refrigerator?” Blaine said.

“It does, but it’s from the 50s,” Kurt said, racing down the sidewalk to the NYADA main entrance with his phone pressed to his ear. “It’s retro chic, but I worry about its energy efficiency.”

“Do you wanna get rid of it or …?”

“No way! Are you kidding? It’s too trendy to get rid of. We’ll use it as a show piece or something. We just can’t put food in it. Or plug it in.”

“O-kay. You know, it’s a good thing we’re getting such a good deal on this loft seeing as we’re rebuying every piece of furniture we own.”

“Not every piece.”

“Most of them.”

“It’s a good investment. As far as I’m concerned, the furniture we have is full to the brim with bad juju.” Kurt hurried through the double doors as a throng of other students walked out - a group of theater majors so enthralled in a debate over whether Williams, Shaw, or O’Neill were the best playwright of their time, they didn’t see Kurt until they ran into him. “The dresser’s way too small, the couch cushions are flat as pancakes, and the legs of the bed are shot from moving it in and out of the kitchen all summer long.”

“Are you sure that’s the reason our bed’s legs are shot?”

“That’s the one I’m going with while I’m out in public.”

“And I’m guessing an exorcism is out of the question?”

“I’m not too sure the Catholic Church would be eager to help us. Besides, you honestly think that would be cheaper than a trip to IKEA?”

“Hmmm … probably not.”

Kurt sighed, sliding his messenger bag, then his coat, off his shoulders and shaking out the rain. “I’m sorry. Is this too much? I think I kind of jumped into this without consulting you first.”

“No, no! Not at all! I’m not complaining, I swear! I’m just bustin’ your chops. I think it’s adorable. And it’ll probably be cheaper in the long run to buy brand new stuff than to cart our old junk to the new place.”

“Exactly,” Kurt concurred even though that particular argument hadn’t crossed his mind.

“Plus, I fully support any opportunity you find to spread your designing wings. Speaking of, you’re letting me foot the bill for this shopping spree, right?”

“Absolutely not! 50/50. That’s the arrangement.”

“If that’s how you want it, darling. But you know …” Blaine’s voice slid lower and Kurt grinned, knowing that something suggestive was about to come out of his boyfriend’s mouth “… I could pay the bill, and you could work off your half in trade.” He growled, and even though Kurt rolled his eyes, certain parts of his body rose to the occasion.

“You wish,” Kurt said, willing away the erection that sprang up like a Pavlovian dog at Blaine’s growl, which, at any other time, would be followed by his boyfriend on his hands and knees. That was difficult to accomplish from across town. “Come on, let me go! I have to get to my first class. I’m already late enough to not show up!” Damn Jeff and Nick for not coming home last night, Kurt thought as he carefully folded his soaked coat inside out and draped it over his arm. Since their normal five a.m. shenanigans didn’t wake Kurt up, and his alarm never does, he was late getting ready, late for the train, and now, he’s just plain late for the day.

Honestly, that was on him for linking his circadian rhythm to his friends’ sex schedule.

But late for his first class meant his day was shot, so he might as well go home and keep packing, right?

Sounded reasonable to him.

“Alright, alright, alright! Get to class! Do all the things! I’ll see you later this afternoon, and then maybe we could do a little house warming celebrating of our own.” Blaine growled again, and Kurt re-positioned his sopping wet coat over the front of his jeans so as to not to make a scene.

“You order a pizza and I’ll grab a sleeping bag from the apartment on my way over.”

“It’s a date. Bye, darling.”

“Bye.” Kurt hung up the call. He shivered when the doors behind him opened, ushering in a breeze that spiraled through his damp clothes and straight to his bones. He started down the hall, trying to remember whether or not he’d left a change of clothing in his locker in the costume closet. If not, he could always borrow something. What plays were going on right now? Much Ado About Nothing? Waiting for Godot? Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? There had to be a pair of jeans and a semi-fashionable button-down shirt in there that would fit him. Or he could throw caution to the wind and dress up in a brocade vest, a long coat, and pantaloons. With the risky outfits he wore during high school, period dress was something he hadn’t tried. NYADA seemed like the perfect place to explore those vistas in fashion. Maybe he could start a trend. He was interning at Vogue. He needed to do more to stretch boundaries, be bold, start a movement.

Get dry. Because the longer he waited, the tighter his jeans became. They were tight enough as it was. Squishing his junk was not the fashion statement he needed to start today.

A familiar voice stopped him before he could convince himself to go to his second lecture dressed like Benedick … or Beatrice.

Not just stopped but skidded to a halt, nearly rolling his right ankle in the process.

“Hello, gorgeous. I think you forgot your bag.”

“Sebastian?” Kurt spun around. And as implausible as it seemed, Sebastian Smythe was standing behind him, Kurt’s messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He looked dryer than Kurt, so he couldn’t have just gotten there. But why was he there at all? “Oh my God!” Kurt opened his arms and hugged him without giving it a second thought. “We haven’t seen you in forever! I thought you were overseas! What are you doing in New York?”

Sebastian returned the hug single-armed. ““Haven’t you heard? I go here now.”

Kurt stepped out of Sebastian’s embrace so quickly, he almost succeeded in twisting that ankle. “Wait? What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He brought his left arm forward, showing Kurt a stack of books he held clutched in his hand. The top one Kurt recognized right away as Intro to Theater. That happened to be the class he was missing this very moment. The second was A History of Shakespearean Dress Making, the elective Kurt had fourth today, and the third … The Beginner’s Guide to Mime? Kurt didn’t understand. Wasn’t Sebastian attending Oxford or something? Why would he be in New York taking theater, mime, and dress making? It didn’t make sense. “Wha---what, are you … did you really … how in the hell did you …?” Kurt went silent, mouth open as a dozen questions clogged up his throat like rush hour traffic.

He flashed back to his own audition for NYADA – the grueling hour spent in the April Rhodes Auditorium singing his prepared musical theater piece and sight reading another. He had to juggle set design, costume, and choreography all at a professional level to prove that he had what it took to go to this school. Jeff, who auditioned in dance, had to prepare two separate solos – one classical ballet and one hip-hop. At an additional placement interview, Kurt had to prepare another musical theater piece as well as deliver a monologue, and Jeff had to come up with three more dance routines – jazz, interpretive, and contemporary.

Kurt knew that Sebastian had music in his arsenal. He was co-captain of The Warblers at Dalton, but that was show choir. They sang top 40 hits and pulled off some synchronized swaying – nothing to the level of a NYADA audition. Kurt attended the last Warbler concert of their senior year with Blaine. Sebastian had a solo. Kurt remembered thinking he had a decent voice – better than decent, actually.

But that was about it.

Afterwards, at a mixed crew going-away party, Sebastian drank three beers and smoked a joint – something Kurt would never think of doing as a performer. His body was his instrument. He wouldn’t do anything that might put it out of tune.

Going to a school like NYADA wasn’t only about talent. It was about passion and sacrifice. Sebastian never said a word about wanting to join the arts professionally. Was he keeping it a secret – maybe from his dad? Maybe his life was like George the janitor’s and he was waiting for his moment to break free.

Could he have actually made it into NYADA?

“Wait, wait, wait! Hold up!” Sebastian juggled the books in his hand to grab his phone and snap a pic. The flash went off in Kurt’s face, but he didn’t even blink. Sebastian looked at the image on his screen and chortled. “Oh yeah! That's a keeper!”

“I still don’t … I don’t … how did you …?”

“I don’t go here, ya psycho!” Sebastian snorted, setting the books down on a nearby chair. “I came here to see you! The tuition here’s highway robbery, and the audition requirements are insane! You really have to commit yourself to a life of suffering and poverty to want to go here, no offense.”

“None taken, you useless walnut. Then where did you get those?” Kurt pointed at the books.

“I borrowed them from the library. I thought it would give me provenance, help me look the part.”

“A-ha. So you came here looking for me, and when you couldn’t find me, you went to the library and grabbed those books to pretend you go here on the off chance I’d walk through the door and you could pull this elaborate prank on me?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Kurt chuckled. “Yup. I guess it did. You’re one lucky bastard.”

“That, and I ran into Jeff about half an hour ago. He said you’d probably be along soon.”

“He should know. He’s the reason I’m late, the jerk. You still haven’t told me what you’re doing in New York?”

“Yeah …” Sebastian glanced down at his feet, worrying the linoleum with the toe of his sneaker “… well, after a few laps around the world, I got bored and decided it was time to settle down for a while. So I thought I’d come back to the states, go to school and finish my degree.”

“What degree?” Kurt asked, deciding he could afford to miss one Intro to Theater class to catch up with an old friend. Besides, this information was bordering on gossip, and Kurt wasn’t one to kick gossip out of bed.

“Originally, I was going to go into law. Become a states’ attorney like my dad. But it seemed empty to me. So I gave it some thought and asked myself – when was the last time I really enjoyed myself? The last time I was really happy? Aside from driving, the answer to that was music. And since I didn’t see myself becoming the next Dale Earnhardt, Jr. …”

“Mmm … probably not …” Kurt teased.

“… I applied to the music therapy program at NYU.”

Kurt’s nose scrunched. “The same program Blaine’s in?”

“Yup.” Sebastian’s eyes sheepishly found his sneaker again. “I’ll admit, I got the idea from his Facebook posts. It looks like something he really enjoys. Something that adds value to his life. That’s something I need more of – value.” He pinched his lower lip between his teeth. “That doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it? I mean, I know we all have a past and everything but …”

“But we’ve gotten over it,” Kurt said. “I swear. Color me a little bit shocked, but that’s all. How big of an asshole would I have to be if I said ‘I know you finally found your purpose in life, but you need to give it up and leave’?”

“Pretty big,” Sebastian agreed.

“That doesn’t mean it’s open season on my man or anything.”

“Dammit!” Sebastian snapped his fingers in mock disappointment. “I’m heading his way now, and I was hoping for a little bathroom bj action.”

Kurt crossed his arms over his chest. “Nice.”

“I’m kidding! Kidding! Please, don’t hate me … or murder me in my sleep.”

“Hmph! I’ll think about it.”

Sebastian nodded, the last dregs of laughter fading in his throat. “All joking aside, I wanted to connect with you first. I wanted you to hear from me instead of Blaine that I was here.” Sebastian looked Kurt up and down, but not in the way he used to. Not in a way that made Kurt’s skin crawl. This was a different Sebastian Smythe. A new Sebastian Smythe. Kurt hoped this one stuck around for a while. “You look good.” 

“Thanks,” Kurt said, grateful that Sebastian overlooked the drowned rat aesthetic he was still sporting. “So do you.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. You look happier. More ...” The first word that jumped to Kurt’s mind was mature, but he thought that would make him sound conceited “… put together.”

“It helps when you leave drama behind you and get your shit straightened out. Maybe now I can focus on the important things.”

“If you need anything, let us know,” Kurt said, offering Sebastian one last hug.

“I will.” Sebastian wrapped his arms around Kurt’s torso and gave him a squeeze. He slipped Kurt’s bag over his shoulder, adjusting the curled strap for longer than necessary. “I have to go. Time to head over to NYU and bug your boyfriend.”

“He’ll be at lunch in about an hour. You can catch him at Kimmel Marketplace. Oh, and if you see Nick, do me a favor and punch him in the shoulder for me. I have to hunt down Jeff and do the same.”

“Of course, but why?”

“Oh, they know what they’ve done.”

***

“So, you’re moving, huh?” Green eyes narrowed to judgmental slits, waiting for Blaine to answer.

“Uh … yeah,” Blaine replied, fishing through his bag for his notebook. He was supposed to have three, but he could only find two. He smirked, wondering if Kurt had grabbed it by accident, seeing how distracted he was when he ran out to catch his train this morning.

Blaine felt slightly guilty for that one. Kurt blamed Jeff and Nick’s absence for his lateness.

But Blaine had been doing the distracting.

“And whose idea was that?”

“My boyfriend wanted to move and I thought it was a good idea, so … yeah.” Blaine grunted, pulling out each item one by one and stacking it neatly on the cafeteria table. “That’s pretty much how that went down.”

“I see.” Paul brushed a lock of blond hair out of his face and sipped his coffee, perturbed by this recent development. The apartment Blaine lived in (though Paul had never been there) was only a few subway stops away from NYU. Everything Blaine could ever need was here on campus. Everything. So he didn’t need to move. But apparently that wasn’t Blaine’s decision to make. His boyfriend did.  “Where to?”

“A loft out in Bushwick.”

“Bushwick?” Paul’s whole face crumpled in disgust. “Where the hell is Bushwick? It sounds like a slum.”

“It’s in Brooklyn. It’s actually a pretty nice neighborhood.”

“But what about all that travel? It’s still Brooklyn.”

“It’s not that big a deal. Besides, it’s worth it. You should see the place. It’s enormous!”

Paul smiled, the piercings in his dimples mirroring the glint in his eyes. “Is that an invitation?”

“Sure. I guess. I mean, I should step up and host study night now that I have the space. I’m sure Kurt won’t mind. I can probably connive him into making some snacks. He’s an amazing cook.”

“I’ll bet,” Paul said dryly. “You know, the course load only gets harder from here on out, so I hear. You really should consider living closer to campus.”

“I don’t know if you’ve been looking at the classifieds lately, but places near campus cost an arm and a leg. I’d like to keep mine for now. I’m not even in grad school yet,” Blaine said, chuckling at his own joke.

“Maybe you could find someone to bunk with during the week,” Paul suggested, sliding closer while Blaine had his back turned, head deep inside his bag, “and go to your loft on the weekends. I know a couple of guys who do that.” He snapped his fingers as if he just came up with a genius idea. “I have a fold-out couch. You can bunk with me whenever you’re working late, or you’re too tired to ride the subway … or you don’t want to go home.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’d miss my boyfriend too much.” Blaine yanked out a handful of letters from Kurt and piled them on top of his text books. Paul watched, his lip curling once he noticed the flowery handwriting. “I can handle the extra commute. I’m a big boy.”

Paul grinned, looking Blaine over behind the safety of Blaine’s back, stopping when his eyes reached his ass. “I’m sure you are.”

“Anderson! Hey, Anderson!”

Blaine grinned to his eyebrows before he looked up. He’d recognize that voice, booming his name, anywhere. He’d heard rumors. He didn’t know if they’d be true.

Apparently, they were.

Walking through the cafeteria crowd came Sebastian Smythe, sauntering toward him, reminiscent of the first day they met in the commons at Dalton.

God! That simultaneously seemed like yesterday and ten years ago. Where had the time gone?

“Are you kidding me? Where in the hell did you come from?” Blaine leapt out of his seat and into Sebastian’s arms. “Last I heard, you were in London? Madrid?”

“Paris,” Sebastian said, lifting Blaine up a foot off the ground just because he could. “I just came from NYADA. Had a little fun scaring the shit out of your man. He said you might be here. Speaking of …” Sebastian’s smile dropped like a lead balloon when he caught sight of the guy  with the bottle blond mop and garish crayon red tips glaring daggers at him, as if he and Blaine had been enjoying an intimate lunch and Sebastian was intruding “… who the hell is this?”

“This is Paul Johnson,” Blaine said. “He’s my lab partner this semester.”

Sebastian didn’t offer him a hand. Paul didn’t offer one either.

“Yes,” Paul said, “but we’ve known one another since freshman year, so …” He left it open-ended, as if there were a whole history of him and Blaine understood within the invisible brackets bookmarking that unfinished statement. It was pretentious, and as a once pretentious person himself, it rubbed Sebastian the wrong way.

Blaine, however, didn’t seem to notice.

“Paul Johnson?” Sebastian huffed. “That sounds like a stripper name. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Stripping is a noble profession.”

Paul’s jaw locked tight. Blaine clapped Sebastian on the shoulder.

“Play nice,” he said. “So, what’s up? Did you get your books and shit? Do you know what classes you’re taking?”

“Haven’t got my books yet, dad,” Sebastian teased, “but I have my course list.” He handed Blaine his phone with his schedule listed on the screen. “According to this, I’ve got to get myself one of those …” He gestured dismissively at Paul.

“Too bad you weren’t here a few weeks ago. We could have been partners.”

From the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw Paul grimace.

“Wouldn’t that have been a hoot? Then I could have kept you out of trouble. Now I’ve gotta stalk your ass.” Another glare from Paul, but this time Sebastian matched it and held it, not blinking until Paul backed down … which he did, returning to the task of sulking inside his coffee cup. “Hey, do you happen to know where Nick is?”

“Uh, I think he’s at his internship already. Brown, Smith, Simon, and Kent on 5th Avenue. Why do you ask?”

“I’m supposed to punch him. Per Kurt’s request.” Sebastian pounded his left palm with his right fist and side-eyed Paul. “I could punch you instead. Something tells me Kurt would approve.”

“Ha … ha …” Blaine stepped between Sebastian and Paul and gave his old friend another hug. “It’s good to see you again, man, but unfortunately, we’ve got to get back to work.”

“Yes,” Paul said, his smug smile replacing the perma-glare on his face, “we’ve got to get back to work.”

“And I’ve got to swing by admissions,” Sebastian said, ignoring Paul, “but we’ll get together soon, right?”

“Absolutely! Did Kurt tell you about the new loft?”

“Nah. We only had time for a small make-out sesh. We didn’t get that far.”

Blaine raised an unamused brow. “You’re full of the jokes today, aren’t you?”

“He’s full of something,” Paul grumbled.

“Just excited to be back. And tryin’ to keep you on your toes. I’m harmless ... mostly.” Sebastian bumped the table with his thigh. Paul’s coffee cup tipped, sending him scrambling to catch it before it could fall off the edge.

“Right,” Blaine said, mildly confused. “I’ll shoot you the deets and you can come by for dinner. Otherwise, we’ll see you around campus?”

Sebastian threw a look over his shoulder, and since Paul had been boring holes in his back the whole time, willing him to move the hell on, he was in prime position to catch it. “I’m looking forward to it.”

[sidehowriting]

Dear Sarah

A/N: Last fic I’m gonna post before my second semester of grad school! That’s so crazy! Also, I don’t have any more challenges at the moment so if you know any or have any requests/suggestions, I am all ears! Anyways, this is for @urbanhaz 1k Writing Challenge! Here’s hoping its good! I tried a different format. 

Italics are letters (and one line from a tv program)

Prompt: Just breathe, okay?

Pairings: Dad!Steve x Daughter (?)

Summary: Steve writes his daughter letters while he’s away on missions

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings:  Angst, aftermath of character death, kinda IW fix but kinda not?

“Sarah,” her mother’s soft voice pulled her from her sleep. “Sarah, sweetie. Wake up.” Sarah opened her eyes, squinting as they were assaulted with light. She wasn’t a morning person.

“I made you some breakfast,” her mother said. Sarah focused in on her, now noticing a tray with a plate of pancakes on it. “They’re your favorite.” Sarah sat up and her mother placed the tray on her lap. “I wanted you to get them while they’re still hot and fresh.”

“Thanks,” Sarah mumbled, still tried. She rubbed her eyes and grabbed the nearby fork.

Her mother smiled sadly and kissed her forehead. “Uncle Bucky’s gonna come over in a couple hours to see you.”

Sarah groaned. “Does he have to?” She pushed the pancakes around on her plate. “I don’t really want to see him today.”

“Yes. He does.” Her mother’s tone was firm and final. Sarah grumbled and rolled her eyes, keeping her gaze down at her food. She heard her mother sigh and knew her demeanor changed. She didn’t need to look at her mother to know her mother’s shoulders had slumped, and she probably had her head in her hands. “This is a hard day for us too, Sarah.” Her mother’s feeble voice went straight to her heart. “We should be together.”

Sarah wanted to apologize but the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. She simply kept her head down, focusing on eating her food. The soft footsteps of her mother faded from the room, the door creaking close behind her.

As she ate, she picked up her phone. She stared at the dark screen for several bites. Did she want to open it? With a click of a button, the screen lit up and she was bombarded with messages from her different social media pages. It was a mix of news articles about the fourteenth anniversary of the defeat of Thanos and people wishing her a happy birthday.

She tossed her phone to the side, not wanting to deal with it. Instead she grabbed her remote and turned on her small television. Of course, it was on a news coverage station.

“…one of the most destructive days in Earth’s history as the Children of Thanos attacked. Had it not been for the sacrifice of Captain America, Steve Rogers, the casualties would have been much higher.”

Sarah angrily changed the channel settling for a children’s show teaching colors. Her eyes were stinging and burning as she hyper fixated on the little animal on her television pointing out all the things that were red.

She finished her food while watching the children’s show, not wanting to change the channel and see any more reminders. She set her tray to the side and snuggled back into her bed, wanting to just lay there forever.

And she would have, had it not been for her mother yelling for her. Sarah pulled herself up, quickly changing her clothes and went towards her mother’s voice. Sarah found her in the living room with Bucky, a brown package in his arms.

“Hey, baby girl.” He smiled when he saw her, approaching her with caution. “How are you doing today?”

Sarah shrugged, not really feeling like talking. She loved her Uncle Bucky. Deeply and truly. He was like a father to her. But today was not the day she wanted to see him. She wanted her own father.

Bucky motioned for her to sit on the couch with him. She did, her mother taking a seat across from them. “I know you’re not about presents today,” he said, pushing the package towards her. “But I think you should make an exception for this.”

The package was thick and heavy. She eyed Bucky and her mother, unsure. “I don’t understand.”

“Open it,” her mother pressed. “I think you’ll really like it.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and did as she was told, tearing the brown paper away from whatever was hidden inside. A solid brown book was exposed. She looked back to her mother and Bucky who both encouraged her to open it.

Flipping the cover, the first thing she saw was a picture of her as a baby nestled snuggly in her father’s arms. She continued to flip, eyes glossing over as she saw more and more pictures. Spanning from her parents wedding to just before her fourth birthday. Her dad present in every single one. There were also articles about him and the Avengers. Some she had read before some she hadn’t.

“Are these letters?” She asked as she continued through. “From dad?”

Bucky nodded. “He wrote you on almost every mission he went on.”

“He did?” She asked, taking in the page after page that started Dear Sarah.

“Bucky and I worked really hard to make this for you. So, did all the others,” her mother said. “Your dad wanted you to have this today.”

Sarah closed the book and held it close to her. “I don’t know what to say.” She bit her lower lip to stop herself from crying.

Bucky patted her knee. “You don’t have to say anything. Do you want to take some time and read the letters?” Sarah nodded. “Go on, then. I’ll hang out for awhile if you want to talk after.”

Muttering a quiet thank you, Sarah clutched the book to her chest like it was her lifeline. She scurried to her room and dove back under her covers. Flipping to the first letter, she started reading.

Dear Sarah,

There’s nothing quite like sleeping on a blanket on a concrete floor to really make you question your life choices. This is one of the things I don’t miss about missions. Sleeping and eating arrangements have always been a hit or miss and sadly this time it’s a miss. Not exactly what I had imagined on my first mission back from paternity leave.

Honestly, I could have stayed on paternity leave for forever. There was nothing better than being able to spend every moment with you. There hasn’t been a lot of research done on genetically modified super soldiers being frozen for 70 years and how that effects their ability to have children. We didn’t think we would be able to have any. That didn’t bother us. We were fine just being together. It was at our wedding during our first dance, your mother leaned in real close and whispered to me that she was pregnant. That was one of the best days of my life. Not only was I marrying the most amazing woman in the world, but I found out I was going to be a dad.

Ever since that moment you have been on my mind. At first it was that you were healthy. Then what you would look like. What kind of baby you would be? Would I be any good as a dad? Now that you’re here, I can only imagine what kind of person you’ll grow up to be. I love you so much, Sarah. You’ve made me the happiest I’ve ever been. And right now, I’m missing ya like crazy.

For a while I didn’t think I would go on another mission. They just didn’t seem important comparatively. But Tony convinced me, and your mother supported me. So, I’m here, thousands of miles away from you and wishing I was back at home. It’s weird, thinking about it. I miss the grim and grit of fatherhood. I miss waking up at odd hours with you. Feeding you just to have you sip up all over me. I miss being elbows deep in poopy diapers. I had heard that becoming a father changes a person, but I greatly underestimated the extent.

You probably don’t miss me. That’s okay. You’re just a baby after all. Mom’s still there taking care of your needs. I know she’s doing a great job. You have the most wonderful mother and I’m so happy to have her in my life. She has blessed me with such happiness I never thought I would get. Or deserved for that matter.

It’s getting late and I’m nearing the point of exhaustion where I don’t care what I’m sleeping on, I just want to sleep. That’s exactly what I was waiting for. Hopefully things will go smoothly, and I’ll be home to you soon. I can’t wait to hold you and kiss you and tell you just how much I love you. You’re my world, Sarah.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

I learned a new term today. “Old soul” Nat told me it means someone who was born out of their time. She used it to describe me except my soul is literally old, not metaphorically. It’s strange. I wasn’t really born out of my time. I was born in my time but then I was frozen for years and woke up in a different time. So, my soul is old but I’m not sure that’s exactly what she meant.

Anyways, that got me thinking about time. Sometimes I think about what my life would be like if I stayed in the 40s. What would I have done? What would I have accomplished? Would I still be Captain America? Would I have a family? I think about Peggy too. Would we have dated? Married? Had kids? Part of me still loves her and always will.

I love your mother too. I don’t want you to think I don’t. This is something we talked in depth about before we got married. She understands as best as she can without actually having been frozen for decades. Your mother is so incredible. Sometimes I think that I was frozen so I could meet her.

You’re the absolute joy of my life, Sarah. If I could turn back time and stay in the 40s, I know I wouldn’t. There’s nothing that could make me give up my life with you. Being with you, watching you grow. You amaze me everyday and I’m so lucky to be yours.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

I got a video today of you taking your first steps. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to see it. You looked so adorable though. I can’t believe you’re walking already. It seems like just yesterday I was holding you in my arms for the first time. Now you’re walking, and you can say a few words. You’re growing up so fast, baby girl. Please slow down.

I was having a hard time after I saw you walk. I missed this major milestone, what else would I miss? I do want to be there for all your firsts. Bucky assured me that I’d see the rest of them. I’m not sure if he’s right. There’s a lot of uncertainty with this job. Missions just popping up, taking longer than normal. And it’s dangerous. While most of the time I’m pretty confident, there are days I think that I might not make it. I don’t want to die, and have you resent me for it because I wasn’t around. That’s my biggest fear.

This letter got depressing faster than I thought it would. Sorry about that. I just wanted to say that I love you and I’m so proud of you.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

I just left the house not even an hour ago and I feel so guilty. We’re still on the quinjet, on our way to Russia, and all I want to do is turn the jet around and go back to you. You’ve never cried when I left before. Mostly you didn’t even seem to notice. You were either playing or sleeping or eating or doing something that was much more interesting then Dad going on a mission. But today you actually cried when I walked out, and it hurt much more than I thought it would.

I knew this day would come and I thought I was ready. Boy was I wrong. I’m sure you know by now that I’m a huge sucker. You pout your little lip and I’ll do whatever I can to make you smile. Tony says that makes me a pushover, but I prefer to think of it as A+ parenting. You’re my girl and I just want you to be happy. Yet here I am, the reason you were crying.

I know I mentioned before how I was considering not going back to the Avengers when you were born. And the urge to quit hasn’t been this strong since my first mission back. I love you, Sarah. I love you so much. And if I could just stay at home with you forever, I would. But the world is a big, bad, messy place. I want to help clean it up. And I do it for you. Always remember that. Everything I do, I do with your well being in mind.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

Tony made a joke today that I didn’t think was funny. He said that you were going to be a heart breaker when you got older and I’d have to fight away the boys. The whole team laughed but me. It’s kind of made me realize that you’re going to grow up one day and you might not need your dear old dad. That’s terrifying to me.

You’re going to become a teenager. You’re going to get moody and have woman problems and want to date boys. I wish they had a manual for how to deal with those things. I know I’ll have your mother to help out. I know she’ll play a big part in helping you navigate that phase of your life. I want to help you through it too. I just don’t know how good I’ll be at that.

I hope you’ll be patient with me. I know I’ll no doubt do or say something stupid (Bucky has reminded me of this time and time again). I won’t mean to. I just don’t have much experience with dealing with girls. I have no sisters and can count on one hand how many girls talked to me before the serum. I promise to try, though. I promise to support you no matter what and to love you unconditionally. Bucky assures me there will be times where loving you will be hard but that’s when you’ll need the love the most. Thinking about that scares me a lot. I just want to be the best dad I can be for you.

And I will greet all your dates dressed as Captain America. Shield and all. You’re my baby girl and I want all the boys to know that.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

I hate when missions take longer than expected. I thought I was going to be home days ago, but here I am stuck in a crappy motel room sharing a bed with Sam. He snores so loud its unbearable. I miss the comfort of home. I miss waking up to the smells of breakfast that you and your mother had prepared. I miss afternoon naps with you next to me.

I still have the stuffed bear you put in my pack. It goes with me on every mission now. It’s a sweet reminder of you and what I have at home. Those little things keep me going when Sam’s obnoxious snores try to hinder me.

I thought I would have more time to write to you, but Sam just woke up and yelled at me for having a light on. Guess I have to go to bed now. And possibly smother Sam with a pillow.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

Radio silent missions are always the worst. And I know they’re the worst for your mom too. Its so hard not talking to her and you while I’m out. Even if its just a quick text to remind you guys how much I love you.

Your mom spoils me though. She always sends me so many pictures and videos of you guys so when I can finally turn my phone back on, that’s the first thing I see. Last time she sent me a video of you playing with some paints. You said it was a picture for me when I get back. And then you said you loved me. I saved that video. I watch it whenever I get the chance and I always tear up. I have the picture you made in my office at the compound. You have an appreciation for the arts just like your old man. You’re gonna be a great artist one day. I can feel it.

The mission should only last another day. As soon as we’re in the all clear I’m going to try to video chat with you guys if it’s not too late. Your mom will no doubt pick up and at least show me you if you’re sleeping. I hope you’re not though. I miss your voice. I miss hearing you say you love me. I can’t wait to come home and cover your face in kisses.

Love Dad

Dear Sarah,

I love you. And I know I tell you that all the time, as often as I can, but I wanted to start off this letter that way. Saying I love you and I’m so proud to be your dad. I can’t put into words how honored I am to have that privilege. And I can’t emphasize it enough. You’re my world, baby girl. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

I know I’ve written a lot of letters to you over the years. My plan is to collect them all up and give them to you as a gift one day. Maybe your eighteenth birthday? Or whenever it feels right. And I’ve told Bucky, Sam, Nat, and just about everyone else it too. And you’re probably reading this feeling all confused as to why I would take the time to write it all down.

There’s a real big bad coming. Thanos. I don’t know much about him but Bruce it scared out of his mind. He can’t even Hulk out anymore because of facing him. I didn’t know someone existed that could scare the Hulk away. After hearing what his guy is about, I feel like I should prepare for the worst. That I won’t make it back to you. And should that be the case, I want to make sure you know exactly how much I love you. How much I think about you during every mission.

If this is my last chance to talk to you, I want it to matter. I want to write everything I feel. I don’t want you to grow up and think that I just left. That I just threw myself into battle. Because that’s not it. Sure, before I had a family I just charged forward towards the bad guy, trying to do the right thing. But that hasn’t happened since you. Every time I’ve put my life on the line, I’ve done so thinking about how I was making the world a better place for you. I don’t want you to have to worry about the evil that exists. I want you to be able to go to bed every night with peaceful dreams.

I can’t lie to you and tell you that I’m not scared out of my mind. I try to put on a brave face for everyone, including you, but I can’t right now. The thought of Thanos making his way to earth makes me feel sick. We know where he’s going to go but my mind can’t help but wander. What if he does something else? What if he attacks you and your mom?

I’m also scared of dying. This is such a different feeling than in the 40s before I was frozen. I didn’t have then what I do now. I keep thinking of you growing up and getting married and having your own family. I want to be there for that. I want to see you grow and live. I don’t want to miss a second of your life and I’m scared that I will. But I’m even more scared that I won’t make it through this and it will be for nothing. That Thanos will still get to you and I can’t protect you.

You’re still so little and I know if I don’t come home you might forget me. Not that you won’t know who I am. Your mom has so many pictures and stories to tell you. But you won’t be able to remember me for yourself. At least, not fully.  Your actual memories will fade as you get older and that thought makes me so sad. I don’t want you to forget me. I don’t want you to forget those moments that were just between the two of us. That weren’t captured by other people. Those nights when you couldn’t sleep, and I’d lay in bed with you for hours. Playing dress up and tea party while mom was out running errands. Those little moments keep me going and to know that those will be forgotten…

If you’re reading this one day and you’re older and you can’t recall those moments, it’s ok. I’m not writing this letter to make you feel guilty for growing up and forgetting. I’m writing it, so you know those moments happened and they meant everything to me. I want you to know that they did happen and even if you can’t quite recall them just know that I went on every mission thinking of them and smiling and missing you like crazy.

Everything I’ve done has been for you. Every mission, every night away, everything. You’re the most important person in my life, Sarah. I want nothing more than to create a world where I know you’ll be safe and happy.

I’m being told an alien ship is approaching. I don’t know if this is Thanos or not but it’s big and it’s bad. I love you so much, Sarah I can’t even put it into words. You’re my world, my baby girl, my whole heart. I hope I can make you proud.

Love Dad

She sat in her bed, clutching the book when she was done. There were so many thoughts going through her head. She had seen so many pictures and videos of her father. Countless interviews. But reading his words, words he had written specifically for her, was different.

He was right, she really couldn’t remember him on her own. She just had bits and pieces to cling to. Flashes of herself crying and clinging to her father. Wearing a plastic princess crown while having a tea party with her stuffed animals and her dad. He always drank his fake tea with his pinky out. Sharing secrets that were too silly to remember in the middle of the night. Sarah wasn’t even sure those were real or just what she wished had happened.

Suddenly, she was livid. Why would her dad do this to her? Why would he leave her with nothing more than letters to remember him? Why did he die on her birthday? In a fit of rage, she chucked the book. It flew across the room, hitting her lamp and knocking it to the ground. Both items fell with a loud thud, the lamp shattering into pieces.

When that didn’t soothe her, she threw herself face down on her bed and screamed. She screamed and cried and punched her comforter as hard as she could. Heavy footsteps entered her room, but she paid no mind to them nor the dip in her bed.

“It’s okay.” Bucky’s hand was a comfort on her back. “It’s okay, baby girl.”

She was crying herself into hysterics, her breaths coming out in gasps. “I… I can’t…”

“Sh,” Bucky cooed, “Sh. Just breathe, okay?” He rubbed her back. “Calm down. Breathe. Then you can talk.”

Sarah nodded, her face hidden by pillows. The whole while Bucky stayed by her side, rubbing her back and whispering reassurances to her. When she thought she was composed, she tried talking again. “Why was he so dumb, Uncle Bucky? Why was my dad so dumb and stubborn?”

Bucky’s laugh caught her off guard. She picked her head up, giving him a questioning look. “Sweetheart, I’ve been asking that question for over a hundred years,” he said, smiling at her. “Your dad was just an idiot.”

Pushing herself up, she sat on the bed next to him. She stared silently at the mess she made in her room. “My lamp broke,” she whispered.

“I see that.” He got up and walked over to the shattered remains. He stepped cautiously as to not walk on glass. He picked up the book and brushed the debris off it. Then he sat back down next to Sarah, passing it back to her.

Sarah took it, running her fingers over the plain cover. “Did you read any of the letters?”

“A bit. Enough to be able to organize them in the book. I tried to keep them in chronological order.”

She wrapped her arms around the book. “I miss him, Uncle Bucky. I miss him so much…” Tears were in her eyes again. “I miss my daddy…”

Bucky put his arm around her. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I miss him too. We all do.”  

She continued to hold the book close to her, her cheek resting against the spine. “Thank you so much,” she said. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Bucky rubbed her back again. “I’m glad to finally give it to you. I put the finishing touches on it a couple months ago and have just been waitin’ for your birthday to roll around.”

A silence fell between them. Sarah didn’t know what else to say. There was still a lot going on inside her that she needed some time to process. Instead, she decided to change the subject. “Did mom tell you I got accepted to that art school in California?” Sarah asked, peaking up at Bucky.

“She did,” Bucky said, smiling widely at her. “And a full ride too. That’s amazing, Sarah. I’m so proud of you.”

“Do you… do you think Dad would be proud too?”

“Absolutely, kiddo. And your mother said you’re workin’ on a new project. Can I see it?”

She set the book down on her bed and crossed her room. She quickly glanced down at the shards of glass knowing at some point she would need to clean that up. Ignoring her future responsibilities, she opened her closet, showing the little makeshift art studio she created.

Instead of hanging clothes, there was a lone easel. It took up most of the space, leaving just enough room for a box of paints and brushes. A white canvas was set on the easel, revealing Sarah’s latest piece. It was a water color portrait of Captain America’s shield. The thick black outlines standing out and highlighting the pastel reds and blues within the shield itself.

“It’s not finished,” Sarah said. Mounted on her closet door was her father’s shield. Carefully, she plucked it from its hook, and brought it down, level with her painting. “But I think it’s starting to look pretty good.”

“It’s beautiful, baby girl.” Bucky stood up and walked over to her, eyeing the painting and then real shield. “I can see your dad hanging it in his office.”

Sarah’s face lit up at the praise. “Really? You think so?”

“Sarah,” Bucky said, “Steve was over the moon for you. Since he found out he was gonna to be a dad I can’t think of a day where he didn’t talk about you. You were everything to him. I know, wherever he is, he’s so freakin’ proud of his baby girl.”

She looked down at her father’s shield. Its reflective surface showing her her own face. She had been told she looked a lot like him but after seeing picture after picture of the two of them in her new memory book, she conceded. She did look exactly like him and seeing her reflection in his shield brought a new wave of tears to her eyes. And a new wave of emotions in her heart. “I’m proud of him too.”

Tags: @dsakita @xxloki81xx

[tomoewantsdolls]

(Not) Another pub night

Written for the summer workshop of Game of Drarry. It’s settled in the same universe as Adapt or perish, written for a Drarryland prompt, but it stands alone.

Summary: It's pub night and Harry is not going to let the chance pass.

Word Count: 2016

Rated: M (just to be safe)

Warnings: alcohol consumption           

Thanks to Etalice for the beta work!

Read on AO3

 It was strange how things happened sometimes but, after an improvised party at Luna’s place, everyone seemed to forget there was a time when they weren’t friends.

 Around midsummer, they had established they would meet weekly. Not all of them would make it every time, but someone would show to take some shots and talk about how stressful their week was or anything else really. You could see Pansy talking with Hermione about the best shops for buying quills; Seamus would advise Greg on the best ways to brew homemade firewhiskey; and Luna, well, she just was herself, and everyone showed her affection in their own ways.

 Only...

 Harry thought he was the last one to arrive at the pub on Friday night. He almost tripped over his own feet when he saw that Malfoy and Ron were the only ones sat on the table. More than that, they were chatting amicably. That was a first.

 He approached them with caution, wondering if the situation would go wrong within the minute.

 "Oi, Potter, could you tell this bint friend of yours here that there's no way in the seven hells the Chuddley Cannons are going to win the next game against his sister's team?"

 "Mate, Ginny is going to kill you if she discovers you are betting against her," he looked at his best friend with an eyebrow raised, sitting on the chair across them.

 "First, I'm not betting, Robards let us do a betting pool on condition that we don’t use money, so technically it’s not betting; second, I'm not even offended by that, seriously, Malfoy, you have lost your touch; and third, this is something I wanted to ask long ago, you guys are partners and call yourselves by your last name?"

 "You call him Malfoy too," Harry said a bit defensively.

 "Yes, but you spend more time together than with your… well than with anyone else, really. Heck, you even spent a night together."

 "We were stranded."

 "We don't talk about that night."

They talked over each other, and Malfoy looked pointedly at Harry.

 “Hermione!” Ron bellowed, “Light of my days, come save me from this two!” She laughed, coming to their table while Malfoy mouthed a question for only Harry to hear.

 “Have you told them?”

 “What?” Harry asked, confused, but as Hermione sat after being hugged and kissed by her probably already tipsy boyfriend, Malfoy seemed reluctant to keep talking.

 “Sorry for the delay, I wanted to finish a report,” she said, looking extremely happy with herself. “Ah, it seems it’s just the four of us today.”

 “I thought Pansy was coming,” Malfoy said, his eyes widening slightly.

 “Uhm, dunno, I think she said something about a concert last week?” Hermione mused.

 Harry observed as Malfoy took his butterbeer bottle and started to pick at the label with his long fingers, worrying his lower lip and avoiding to look at them.

 “Ok, I’m going to order," Hermione said.

 “You know, the last one to arrive has to buy a round of firewhiskey, and I think this week that one is you, ‘Mione,” Ron said a wide smile plastered on his face.

 She rolled her eyes before answering. “Ok, but you come with me to help. And that’s the last alcohol you’ll drink tonight.” They headed to the bar, Ron in tow, complaining loudly.

 Malfoy waited until they were out of earshot to lean on the table towards Harry.

 “Have you told them?”

 “About what?”

 “You know about what!” Malfoy hissed. “The thing that happened during that night that we aren’t talking about, ever. You, moron!” He added those last two words as an afterthought. Harry’s brain clicked. It’s not that he hadn’t thought about it, repeatedly, ever since. Sometimes, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it, but it was usually when Malfoy was not around; mostly because he forced himself not to think about it to avoid the blush creeping up his face. Just as it was now.

 “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, hiding his face behind his glass.

 “Potter.”

 “I didn’t tell them, ok? I’ve kept my promise.” And Harry realised it stung somehow.

 “Oi, what are you scheming?” Ron said approaching the table with three glasses held precariously between his hands. “Help me with this."

 One glass and a half later (for everyone save Ron) Harry's bad mood hadn’t dissipated completely. On the bright side, Hermione was lecturing Malfoy and that was surprisingly entertaining.

 Hermione leaned over the table, her hair as wild as ever, falling over her eyes. She shook it off with a practised move, meanwhile, Ron snatched her glass and sipped from it with a satisfied smirk.

 "What I'm trying to say is that Quidditch has a component of luck, and while the Chudley Cannons may not be the best team in the league…"

 "That's the understatement of the century," Malfoy stated.

 "Oi!" Ron said instantly, Hermione's glass halfway to his lips.

 "...they certainly can win the game against the Harpies just looking at the statistics of their matches and the times they have caught the snitch by chance."

 "I don't know if I should be offended or buy you a ring right now." Hermione turned towards Ron at that, a faint blush evident in her cheeks.

 "I dare say on Granger's behalf that you'll have to make it better than that."

 "Shut up, Malfoy."

 "He's right," Hermione said, lifting her chin, "and this glass is mine."

 Harry laughed and took his own glass, finding it empty. It seemed Ron hadn't been the only one stealing someone else's drink. The git on his left was smirking.

 "Prat," Harry muttered. "I'm going for another, anyone?"

 Harry got a unanimous response and got a round for everyone, and a next one. When Malfoy offered to buy another, they were a tad sloshed so they decided to call it a night.

 "You lot are lightweights," Ron teased, swaying a little on the spot.

 Malfoy snorted. "Talk for yourself, Weasel," he uttered, even though his words were a bit slurred. He stuck out his tongue when Ron showed him two fingers.

 “Ok, we’ll be heading home. Take care guys,” Hermione said, Ron leaning on her and looking smitten, his petty fight with Malfoy forgotten. Their flat was a few blocks down the street so they could walk back home without much problem. Harry, on the other hand, had a 40 minutes walk from there. He wrinkled his nose.

 “Do you fancy a Knight bus ride?”

 “Merlin, no,” Malfoy looked profoundly disgusted with the idea, “I may throw up in an instant.”

 "Fair point. Walking it is then," Harry didn't want to risk splinching, the time it happened to Ron was enough to scare him for a lifetime. He looked around trying to figure out in which direction they should go. "In which way is your flat, again?"

 "Dunno. I've never walked home." He added at Harry's raised eyebrows, shrugging and looking as if that was all that he needed to say in the matter.

 "Mmm, ok, Grimmauld is that way. Let's see if you see something familiar on the way there."

 Proof of his inebriated state was that Draco didn’t protest his plan.

 They walked side by side in silence for a while. The night was nice, summer was at its best; it would have been enjoyable, hadn’t Harry felt so upset.

 "What's the matter?" Draco asked.

 "It's nothing."

 "Right, so you are sulking because you're a spoilsport."

 "I'm not."

 "Ha! Brow furrowed, prominent pout,..."

 "I'm not pouting."

��"I know you, something is bothering you. Spill it, Potter."

 "Why don't you want to talk about it?" Harry blurted, stopping abruptly. It wasn't his only concern but it was the first thing his brain provided. Actually, it had been his only concern the whole night, until he found himself extremely bothered by the use of his last name all of a sudden. Damn Ron and his ability to point out sensitive things.

 "Talk about…? Oh, that." Draco sniffed, pointedly not looking at Harry. "We already talked."

 "No, we didn't. After days of ignoring me while confined in the same space doing desk work, I asked; you said we shouldn’t bring the thing up again and that was it. It’s been weeks, and it’s been eating me alive.”

 Draco’s nostrils flared. “Listen, Potter…”

 “Harry.”

 “What?”

 “Call me Harry once and for all.”

 “What does that have to do with anything! OK, then. We are partners, we owe respect to one another, we…!”

 “We fight alongside one another, our lives depend on one another and even if you hadn’t had your tongue down my throat, which you did by the way,” Harry pointed out ignoring Draco’s groan, “I would like you to call me by my given name.”

 “Fine! Fine,      Harry    , you utter stubborn prick, let’s talk about it. It happened, it’s not going to happen again, and no one is going to know, satisfied?”

 “Why?”

 “Why? Because if someone knows I’m dead: I could lose my job, I would be accosted by your hordes of fans, it would…”

 “No, no, why is not going to happen again?”

 Draco spluttered. “Haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve said?”

 “You don’t know any of that for sure.”

 “Potter,...”

 “Harry.”

 “I can’t risk…,” Draco hissed and paused. “Do you even want it to happen again?”

 “I do,” Harry answered instantly.

 “What?” They stared at one another for a beat. “No, you don’t.”

 “I do!”

 “You are drunk.”

 “Barely tipsy.”

 “Well, I’m drunk.”

 “I tell you what,” Harry blurted, sensing it was now or never, “let’s walk to my place, it’s still a long walk, enough to clear our minds. If you are still unsure I won’t press.”

 “Unsure of?”

 “Me wanting you.”

 Draco snorted. “Bold of you to assume I may be interested.”

 Harry smiled broadly.

                                                      ---

 The light of the day was filtering through the curtains directly on Harry’s eyes. He groaned. The pain in his head was insistent, more so with the noise of the floo blaring.

 “Harry! Harry!”

 “Nnnngh.” He protested, not opening his eyes.

 “Harry, she said yes!”

 “Ron, it’s too early,” Harry mumbled on the pillow. He heard the footsteps intensifying as Ron presumably ran up the stairs. He soon got confirmation when his best friend… forget this. His ex-best friend barged in with an annoying smile plastered on his face.

 “Would you be my best man?” Ron shouted, making Harry flinch in pain at the bang with which the door hit the wall.

 Harry felt the mattress shift and a warm weight grow at his side as Draco leaned on him to glare at Ron.

 “Weasel,” Harry heard and felt the low rumble on his back and smiled. He opened one eye to see Ron recoil in shock, “you have the worst timing for these questions.”

 “Harry,” Ron muttered, “is he… do you…”

 “Can we settle this before your friend here gets an aneurysm?”

 Harry lifted his head and watched as Draco leaned back on the bed again, a hand dangling on Harry’s side. “Ron, it’s not…”

 “I know, I know, it’s not what it seems.”

 Harry felt Draco tense behind him and he reached for his bony hand. “Actually, it is what it seems. It’s not... a problem for you, right?”

 “No! It’s not… It’s just… I’m a bit shocked, mate. But, it’s fine, great, I’m just… sorry, I’m just going now… I just wanted...”

 “Ron.”

 “Yeah?”

 “I would be happy to be your best man.”

 Ron beamed. “Oh Harry, you should have seen her face when I asked with an actual ring.”

 “Weasel, timing!” Came the muffled voice behind Harry.

 “Ok, right, I’ll leave you two alone. Congrats by the way,” he said running down the stairs. Soon the steps sounded coming up again and Ron’s head appeared on the threshold. “Ferret, you’re also invited to the wedding.”

 Draco flipped him two fingers as Ron went running down the stairs laughing and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Hermione owes me ten Galleons’.

 “Are you ok?” Harry asked as Draco snuggled to his back.

 “I am now.”

[spineandprose]

Educated | December 2019

For the entire year, I wished this book wasn’t on our reading list. Seeing Educated  as our December read gave me caution for what I would learn in its pages and how that information would roll around in my head and heart, weighing me with a burden I didn’t need to bear. I don’t handle hard stories well. As this final book selection rolled nearer, my uneasiness grew. I knew this would be a hard read, and even contemplated a few times explaining to this club that I knew myself too well and decided to cautiously decline reading even one page of this memoir. But I wondered if I would regret missing out.

Ten days ago,* I cracked the book open and read about the Indian Princess and the family she housed at her base. Somehow, I was hooked. More than that, I was captivated, spellbound, fascinated with Tara’s story. One more chapter, then one more, then just another. Ultimately, I found Tara to be an exquisite storyteller, a master of words. I found her descriptions to be detailed enough to engulf me and transport me to her world, but she allowed the reader to have emotions for themselves; she didn’t describe her emotions in order to take you into her world, and I liked that. Instead, she let the events and people speak for themselves and for the reader to discover in their own understanding.

Home: Again, and Again, and Again I loved the foreshadowing of the prologue: “[My father] never told me how I’d know when it was time to come home.” Returning home, to her beloved Buck’s Peak and her complicated, unstable home was the thread that weaved, always rough and harsh, through Tara’s novel. As the reader, it was easy to take the stance of run away and never return! and I assumed that her move to college would be such. But she returned: during school breaks and summers, on weekends and for a sole midnight intrusion, for weddings and funerals, reconciliation and reunion, before a final resolve for a peaceful goodbye on her terms. Yet, did you catch it? I think she holds out hope that she may yet be welcomed home, in time. Does anyone else agree with me on this?

As the reader, each time you see her begin a journey back to Buck’s Peak, you wonder: why. I think the author does a tremendous job of displaying how real, deep, and valued family ties are. Though she confronts her parent’s mistreatment, neglect, and failings in their caring for her, she always thinks the best of them. She always says she loves them. She always explains how they are acting in their understanding of love toward her; I saw this especially in her parent’s visit to Harvard, including the Sacred Grove and Niagara Falls. I think Tara can really see that her parents are not whole beings and are loving her as they think is love. But it takes Tara ten years to learn that she cannot be loved by her parents, in their peculiar way, and remain a whole person. In her final visit to Buck’s Peak and her intentional goodbye, she describes this beautifully: “He gave me a stiff hug and said, ‘I love you, you know that?’ ‘I do,’ I said. ‘That has never been the issue.’” (Page 310).

List of Traumatic Events About halfway through the book, I thought I would write down each incident of injury. I found these to be the most intense.

two terrible car crashes

falling 18 feet in a junkyard with a deep leg wound at the age of ten

acting as first responder to a fire burn at the age of ten

physically, emotionally, and verbally abused from roughly the age of 15 to 25

Us vs. Them Because of her father’s, Gene’s, obsession with preparing for the End Days and his distrust of the government, he instilled in his family the mentality of us vs. them: a prevalent thinking that our family knows the real truth and everyone outside these walls---even those inside the same church as us---is out to harm us, destroy us, rip us apart. It’s us vs. them, and they can’t win.

This is ironic. Charles pointed it out---I’m not exactly sure when---but over the course of her story I had developed the same thought: there was no us for the Westovers. They are not looking out for each other. This is displayed in a dozen ways throughout the book:

Not yelling for help when Shawn was being abusive. This is true for likely all the siblings, but it’s known for Tara (the Thanksgiving choke and pin in the family room, the hundreds of times she was inverted into the toilet bowl), revealed through Audrey’s account of violence, and is hinted at through Tyler and Richard’s stance and uneasiness when they witness Shawn’s aggression. Somehow, they each knew that to call on a family member for help was not an option. 

No communication with each other. Again, related to Shawn’s violence, no one shared with another member of the family the abuse they suffered until years after they had all left the house.

No teamwork. On the junkyard and at sites, Gene established it was each man (child, really) for himself. I’m chucking lead, so you better duck. I’m concerned about this wildfire, so you better drive your burning body home yourself. I value money above all things, so you best learn how to balance on that pallet and stop wishing for a cherry picker.

A focus on individual responsibility and strength. Tara describes this specifically when she recalls her instincts on page 102: “All my life those instincts had been instructing me in this single doctrine---that the odds are better if you rely only on yourself.” I think this is also displayed through two events that happened when she was ten: her 18-foot fall from the metal bin at the junkyard and her first response care to Luke’s burned leg. After she fell from the bin, her father responded with, “What happened? How’d you manage that?” (Page 65). After she cared for Luke, her mother responded with, “You were lucky this time, Tara. But what were you thinking, putting a burn into a garbage can?” (Page 71). The parents assumed no responsibility for the danger they flung their children into. Instead, Tara grew up being taught that every hurt and failing was her own doing.

I thought the struggle to name who was ultimately responsible for each hardship was beautifully described at the end of the chapter called Apache Women (page 40), when Tara is wrestling with wondering who was at fault for the first car accident. She crafts the most wonderful conclusion. “Me, I never blamed anyone for the accident, least of all Tyler. It was just one of those things. A decade later my understanding would shift, part of my heavy swing into adulthood, and after that the accident would always make me think of the Apache women, and of all the decisions that go into making a life---the choices people make, together and on their own, that combine to produce any single event. Grains of sand, incalculable, pressing into sediment, then rock.” To me, she is saying that the accident was her father’s fault for not leading the family by being the driver and her mother’s fault for letting him be so selfish. But those are grains of sand overlaying a rocky ground of her father’s untreated depression atop a foundation of false believes (not calling an ambulance for medical help). It’s a long spiral down of many poor choices.

Family Under A Firm, Compassionless Father When I think of Tara’s family, I think of a house full of force, emptied of service; full of physical harm, emptied of protection; full of emotional manipulation, emptied of quiet, listening ears. I thought Tara brilliantly described her father through the example of the math equation: “Dad could command this science, could decipher its language, decrypt its logic, could bend and twist and squeeze from it the truth. But as it passed through him, it turned to chaos.” (Page 126)

The image she describes of her laying on the mattress in the back of their van alongside her mother and Audrey, while her dad accelerates through a snow storm seems to be the perfect picture of how life existed under his authority. He is stubborn, always right In his own eyes, always selfish, never listens, and thrusts his family into harm. I feel so sad for her mom, thinking of her laying there with a quiet question of, “Shouldn’t we drive slower?” answered with acceleration; her eyes closed, body tense, knowing her children will crash alongside her. It is heartbreaking to me to think of the hopelessness of that moment.

After reading about Shawn’s physical, emotional, and verbal abuse toward Tara, I thought she would be most hurt by him. And she was, of course, very hurt---so much that she removed herself from her family. But in how she describes her hurt, it seems that she is most hurt by her father. This at first surprised me. But I now understand; it was under his leadership that all her hurts originated. And it was him who she had to guard herself from as she attempted to reconcile with her mother.

Audrey I found it interesting that no memory or event with Audrey was specifically called out in Tara’s memoir until the revealing of Shawn’s abuse toward her. For the reader, it felt like Tara was connecting with a stranger, but for Tara, we can assume that their relationship as sisters was deeper for her than what we interpret. It isn’t a wonder why there is little to recall of her memories with Audrey, though; Audrey seemed to always have a job outside the home from an early age in order to avoid her father’s junkyard and Shawn’s abuse. I found it so sad to learn that Audrey later retracted her statements of abuse from Shawn. I wonder: how long can a person lie to themselves?

Shawn When I think of Tara’s relationship with Shawn, I feel such a sadness for the emotional complexities and shifting assurances that that relationship brings. How does someone reconcile that their greatest protector and defender is also their most harmful abuser? What a twisted relationship for Tara to process for her own health and wellbeing. Perhaps because the violence toward her is so terrible, the moments of protection he provides are astonishingly remarkable. 

The description of Shawn advocating for Tara’s safety in not running the Shear (page 140) brought me to tears. This violent stranger of a brother risks himself for a month in order to keep her from harm. And yet, he himself is her greatest harm. 

Another moment is described when she is trapped on the runaway horse, Bud. This sentence struck me as beautifully written: “All this would happen in seconds, a year of training reduced to a single, desperate moment.” (Page 103) And he rescues her.

And the one that sets this bipolar relationship into motion, after he has “fixed” her neck and she sees him as, “...some longed-for defender, some fanciful champion, one who wouldn't fling me into a storm, and who, if I was hurt, would make me whole.” (Page 97)

Tyler Contrast this with Tyler, who is the shining hero in her story. The one who encouraged her education, protected her from Shawn, and stood by her when her family disowned her. This single sentence is remarkable: “How do you thank a brother who refused to let you go, who seized your hand and wrenched you upward, just as you had decided to stop kicking and sink? There aren’t words for that, either.” (Page 317) 

Reading that sentence made me weep, and this is what I think Tara is best at: in bringing the complicated emotions and abuses of the human heart into such beautiful descriptions that the reader is left knowing the depths of the potential of the human race’s unthinkable harm and yet abundant rescue a bit more poetically.

Final Thoughts Oh, there are likely a dozen more moments I’d like to discuss; I feel as if I’ve barely scratched the surface of my notes. I loved this book because I love reading non-fiction, and I’m finding memoirs are my favorite. I loved this book because the writing was simply beautiful and her storytelling supreme. Her realization, “...that a life is not a thing unalterable.” (page 286) might sum up the triumph from tragedy that her life represents. Amazing. Of course, I give it five stars.

I’d love to hear what you thought of the book, even if you have a less glowing review than mine. Please share your takeaways below!

Also, one of my favorite podcasts did a book review of Educated. Take a listen here if you’re interested.

*It took me twice as long to write my review as it did for me to read the book! So the start of this review isn’t hot off the press. ;)

[missblissy]

Title: Homeless at Home Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Genre: fanfiction, chapters, angst, reader insert, fluff, slow burn, friends-to-lovers, pre-game Characters: Young!Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Mathews, Arthur Morgan/ Reader, Female reader, Arthur x Reader, Arthur Morgan x Reader, Arthur/ You, Young!reader Chapter: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight

Follow me on AO3!! Read it there too!

(( Hi I’ve been very busy with college and I’ve had these chapters sitting around so I might as well post them!! Thanks for all the support!! ))

Description:

There were five horses that you could see. Two on the left and three on the right. The first two in the left stalls where females, both working horses and way too big for you to ride. You walked a little further into the stables and found two other horses facing towards you. A white and brown spotted female and a grey male. Both small and friendly looking. Your attention, however, was caught by the last horse in the further stall deep within the stables. You could only see his rear end, he was facing the wrong way. His coat was bright blonde. Warm and yellow like the sun, but he had a dark fluffy tail as black as the night. A mustang. You had seen plenty like him in the wild. 

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The sun was falling slowly from its high throne, falling into the mountain range above. The wild colors of reds and blues and yellows bloomed across the sky making a messy painting of a sunset. The cool valley was a lot different from the hot desert but you welcomed the change with open arms. It was a bit chilly. A sneaky little breeze worked past the nape of your neck and caused you to pulled tighter on your thin sweater. You could barely remember the boiling heat you left behind in the summer sun of Arizona. A lot had changed, you reminded yourself as you pulled a pair of fingerless gloves from your pocket and put them on.

You had made it to Nevada, just as Dutch had wanted some few months ago. But you didn’t get there according to Dutch’s original plans. Actually, you didn’t get according to plan at all.

It happened a few months ago, you could barely remember the rush of it all. Dutch had some… Business partner named Colm O’Driscoll. Apparently, Dutch cut him short by a lot of money in some bank robbery. You got to meet Colm and his brother one night when they stormed into your camp during dinner. They demanded money and a lot of it.

When Dutch stood tall and waved his hands in peace, saying he had no such money and made no such promise, Colm swore he’d be back and that he had better have his money. Dutch took the threat as if it were a train heading straight towards him at maximum capacity.

That night he made you all pack everything as quickly as possible. Susan and Arthur did most of the heavy lifting while Hosea ran ahead on horseback to scout a path out of the county. Dutch kept you close to his side all night, making sure you were within arm’s length. You didn’t remember much after that, you were so tired that you slept half the trip.

Colm and his brother chased you and your gang out of Dodge, and you were pretty sure he was following you north into Nevada too. You left in such a hurry in the middle of the night. You still think about it. Much to your surprise though, Annabelle came with you too.

When Dutch told her of his true nature, which was that he was a wanted criminal across the country, she didn’t shy away and leave him like most of his other suitors. She insisted on coming with you, she left her book store behind for her sister to take care of.

Several months had passed now. You were slowly returning to your usually chipper self. Ever since that drunk assaulted you… You changed. You were more quiet than normal, and you were very depressed. You couldn’t stop thinking about it, about your mother, about your father, about how fucked up your life was ever since those bastards killed your parents. You were so stuck in your rut that you nearly didn’t notice your 13th birthday approaching.

The hot desert summer was replaced with cool and shady autumn. Dutch had taken you to the furthers corner of Nevada. 40 miles south of Oregon, 35 miles east of California, in the shadow of Paradise Mountain, you rested in the grassy valley known as Paradise Valley. A few miles within was the bustling busy farming town known as Sugartown. It was nice to return to a climate you were more familiar with. Autumn was always your favorite season. The colors, the smell, the food. You loved it all.

The gang wanted to do something special for your birthday. They wanted a party, but you asked them to keep it simple. Today, however, you were going to face another fear. You had gone to town with Hosea, he was picking up some supplies from the general store, and you asked him if you could run off a bit on your own. He was wary, unsure if you could handle yourself alone seeing as last time you nearly gotten killed. But he let you go after he gave you a spare revolver he had on him. You knew you wouldn’t need it.

Ever since you told Dutch how badly you wanted to be a doctor, he had started collecting medical books for you. More so Annabelle found those books for you, seeing as she was a better bookworm than either you or Dutch. She was lucky to find a few on your trip up to Sugartown, but there wasn’t a book store here much to your disappointment. The books she got you though were not a lot of help. They were outdated and old and surely could use an up keeping. They mostly taught you very basic medical concepts that anyone could know.

You stood outside a building, staring at its door. Your eyes flicker to the sign above that read ‘Doctor’s Office.’ The biggest fear you had right now was stepping inside that building and asking the doctor inside if he had any old books he’d like to give up. Another fear was that he would say no to you. One, because you were still a child, and two… you were female. You could always remember all the men that gave your mother a hard time simply because she was a woman. She gave up on her dream to be a doctor, moved as far away as possible from her family, and became a stay at home mom who occasionally made medicine from local fauna and sold them.

“Okay,” You told yourself, “You can do this. You got this,” You hyped yourself up, biting your lip, and then rushed towards the door. The second you got near it you made a sharp U-turn and waltzed back into the street. This was going to be hard. You didn’t have a lot of time. Hosea would be getting done with his supply run soon. Taking a big deep breath, you held it in and ran for the door again. This time you managed to freeze on the spot with your hand barely touching the door nob. You counted to three then turned the nob and opened the door.

It was old and rustic inside the little doctor’s office. There was a man sitting behind a counter reading a newspaper. He looked old, but not elderly. He was stuck somewhere in-between. He looked nice though, so that was a plus. He stood up, folded his paper and greeted you with a smile.

“Hey there, miss,”

“Hi,” You sounded small like a shy little mouse. You kept your arms folded across your chest and held tightly to your arms, “Um… I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Not at all,” He wasn’t very tall. Much shorter than Dutch or Arthur, and he had warm creamy brown hair that matched his shabby handlebar mustache, “What can I get for you?” His glasses were thick and reflected the low light coming in from the afternoon sun.

“Um- I.. I was wondering if you had any books you’d like to get rid of?” You pressed your lips into a thin line and gnawed on your inner cheek, “I-I.. I’m collecting them for educational reasons. Um-… Like books on medicine? And how to make them?” The doctor seemed very surprised by your request. You rushed out some fumbled words saying, “They aren’t for me! I… It’s for my church?” Your lie sounded like a question and the man raised a brow.

“Sure,” He said slowly while observing your bazaar behavior, “Let me check in my office,” He disappeared for several minutes. You stood in your spot, awkward and nervous while biting your tongue and grinding your teeth.

You looked around the office. It was cute and humble. There were photos on the wall but you couldn’t make out who of. There was the counter that you stood behind, then a doorway behind it that lead down to a hallway that you couldn’t see the end of. Some soft comfy chairs cluttered against the adjacent wall of the counter. There were some shelves on the walls too with dozens of jars and cans that you guessed were medicines.

He came back with three very large books. They looked old, but not as old as the one’s Annabelle got for you. He set them down on the low counter between you and him,

“What’s your name, miss?” When your eyes bugged wide, he went on to say, “Oh- not to pry or anything. You just remind me of someone I use to know. You look a lot like this woman I used to date, I worked for her father in New York City.”

You approached the counter with caution, “Um.. I’m Edna. Edna Lancaster,” You lied on the spot, not wanting to give away who you were. His words boggled your mind however, “You said you're from New York City?”

He slid the books towards your end of the counter, “Mhm. I use to work for this man named Harrison McDuffy. You look a lot like his daughter Blaire,” You tried so very hard not to gasp. He just spoke your mother’s name, her maiden name and your grandfather’s name, “A shame. I heard she and her husband died. They never found her daughter though,”

With care, you took the heavy books from the counter. They stood stacked against your chest, “You must have been close. That’s so sad to hear.” You’re lips twitched and quivered into an awkward smile that flustered back and forth between that and a grimace. The books were a bit heavier than you expected.

“A bit,” Said the doctor as he took off his glasses and smuggled them clean with a part of his coat, “I hope you can find a good home for those books,” He pointed a free finger at your stack in your arms.

“Oh-” You sucked in a sharp breath, “I will- for sure! Definitely!” You were acting a little… odd. Perhaps it was a mix between the weight of the books pulling your arms down and the odd and creepy information you have learned from this man, “Thank you so much!” You spun quickly on your heel and hurried to get to the door.

As you lightly kicked the door open and breezed past it into the cool air you heard the man call out, “Come back any time!” You made a mental note to never go back there ever again. The books strained your arms and caused cramps to start forming between your shoulders. Where the hell was Hosea and the wagon? You tracked back to the outer edges of town where you last saw him.

Frantically you looked around. Your heart started to flutter in the wrong direction. Were was Hosea? Did he forget you? You hated how worried and tense you had become in the last half year. From your parent's death to the drunk bastard who assaulted you… Life was throwing a lot of hard balls at your way. You hoped it didn’t get worse. You weren’t sure if your worried mind could handle it.

Suddenly you felt a tap on your shoulder and you let out a small yip and turned around. Fear washed away and formed into heat that soaked your cheeks. A scarlet blush of embarrassment covered your face at that animal like sound that came out of you seconds before, “Hosea!” You whisper-yelled, “You scared me!”

The older man chuckled and without warning took those books from your arms. You wanted to carry them because you were mature and your own person but mostly stubborn, but you were relieved to finally breathe again. Your arms hung like wet noodles by your sides as you walked with Hosea.

He seemed overly happy, more than usual, “Where’d you get these, girl?” He quirked a smile and raised a brow, “Steal ‘em?” He let out a laugh but you didn’t.

Your little brows furrowed together, “No,” You quipped out, “I asked for them. They’re medicine books,” A flash of your gaze ran over Hosea. You shared a glance for a second before you rounded the street corner where you spotted the wagon.

“Oooh,” He sounded out, “More to add to the collection, hm?” He had gotten to the wagon’s back end and tucked them in between two egg crates, “How many of those books do you have now? Seven?”

“Yeah,” You walked around the wagon and towards the front end, “I’ve read the other ones so much that I needed a few more,” You started to step up into the seats above when Hosea called out to you.

“Hold on a second, (Y/N),” Hosea came up from behind you and spoke while you climbed back down, “We’ve got one more thing to get.”

When your feet smacked back onto the dirty and dusty road you asked Hosea, “What else do we need to get? It looks like we’ve got enough supplies for a few weeks,” The back wagon was jammed packed full of crates and jugs and boxes, “I don’t think we’ve got room for anything else back there.”

“That’s alright,” The two of you started walking again, “This doesn’t go in a wagon,” You wondered where you were going and looked at each store that you passed and didn’t go into. Was it money? Jewelry? Cigars? Was it something small enough to fit in your pocket if it didn’t need to go in a wagon? You weren’t very sure but what you did notice was that you were getting close and closer to the stables in the center of Sugartown. Did he need horse supplies? Hm.

A man was waiting in front of the large open stable doors. The smell of horse, hay, and manure wafted from the darkness within. The stable boy approached Hosea and they met each other halfway with a firm handshake and a smile.

“Hosea!” He exclaimed as if he hadn’t seen the man in many years, “It’s good to see you again!” They both laughed at that with low and loud chuckles.

“What can I say, David, you’re a very handsome man with very handsome horses,” Another fit of chuckles at the inside jokes you just didn’t understand. Who was this man?

Why had you never seen or heard of this… David before? Hosea’s voice snapped you out of your confused and dazed state, “Is Bessie still around? She said she had to leave but I wanted to catch her before she ran off and closed up for the day.” Bessie, another person you didn’t know.

You wondered why you were here and why Hosea brought you along. It sounded like he was being a humble con man by befriending these people and was surely working towards their demise as well. Don’t mistake the mild manner Hosea for being as sweet and innocent as he lets the world see. You’ve seen Hosea lose his temper faster than Dutch, and was scarier too. At least with Dutch, it’s a lot of yelling and finger-pointing…

Hosea was the kind of guy to go missing when made angry or mad. Then he’d come back with a loaded gun, point it at your back, and make you apologize to him publicly while threatening your life. You’ve seen him do this twice to some lawmen before. You couldn’t believe it… two cops standing side by side with smiles as wide as the grand canyon, sweating bullets, while happy smiling Hosea stood behind them with a gun in each hand at each spine, he’d shoot them paralyzed, which was worse than death.

You shook away the vivid memory and followed Hosea and David inside the stables. They were chatting amongst each other and you didn’t care to listen. You stared at the horses inside. There wasn’t that many, just a handful here and there. A woman came from one of the empty stalls, she wore clothes just like you. A poofy and loose tan blouse and was tucked into her pants, which in turn was tucked into her knee-high riding boots. She looked wealthy, happy, and like she enjoyed what she was doing. This was Bessie. Her hair was a deep oak brown that bounced around in thick lockets and curls.

The smile on Bessie’s face went from mild to extravagant the second she locked eyes with Hosea. Who has the woman and why haven’t you met her before? How long has

Hosea knew her? She quickly left her work, leaning the pitchfork on the wall and scurried over.

“Hosea! I was just about to close up!” She stopped right in front of him, hands folded away as she crossed her arms, and smiled wide again, “Is this (Y/N)?” Bessie looked at you and you felt the urge to stick your tongue out at her, but you kept put.

He placed a hand on your head like he always did, and Hosea nodded, “Sure is. She’s the one and only,” He sounded proud to introduce you to this woman, “She’s very bright and I think today is her birthday?” No… No!

You looked up at the man, the cheeky grin on his face, “No, Hosea I said-” It didn’t matter what you said. Bessie seemed to already know it was your birthday too. She cut you off with a little giggle.

“Oh! Is it? Why that’s so neat. How old are you (Y/N)?” Well, at least she was nice. Bessie stared at you with bright green eyes.

“Um- uh.. I’m 13.” God you hated it. You hated saying it. You didn’t want to be 13. You didn’t want to be 12 either. You wanted to be 11 years old, two summers ago when your parents took you to Canada for your birthday. So much has changed since then. You honestly hated it and you hated thinking about it. Never again would you have another good birthday. So long as your parents were dead, you were sure every birthday to come would suck and make you just as depressed as you were today.

However, something was about to change, something that would change your spoiled opinion on birthdays. Bessie looked at you, joy on her face and light and life and oddly love breathed from her skin and oozed into the air. Her kindness was toxic. What was it about women that made them love you so much? Maybe it was the fact that you looked like a little boy for the most part. Maybe they found it cute that a little girl was dressed like a little boy. But Bessie wasn’t wearing a dress or hats or gloves or heals or anything ladylike, though she was as beautiful as a princess despite that.

“(Y/N),” You stared at her, “Would you like a birthday present?” You wanted to say no but when you gazed up at Hosea, he beamed down at you and nodded his head silently.

Everyone was grossly happy while you were wallowing in depression.

“Sure,” You finally said after a moment or two, “I guess, yeah.”

“Well,” Hosea started, “How would you like a horse?” He asked you, a hand now at your shoulder as he gave a gentle squeeze, “It’s about time you started learning how to ride.”

Everything made sense now. All the smiles, the kindness, it was all for your birthday after all. Everyone wanted to spoil you but you just really wanted a hug and someone to cry on.

But a horse? A real one? Your own? For a brief second, you had a flash of thoughts squeeze around in your mind. You’d have a new friend and a new responsibility. You saw yourself learning how to ride a horse, loving the gentle beast and exploring the world by horseback. How much was it going to cost though? You didn’t want the gang spending money on you when you did nothing to bring money to the gang. You felt conflicted.

Your hesitation caused Bessie to inch closer to you, a smile still on her face, “You can pick out anyone you want from my stables today if you like.” You did kind of like the sound of that. You looked to Hosea for reassurance and he pressed a hand into your back to walk you forward.

There were five horses that you could see. Two on the left and three on the right. The first two in the left stalls where females, both working horses and way too big for you to ride. You walked a little further into the stables and found two other horses facing towards you. A white and brown spotted female and a grey male. Both small and friendly looking. Your attention, however, was caught by the last horse in the further stall deep within the stables. You could only see his rear end, he was facing the wrong way. His coat was bright blonde. Warm and yellow like the sun, but he had a dark fluffy tail as black as the night. A mustang. You had seen plenty like him in the wild. 

“What about this one?” You pointed at the golden mustang while watching Bessie’s smile slowly fall.

“Oh-… he’s.. I wouldn’t pick him,” She met up with you as you stared into the stall. You could see his mane, just as black as his tail, “He’s not broken in yet.”

“Broken in?” The knowledge you had on horses was limited. Sure, you could go out into the world and have little to no problem identifying which plant is what, but horse terms? Broken in? Colic? Chaps? Spurs? Stirrups? That was all… cowboy stuff. Outlaw stuff. You didn’t know those things.

Hosea had managed to join you as well in the back end of the stables, “Means you can’t ride him. He’s a wild horse that hasn’t been beaten into obedience yet,” It sounded awful when he put it like that.

You took a few steps forward then approached the stall. The mustang inside swung his ear around towards you, “He’s pretty,” You said quietly, “He does look a little wild,” Wild and majestic and beautiful. To your surprise, and everyone else’s, the mustang slowly turned around in his stall. He looked beautiful, yes, but sad. He looked hurt and very much broken despite what Bessie and Hosea said.

The two adults shared a worried glance. This horse was foul and temperamental. Hosea had tried to ride him once when Bessie first got him. That was an awfully painful day he didn’t want to remember. Since then the mustang had stubbornly kept to himself and avoid most humans he came in contact with. Yet here he was, now sticking his head out of his stall and sniffing towards you. His head was handsome as well. The mustang’s snout was black but faded into the warm gold of the rest of his coat.

Bessie was about to pull you back, fearing the temperamental beast might try to snap his jaws at you. Yet nothing like that happened. You raised a hand and met the horse halfway while he sniffed at your fingers before trying to lick them. Maybe he wanted something to eat? He wasn’t that mean, “You guys are liars, he’s so nice,” You glanced back at Hosea and Bessie who was wide-eyed surprised.

Your smile was small and shy and you turned back to the horse, “You just want a friend,” You said quietly, “Right?” You stared into one of his eyes and saw your own reflection. It was decided then, and nothing could change your mind. This was the horse for you. Bessie tried for a second time to talk you out of picking the mustang but she couldn’t shake you away from him. There wasn’t a mean old animal in him, just a scared and lonely one, much like yourself.

Not once did the mustang fight you when you pulled at the ropes that made the make-shift reins around his neck. He slowly followed you out of the stall as you guided him towards the front of the stables. Hosea had picked out a saddle for you but you refused to put it on the mustang or even ride him. You weren’t ready yet and you wanted to love this animal not make him a tool.

“Not gonna ride him then?” Hosea asked.

You shook your head as you watched David the stable boy carry a saddle down the road and through town to where the wagon was. Hosea stood beside you, “Not yet,” You said, “I will after we’ve had him around for a bit,” You didn’t know much about horses, or animals even, but you knew you had to respect them.

“Got a name?”

You hadn’t even thought of one. You looked deep into your mind, searching for a name for this majestic beast. The horse was standing behind you, minding his own business as he swatted flies away with his tail. You turned around and approached him, giggling a little when he bobbed his head and curled his lips and lapping out to smell your hand. He already looked a lot happier to be out of that stall.

“Callus… You look like a Callus,” You told the horse. His ears flicked towards you then away again. David had given you some sugar cubes that you dug out of your pocket and gave to him. It wasn’t a flattering name, but you liked it. And so his name was Callus.

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Everyone was so happy. Maybe it was just an excuse to party and drink, but everyone seemed to be enjoying your birthday a whole lot more than you. You sat on a log beside the open fire, a smile on your face despite how empty and fake it was. Callus was tucked away with all the other horses and you’d catch yourself looking at him every now and then. He was a bit of a bastard on the ride back home because he was tied behind the wagon and he kept trying to run away. You felt bad, you wanted to let him loose and run free but Hosea paid good money for him.

The new camp was right along a river deep in the woods not too far outside Sugartown. It was a good 15-minute ride back to camp. The shelter of the trees kept you away from the sun’s warm rays. Leaves had dried and turned bright colors. Red, yellow and orange leaves would flutter to the ground every now and then. Some blackberry bushes grew along the banks of the river and that was where you decided to put your tent. Once you had gotten back to camp and unloaded the supplies, everyone made sure to bask you in some kind of attention. Dutch and Annabelle had gotten you new clothes seeing as you were growing out of the ones you already had. You were very thankful because you honestly needed new clothes and they weren’t all that bad either. Susan had gotten you some real riding boots with spurs and everything. You’d be a made into the perfect little cowgirl before you even knew it. Arthur had greeted you with a smile and flagged you over towards the center of camp were food awaited.

The gang sat down at dinner with you, joking and laughing and singing songs. It was all very merry and you joined in from time to time. You didn’t want anyone to worry, and you didn’t want to bother anyone with your problems or how you felt deep inside. You had to be happy for them, they cared for you after all. Dutch had even offered you a drink of whiskey which you bravely and foolishly drank. It took everything in your power to not spit out the bitter and hot liquid. It stung on the way down and warmed your insides. Why did all these freaks enjoy this stuff? Ugh, you were not key on trying whiskey again for a long time.

That didn’t stop the rest of the gang from drinking. At some point in the night, you excused yourself away from them and over to your tent. You sat along the little bench you had outside the front curtains, looking over the spurs you had gotten. You flicked the little star and watched it spin, spin, spin then stop. You flicked it again, and again, and then held the spurs in your lap. Silence followed and filled your head while you blocked out the sound of Dutch’s low boisterous laughter mingled with Susan’s evil cackle.

Why couldn’t you have had one more birthday with them? Just one more year? Why couldn’t your parents… Why did they die? Why did it have to be them? Why you? Why you’re family? You traced your finger along the leather work in your spurs, wondering what life would be like if nothing ever happened. What would your mother have gotten you this year? Probably a new pair of shoes and a dress, with a doll and a book, like she did almost every year. Your father would have taken you out for lunch, gone into town and bought you candy and whatever else you wanted. At the end of the night, you’d all have dinner together, cuddle on the couch while your mother read stories from a book. You’d fall asleep with them there on the couch….

You missed them so much. You could feel the tears well up in your eyes. Why now? Why did it have to hurt so much now?

“(Y/n)?” Shit! Flustered and embarrassed you rubbed your eyes quickly. You made sure no tears had fallen or escaped.

“Y-yeah?” You looked up and over the little wall of blackberry bushes, you had between you and the camp. It was Arthur. You could barely make out his face in the dark. The only light you had came from the small lantern beside your feet. He made a little dip of his head, gesturing to the spot beside you.

You scooted over and made room for him as he passed by, “You disappeared,” His face was a little dirty. He had dirt smudged into his cheek and nose. His hair was looking a little longer too. It just barely curled around the back of his ears. Hosea had normally made sure to keep Arthur’s hair well groomed because Arthur was a little to stupid to remind himself sometimes. But lately, Hosea has been distracted by only what you could have guessed was Bessie.

He was right though, you had disappeared, “I’m just a little tired,” You lied.

“Bullshit,” Arthur sat down beside you and nudged you along the bench some more. You sat side by side, you could feel the warmth radiate off him in the places you touched,

“You normally don’t go to bed till well past one in the morning,”

How did he know that? You squinted at him, “I had a rough day,” You didn’t want to ask that question. He wasn’t wrong though. You did spend most nights awake and reading books. You rarely got any sleep nowadays. Nightmares were evil, tricky and sneaky creatures that had made themselves at home in your dreams, “Hosea made me get a freaking horse! That’s a lot to take in.”

For some reason, he laughed at that and you felt a small smile twitch on your lips, “Well, I guess that’s a lot. I stole my first horse,” He gave you a side glance with an awkward smile, “I’m surprised Hosea actually got the money to buy that horse for you. He must really like you, Dutch too.” You already knew that. You could see the love they had for you, they showed it in their own ways. The same for Susan and Annabelle. They all loved you for some odd reason. What was so great about you?

“They like you too,” You quipped, “We’re their kids to them,” That was the truth. They loved Arthur just as much as they loved you.

“Mhm, we always will be, I’m afraid,” The two of you shared an odd laugh. Arthur made himself busy though and dug around in that satchel he always had on him, “I didn’t come over here to just pester you though,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” You didn’t think he was pestering you.

“Yeah,” Arthur found what he was looking for and you watched his brows raise and a grin grow on his face, “I know you said no gifts, and not to make a big deal out of it but I got you something,” He had something in his hands that you couldn’t make out. You felt a heavy pit form in your chest.

“Come on Arthur- I thought at least you would listen to me. Everyone got me something already-”

“Stop it!” He waved a hand in the air and gave you this look of honesty, “You’re still a kid. Enjoy it,” At the same time he handed you a small box that could fit in your lap, “Open it.”

He was bossy, wasn’t he? You took in a deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs and you breathed away the dark pit in your chest. Carefully you lifted the lid. It was hard to see, the light was limited in the dark, but you could make out two things.

A beautiful knife was sitting in the box, latched and sealed by its leather holster. It was beautiful because the handle was as white as snow with vivid flowers and skulls carved into it. The details were burned into the handle so that the dark black contrasted the satin white. You unhitched the latch holding the large blade in place. You watched the silver light reflect the midnight moon as you pulled the knife free. You could see a similar pattern etched into the blade that was on the handle. It was a large hunting knife.

“I know you aren’t to keen on keeping a gun on you- and… I thought you could use something to protect yourself with- And it comes in handy too,” Arthur’s 16-year-old voice was still awkward and broken in many places. He gazed away as you held the knife in your hands. Was he worried if you’d like it? You flipped it a few times slowly in your hands, looking over both sides. It was amazing. He stammered on saying, “You can stop borrowing mine now.”

There was one last thing in the box. You set the knife down and gently picked up the delicate little paper inside. It looked like he tore it from a journal. As you unfolded the note you could make out a ‘Have a Happy Birthday, (Y/n).’ With a drawing of a rosebud barely blooming on a thorny stem. He signed it with a small capital letter ‘A.’

“You drew this?” You looked up at him with raised brows.

“The art book helped a lot,” The book you got him that awful night… “I thought you’d like something pretty to hang up. I see you staring at roses a lot too.”

You looked back down at the drawing. It was really good, it looked like he really took his time on it. The petals were shaded well, and the stem looked as though it was hovering above the page. You felt a sad part of your heart crack open and break loose.

“They were my mother’s favorite flower,” Your voice was shallow and low, “She use to grow bushes all over the house… They’re all probably dead now.” You thought more about your mother and how much you missed her. She was everything to you, your role model and teacher. On today of all days, you missed her the most. You let out a heavy sigh and saw a tear fall that you didn’t even realize was there. It splatted onto the note and slowly stained into the page.

Arthur noticed rather quickly and leaned forward, “Hey-” He looked worried and confused, “What’s with the tears, kid?”

You tried your best to fight your sadness and keep them back, “I..” You opened your mouth then closed it, sighed and finally said, “I miss my mother… I wish she was here,”

A small sob slipped from your throat, “Everyone…” You sucked in a sharp and shaky breath. You felt a few more tears roll down your cheeks, “They’ve all been nice and they got me stuff but I still feel….” You were at a loss for words, “I feel bad,” You finally bubbled out.

It was hard to watch you cry. Arthur didn’t much like seeing your tears, especially in vain. But he understood your pain. He could feel in a deep locked part of his heart the pain it felt to grow older another year and miss everything you use to have. He missed his mother too, and he also hated his birthday. Every year it came around it just reminded him how much older he was and how much further away from his mother he got. He carefully wrapped an arm around you, unsure how to comfort you in such a dire time, but he tried his best.

“It’s alright,” He said as you leaned into his embrace, “It’s alright, (Y/n), you can feel bad.”

You shook your head, “I don’t want to. I want to go back- I don’t want to live like this. I want my parents, I want my home!” You started to sob even more. You couldn’t understand your own grief, it came sudden and in larger and larger waves. You felt like your world had already fallen apart and you had just only realized it. It wasn’t until now did you ever really let yourself grieve about your parent’s death. And you hated it, you felt awful, you felt a type of raw pain that couldn’t be healed.

Yet Arthur stayed put while he felt your pain. He didn’t stop you from crying, and he didn’t speak because he knew there was nothing he could do but just be there for you.

He sucked in a deep breath and as the air passed through his lungs and out of his body, he remembered how much he use to cry and how much he wished he has someone to hold him. This was the least he could do for you.

“I hate this,” You muttered quietly as you caught your breath, “I hate being alive.”

“Don’t say that,” Arthur spoke slowly but with a lot of emotion, “Don’t go down that hole,”

You sat up and rubbed your cheeks and eyes, you were still crying, “I do though. I hate it, I want… I want to be with my parents and that’s not here.” He knew what you were trying to say without saying it. Everyone noticed the change in you over the past few months. You had grown more quiet, you did your chores less often and slept very little and busied yourself with reading anything you could.

As you stared at the ground you could imagine the look on his face. One of those sad but concerned ones where his brows knit together slightly and a frown was pulling down his lips, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have us.” He was right, you didn’t want to hear that. You knew you had them and it was unfair to say this, but the gang wasn’t enough. The gang was actually the opposite of what you wanted but this is what you were stuck with. That’s not to say you didn’t care about all of them… they just… they weren’t your parents.

You took a chance and glanced up at him, he wasn’t even staring at you. He was looking towards the heart of camp, where the adults had started to chat quietly amongst themselves. Their voices sounded miles away. “I miss my ma every day,” Arthur said each word carefully like he planned them out in his head, “I think about her… Every day. And I try not to. The less I think about her…” He paused and scratched his jaw than his neck, “The more I feel like a regular person.” It sounded painful for him to admit, and his advice was bad but personal. He wasn’t very good at expressing himself… At least not vocally.

A lump formed in your throat and you swallowed it down while biting your inner cheek. You took a quick breath in and blinked, “I can’t stop thinking about her,” Your mother was never far from your thoughts, and recently, she was the only thing on your mind, “I… I want to be her… I want to be just like her and make her proud. I… How do I do that? Like this? Here?”

Arthur shook his head and shrugged, “Don’t think about it. Try your best not to at least. It’s what I do. I just try and remember my ma and how good she was, not what she wanted or if she was here or if this or if… anything. She’s gone. It’s hard to accept but… not thinking about it might be a step,” It wasn’t, not a healthy one at least. But it was the easy way out, just blocking out the thought of your mother, she was gone, she isn’t here. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her, your father, your home, “Think about the gang,” Arthur said as if he was reading your mind, “Think about Dutch and what he wants and Hosea too. Listen to Susan, do your chores, leave the camp once in a while. Don’t stay in your tent all day hiding and only coming out to eat.” He had made his point. But he wasn’t lecturing you, he was speaking from experience. He could remember when he first joined the gang when Dutch took him in, and how hard it was to accept this new life, you were in the same boat.

Maybe you had gotten yourself into a rut too, “I know,” You admitted, knowing that you had abandoned your daily lifestyle “It’s not easy.”

“It’s not,” Arthur shifted around in his seat a bit, “We might not be family, (Y/n), but we’re all we got. You can leave any time you want, no one is forcing you to stay. We didn’t kidnap you, we just took you in because it was the right thing to do,” You heard that many times before. The right thing to do… that was one of Dutch’s ‘morals’ and teachings and he preached it often.

It had been so hard accepting this new life. It had almost been a year now. Almost, it’d be a year in the spring. The first few months where fun because you escaped death, but after that is when the reality set in that your parents were gone. You were just lucky enough to get robbed by the nicest outlaws you’ve ever met.

In a way, you felt better. Not perfect, still depressed but there was a weight off your shoulders. You felt lighter somehow, “Thank you, Arthur,” You muttered.

“Naah,” He drawled out as he hoisted himself to his feet, “Don’t thank me,” You sat up straight and remembered the box in your lap. You clutched it close, cherishing it already, “Just get some sleep, alright?”

“Okay, Pops,” The smallest, shyest smirk crawled on your face.

“Don’t call me that.” When Arthur’s face dropped to a wince you snickered quietly.

You looked at him, “Sorry, Pa,”

Arthur threw his hand in the air and pointed a finger at your with a glare in his eyes, “Dammit (Y/n)! I’m serious! Go to bed you snot and be ready to wake up early!” He started to stomp off. He made it pretty far before he finally stopped and looked back at you, unsure if he actually got through to you or not.

You sat there for a second then got up, holding the box as you brought it up to your chest, “Goodnight, Arthur,” You gave him a smile as you picked up the lantern resting beside the bench.

He smiled back and gave a silent nod of his head in return before heading back into camp. You stood there for a moment and watched him return to the others. The mumbled and talked, then Arthur whispered something to Dutch and before you knew it they were smiling again. For outlaws, they sure were happy… simple folk loved simple things you supposed. You killed the lantern and walked into your tent feeling tired for the first time in days. You felt the call of sleep as you sat down on your bed, it lulled and cradled you into peaceful dreams.

[confrontingbabble-on]

“On a Sunday afternoon, humanist chaplain Greg Epstein stands in front of about 90 people in an MIT auditorium. It’s an eclectic group, with young kids and college students, thirty-something parents and gray-hairs all attending because of a shared disbelief—no one here has faith in God.

“People who don’t happen to believe in a god, or affiliate with a traditional religion, still want to support one another in living out our positive values.”

”Religion isn’t just fading from campus, though—all throughout the city, faith is dying out. It’s a notion that once seemed unthinkable. Not so long ago, religious institutions permeated city life, forming communal centers for the pious and the profane alike; they simply were the community. Increasingly, though, religion’s power is giving way to the church of scientific inquiry. Religion’s importance in people’s lives is on the decline across the country, but the Bay State is on the trend’s leading edge, tied with New Hampshire for the official title of least religious state, according to the Pew Research Center. Massachusetts is tied for third in what statisticians call “religious nones,” people who say they’re not affiliated with any religion, at 32 percent of residents. Compare that to the 33 percent who said religion is “very important” in their lives. Or the 40 percent who told Pew in 2014 that they’re “absolutely certain” they believe in God—the lowest among the 50 states. Or the scant 23 percent who attend a religious service every week.The result of all of this is that Boston—the cradle of Puritanism in Colonial America, known as the most Catholic city in the nation during the 20th century—has become a secular town in the 21st. Many people, young and old, are concluding that religion doesn’t fit their ethics or their lives. They judge religion for the times it’s created conflict rather than bridging divisions. They believe in equality for women and LGBTQ people, and they won’t join patriarchal or anti-gay religions. New belief systems now dominate the city: higher education’s critical thinking, science’s demand for evidence, technology’s drive for results, liberal politics’ notions of progress and social justice. Some of this is a reaction to national politics—an expression of Boston’s sense of itself as a besieged liberal bastion—but it’s also a rejection of the Old Boston, the Irish-Catholic city on a hill.

“Prior to 2002,” ...“the archbishop of Boston had a direct line to any Massachusetts politician he wanted to talk to.” That time is long gone, says Margaret Roylance, vice president of Voice of the Faithful, a group of lay Catholics formed in 2002 to press for church reforms. “I don’t think the church is the 800-pound gorilla that it was. Politicians are not afraid to support something the church opposes...”

There was a time, of course, when religion and the church taught Bostonians morals and how to treat one another. Scripture, from the Bible to the Koran, provided foundational guidelines for humanity and social justice, not to mention the basis for the Golden Rule. Church leaders also taught us the value of hard work and kept us in line. Not so much anymore. “Catholic church leaders used to have a kind of moral force in Massachusetts,” says Stephen Prothero, a professor of religion at Boston University. Big civic debates in Boston, such as whether to host the Olympics, would have included the Catholic leadership’s opinions. Now they don’t.

“In the olden days, you’d always go to Catholic leadership,” Prothero says. “Nowadays, I just don’t see why you would. They used to matter. I just don’t think they matter anymore. I think the moral capital has been spent.”

Even many Catholics who’ve stayed in the church don’t much care what the leadership thinks anymore. “Catholics, whether on the progressive or conservative end of the scale, none of them really trust the bishops to do the right thing,” Roylance says. The sex-abuse cover-up “made us look at them differently...”

The sex-abuse scandal may have hurt all churches in Boston, not just Catholic ones, says Stephen Kendrick, senior minister at First Church Boston, a Unitarian Universalist congregation. He recalls talking about Catholic clergy sex abuse in one of his first services after taking over First Church in 2001. “I said it’s going to affect us, because it makes a whole generation of people feel distrustful of authority and particularly religious authority,” he says. “I think that’s a particular challenge in Boston. That is a wound that is not healed. And it affects every religious institution in this city.”

As shattering as the sex-abuse scandal has been, it’s hardly the only reason people are leaving Catholicism—in one national survey, only 32 percent of former Catholics named the scandal as one of the reasons they left. In fact, among the religiously unaffiliated in general, 60 percent said they left their childhood faith because they simply stopped believing in the religion’s teachings.

Friday night comes as a time to relax instead of attend Shabbat services, and Sunday brunch beckons the family instead of a 9 a.m. service. In other words, Kendrick says, “What happened to the Catholic Church in the last 20 years didn’t just happen to the Catholic Church.”

They’ve seen the surveys that show the number of religious nones exploding and the number of professed Catholics declining. “The power of the Catholic Church to move a civic agenda or political agenda is much reduced...”

From...https://www.bostonmagazine.com/news/2018/12/11/boston-given-up-on-god/

[soft-sarcasm]

jung taekwoon: mint.

Pairing: jung taekwoon x reader.

Summary: Taekwoon decides to be a tease at the wrong time and a war ensues.

Genre: smut, fluff, some dry humping, oral, taekwoon being a little shit and getting what he deserves.

Word count: 7+k.

a/n: so, this happened. I’ve been planning this for a little while and I don’t know if I really succeeded in conveying my idea in a cohesive way but oh well. I hope you enjoy.

  Finally, the menthol burn was relieved from your mouth as you spat out the green liquid that had turned acidic during it’s time swishing about, your tongue feeling oddly like it had been both scalded and bleached all at once. You blanched, expelling the final remains as you once again found yourself questioning the sanity of your decision to purchase this particular bottle of mouthwash even when it had been advertised with an awfully foreboding slogan, one that should have been enough of a warning for your mornings to come. It still remained on the bottle that haunted your bathroom cabinet, printed in boisterous bold on a danger red label that read with little to no discretion ‘DEATH BY MINT: NO GERM OR TASTEBUD LEFT ALIVE.’ The product stayed true to its marketing and you couldn’t deny its affectability, as molten mint historically beat caustic coffee when it came to one's breath, a truth that made enduring the torture more endurable.

Face pinched in lingering distaste, you retreated back to the still of your bedroom, each step bearing a conscious caution in hopes of staying as quiet as possible so to not disturb the ominous lump that protruded from the white duvet of your bed. 05:30 am was early for just about anyone but especially for someone who had only returned from a tediously tiring training session at roughly 2:40 am. Or at least you think that was the time your phone had showed last night when you checked it with sleep blurred eyes after being awoken by your boyfriend’s arrival home in the wee hours of the morning.

It was now your turn to skulk around, making the effort to remain as close to soundless as you could while you gathered your things to leave.

While Taekwoon’s schedule almost always ran late, you were always starting early. 04:50 coffees and 06:15 buses that sleepily shuttled you in the direction of your University’s Anthropology department that you would haunt for the rest of the day.  In contrast, Taekwoon was known to leave slightly later, only to arrive home in the late 20:00s or early 00:00s.

It wasn’t as if your daily roles were set in stone, never to alternate or act in reverse, it was not a rare occurrence for Taekwoon’s day to start hours before yours could even think of beginning and in turn, for yours to end hours after his came to a close. But more often than not it was you pressing the early morning kiss of farewell to his forehead while he returned the gesture later in the final moments of the day. Your relationship was routinely a cycle of hellos and goodbyes with rarely any sort of filler in between, a side-effect of both participants leading extremely work heavy lives.

You had learned to not really mind it. Though undoubtedly there were times when it was frustrating,  it was just something you had come to cope with. You had come to terms with that even during the times where you were in the same city, sleeping in the same bed, cyber connections were used to replace the absence of physical ones. You weren’t all that deterred, you could have as extensive of a conversation with Taekwoon over chat as you could in real life, sometimes it could be even livelier with the addition of memes and emojis. The lack of frequent in-person moments were manageable by when they did in fact occur and the unfathomably strong bound you and Taekwoon had formed during your two years of dating.

In the middle of twisting your scarf around your neck in hopes to battle the cold wind that the weather report promised was waiting for you outside of your apartment, there was a stir and a soft voice barely heard over the silence of the room. “You leaving?”

You straightened from your hunched position that you had originally assumed to put on your shoes and had ended up holding for the convenience of lethargy. There was an audible pop that you knew was from your knee invoking a wince, another reminder that you did not have enough stretching in your daily routine. Cautiously, you made your way over to his side of the bed, only to be met with the endearing sight of ruffled hair, and barely open eyes framed by white covers that he had evidently pulled up past his nose. When it came to morning Taekwoon, there were few things that could crush your resolve quite as quickly.

“Afraid so,” You muttered, voice still muted so to not go above a certain volume that would wake him further. “You need to sleep; your alarm is only in a few hours.”

There was a groan followed by the rustle of Taekwoon further snuggling himself into the covers, “I don’t want you to leave so early.”

You made an empathic sound because you really didn’t want to leave him, you’d much rather join him back in the warm blankets and never leave. But there was a group presentation that wouldn’t start itself and you were the only one that seemed to be determined to get anything done out of the four other people who were meant to be doing it with you.

“I don’t want to either. But,” You began with a hopeful tone, “I’ll hopefully be able to finish early today and then we should have the entire evening!”

You couldn’t be offended when you received no enthusiasm to equal your own from Taekwoon because it seemed that he was already halfway gone, head barely managing a nod against the pillow and you couldn’t stop the overly fond smile that touched the lips you used to plant a light peck to his temple. The touch was feathery and did little more than make him stir ever so slightly before you were floating out of the room and out the door, the hope that perhaps maybe you would be done early and would be able to spend a rare night home with your cuddly boyfriend making the 06:15 bus that much more bearable.

Hopefully.

11 hours. 11 fucking hours, that’s how long it had been since you left Taekwoon cuddled up in your bed and only after 11 hours were you now finally arriving home.

The overbearingly fresh taste of menthol in your mouth had long been replaced by one of stale, machine coffee and frustration. Each minute spent away from your ever cosy apartment had felt like an hour within itself, the presentation preparation taking far longer than you had previously anticipated. At the start of the day, you really thought it would only take 4 maybe 6 hours max to finish all of your individual  and your group work, especially with how early you had gotten there, ready to start  so you could get the break you had earned after the last 2 weeks of 12+ hour days. 

But as it had been made painfully evident; that had not been the case. 

Instead, it had taken you and your group all day to come up with some sort of presentation that was due in a matter of days, the preparation made all the more difficult by the fact that only 2 out of the other 4 members of your group had even bothered to do their work.

11 hours later and you were ready to implode.

You were tired, hungry and in need of a shower to wash away the fatigue of the day, but most importantly, you were horny a fuck and that was all due to your ever loving boyfriend and the unintentionally arousing photo he had sent you earlier on in the day while you were halfway through cleaning up a mess that wasn't even your to begin with. Without any caution of what may be inside, you had opened the photo attachment, assuming that it was just another one of the many selfies your boyfriend routinely sent you throughout the day.

This had resulted in you being completely unprepared for what waited for you. As an idol, part of Taekwoon's job was to be attractive and you were painfully aware of just how beautiful he was after two years of dating. But even after spending that much time together, you were yet to become immune to when he fully displayed his looks and shit, did that photo put him on display.

Gone was the mess of sleep puffed cheeks and mussed hair that he had been sporting when you had left him that morning, that adorable mirage had been replaced by one that would surely lead to your eventual death. Already sharply edged eyes had been further daggered by strong eyeliner, his hair had been perfectly styled up and away from his face and his pink lips were pulled into a small sultry pout. And while the photo was primarily of his face, there was also his collar bones sticking from underneath his white shirt and the glimpse of the ever impossibly tight leather trousers that he frequented for stage performances. All in all; he was devastating and it had taken you far too much effort and control on your part to simply lock your phone and move on. The caption hadn't helped either. Tagged along with the overly enticing photo was simple enough sentiment but paired along with such an image was captivating to the point that you couldn't get the typed out words from your head.

'i'll be waiting for you when you come home.'

Simple, plain, nothing that should have made you clench on air and have your head swim but fuck, you had never been able to get enough of Taekwoon and from your reaction, you had your doubts that you ever would. But finally, you would get able to satisfy your desire if Taekwoon's text sent at a much more reasonable time then it was time was any indication, he was home and ready for your arrival.

When you had left earlier that morning, the plan for the evening had been one full of tender lounging and the consuming of whatever delicious food was at your disposable. Now, there was something very different that you wanted to eat.

The door all but shuddered with the amount of strength you used to force it open after punching on the security code into the keypad, hands unable to help your efforts as they were currently filled with the assigned reading that you should really be getting finished tonight. But instead you were too focused on your boyfriend and there was no way you were going to be able to concentrate on anything else. You made hasty work of discarding your outer layers of clothing and shoes, hoping that your message that you had sent a little over thirty minutes ago when you had been leaving had been a fair enough warning for him to be aware of what you were coming home for.

11 hours, a group dominated by lazy wastrels and one photo had worn your patience down to a thin wisp, so depleted that it was all but  nonexistent at this point. You didn’t care if you were being abrupt or borderline out of character. You were energised with a new sense of purpose and drive, set on the idea of all but mounting your boyfriend; you could only hope that he was prepared.

Though by the sight of him casually draped over your armchair, phone in hand as he aimlessly scrolled and still dressed in those infuriating leather pants, it seems that you hadn't been clear enough in the thread of texts that in your opinion had bled with desperation and frustration. He simply lifted his head at your arrival, completely dismissing your simmering stare as he met your gaze with one of indifference, an ever subtle smile on his lips.

"Hey babe, how was your day?" He asked ever so casually, locking his phone and stretching his hands casually above his head.

You couldn't help but follow the movement, feeling even less in control at the small glimmer of revealed skin you received as his shirt was slightly tugged up his stomach. If you only knew Taekwoon briefly, you wouldn't see him as being the teasing type due to his rather permanent unresponsive exterior and softly spoken words. But fuck, after two years of being in a relationship with the lanky minx, you knew better. The boy was a fucking tease when he wanted to be and you could only pray for his own safety that he didn't have any plot already in motion because you were not in the mood.

"Shit.” You summarised, the word all but snarled, “And your photo didn't make it easier you little fuck." You were then slamming down the rest of your things before pulling off your jumper as you made your way over to where he was on the couch. The only movement on his part in comparison was made to pull himself up against the arm of the sofa so that he was in sitting position, unfazed by your overly direct assault.

He hummed in response, tugging on your wrist when you were close enough so that you were clambering onto his lap, torso barely covered by the thin shirt that removing your jumper had left you in. He took a movement to pad his fingers up your bicep, each touch feather like. "That bad huh? Sorry babes."

You huffed, tired of this little charade when you knew that your intentions were clear and he was simply toying with you. So with little more pretence, you slammed yourself into him, hands wrapping into those deliciously soft, black tendrils as you fused your lips together, the contact resulting in the instant gratification of your need both being slightly sedated but also amplified. He was clever enough to return your enthusiasm, though he was definitely letting you do all the work as you nipped and sucked, his long digits curling at the nape of your neck, gently rubbing the skin.

"Someone a bit needy today?" Taekwoon chuckled during one of the few instances you released his mouth to take a breath, you were easily irritated by his voice but were reassured by the near pant in his tone that he was quickly becoming just as riled up.

There was none of the softness that had been the genre of your morning interaction, your overly tedious day had long ago rid you of those feather-light notions. You were ready to get this show on the road so that the ache you had felt nearly all day could be sedated and you could finally relax. Taekwoon just needed to get with the programme.

“I’m not in the mood Taekwoon,” You cut the words against his lips, refusing to detach yourself as you ground yourself against himself in emphasis to your statement.

The little shit had the audacity to smirk, even when you could feel him become increasingly hard through the tight confines of his leather trousers, “I think you’re most definitely in the mood.”

You couldn’t help but hit his chest in retaliation for both his joke and the frustration it was currently causing you, especially as he now had changed his tactic to craning his neck just far enough back that you couldn’t fully reach his mouth. Growing more and more irritated, you decided to take matters into your own, capable hands, allowing your fingers to trace down the counters of his chest from your place now leaning back, legs still on either side of his waist. You kept your gaze locked with his, an unspoken challenge when you were grabbing onto him through his trousers and his resilience visibly withered.

A look of coy satisfaction now played on your face as you stared him down, all but begging for a word of snarky defiance as your expert fingers fiddled with the thick zipper, his body stiffening underneath you. “And what about you, babes?”

It was this cockiness that would be your mistake, becoming overconfident due to his reaction and the control being in the top position gave you. You were too consumed in your small victory to the point that you actually let out a shriek of surprise when Taekwoon abruptly changed your positions so that you were evidently pressed between the firm couch and his somehow firmer body.

“I’m always in the mood for you, darling.” He purred against your slightly gaped mouth, giving your bottom lip a teasing bite before he settled on making a clean descent down your body, mouthing at every part of exposed skin as he went.

You arched into his touch, back bending to his will when his hand found the band of your legs as he continued his assault on your collar bones and neck. He made miraculously quick work of removing them with only one hand, your underwear ending up dragged alongside them as you assisted in the process with a buck of your hips and a corresponding wiggle to make the process more seamless. He seemed pleased with your eagerness, not that it should have been at all surprising at this point, but wisely chose to not comment on it, instead continuing his working down of your form, his large hands pushing up the fabric of your undershirt so that he could gain better access to your abdomine.

You were keenly aware that the hand that had once been gripping your hip had now disappeared in between your legs, this change being made evident by the fingers that were now creeping up your thigh, closer and closer to where they were needed most. Finally, they arrived and the sound that escaped you was somewhere bordering on a sigh of both pleasure and relief.

Despite the touches being infuriating light, the smallest ounces of pressure that were applied to your clit with every tantalising swirl of Taekwoon’s thumb was enough to have your hips canting in appreciation and search for more. “You’re so wet,” His tone would have led some to believe that he was surprised when in fact you knew he was taunting you and you fucking hated it that your body was reacting in such a way that it made teasing you so easy for him.

“Jus-” You had to pause as one of his fingers slipped lower, resting at your entrance and you gripped the couch arm behind you for support to refocus yourself, “-t get on with it.”

He hummed in slight recognition of your order, too busy watching that movement of his fingers on your slick core to give you his full attention. “Get on with what? I’m going to need you be you’re more specific.”

“Fucking piece of shit,” You snapped, though the anger came out more breath then fire as he decided when you opened your mouth to speak was the perfect time to apply a slightly larger amount of pressure onto your increasingly sensitive clit. “If you don’t do something more substantial then fiddling about down there I will actually murder you.”

“My word, someone sure is impatient,” He tutted and for a second you thought he was going to continue teasing, your mouth parting, ready to slice him into ribbons. But then an ethereally long finger was inside of you and you actually forgot how to speak.

Clarity remained out of your reach because the fog of incoherence was thickened when a silky smooth tongue was coming into contact with your clit and you were near blacking out. After all this time, hours of frustration, finally.

You couldn’t stop your hips from moving forward, didn’t even try to halt the hand that worked on its own agenda to tangle itself in Taekwoon’s hair and push down in hopes of somehow getting him closer than he already was. 

After two years of being intimate, Taekwoon had perfected the art of unravelling you. He knew that you could take two fingers as easily as you could take one, knew that sucking and nipping at your clit actually sometimes was enough to make you near lose your mind. He knew that when your vocabulary solely contained his name and a few, panted curse words that you were close.

He knew that when you started moving frantically, hips grinding down onto his lips and your entrance clenching every moment that you were ready to cum, that you were going to come in a few moments. He knew that you were on the spiral, that you were a second away from fully being gone and finally claiming the satisfaction you had been aching for.

He knew all of this and more, and yet just as you were gasping out, preparing yourself to plummet down and dive into the realm of stars and release; he fucking stopped.

One moment, you were repeating how you were about to cum and then abruptly, any and all pleasure was wrenched from your grasp. Leaving you high, dry and fucking pissed.

Your back contracted, resulting in you all but sitting up and you were met with Taekwoon’s overly satisfied face, his cockiness and indifference evident by the way he licked the remaining wetness from his lips and simply purred, “Sweet.”

Irritation was replaced by absolute rage and you actually seethed your next words, each one containing the force to flatten walls. “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”

“Awe,” Taekwoon continued to patronise, “Is someone upset that they didn’t get to cum?”

You didn’t know if Taekwoon had momentarily lost his mind because he seemed to not understand the deathly lethal glare in your eyes as you stared him down. Though it did seem you pulling yourself into a sitting position and further away from him seemed to knock some sort of clarity into him.

How fucking dare he.

Taekwoon was a tease, you knew that well enough. But it was rare that he ever went far enough to the point that he actually denied you your release, he usually favoured bringing you over the brink over and over and over again. It had never been particularly easy to get yourself to that point with past partners; it had taken some work even with Taekwoon in the beginning when you were both still discovering each other. But he usually knew that if there was one thing you did not stand for, it was orgasm denial. Especially if you had been suffering from pent-up frustration all day which made this blow all that more damming.

“You’ve fucking done it now,” You stated, voice a chaotic cocktail of chilling calm and fiery rage. You were ready for this torture, this game that Taekwoon had unintentionally started, even if he continued to seem none the wiser to it, blinking in slight confusion.

His brow furrowed in question, “Done what?”

A look of destructive delight took control of your features and you leaned forward so that your next words were spoken directly into Taekwoon’s ear, your closeness allowing you to feel the way his body stiffened, “Started a war.”

   Perhaps a war wasn’t the correct term for what progressed for the next few days; war would suggest that both sides had an equal chance at winning. Instead, it was more of a siege on Taekwoon’s self-restraint and you revelled in every moment of the unbridled control.

It wasn’t as if you spent the entirety of the following days teasing the shit out of him in every way you knew would make him eventually crumble, you simply chose your moments, each one leaving enough of a lasting impression to carry over until the next. While Taekwoon hadn’t fully grasped the ramifications of his actions until the following day, he had definitely been suspicious when you had suddenly pulled back, declared war and then refused any and all of his advances without any further explanation.

The first day you had played dumb, playing off any suspicion as effortless as breathing, going about your routine as if nothing had happened.

The second day was the one that set the tone for all those to follow. You simply ignored all of his lingering gazes and leading questions during dinner, shrugging off his grab at your waist that you knew was a wordless proposal for some late night activities, disregarding the prospect with a casual step away from his grasp. You had left the kitchen while he finished tidying up under the pretence of taking a shower, leaving him alone with the suds feeling more confused than ever with your rare shift in character. If there was something you were almost always down for; it was sex, especially with how exceptionally needy you had been only a little over a day prior. And now you were too tired? But while he was meditating on your behaviour over the soapy water and half-clean plates there was a sound that pierced through the veil of pattering water from the shower; a moan. Then there was another and another, only for the apartment to be suddenly filled with the sound of your pleasure.

All Taekwoon could do was wait for you to finish, poised at the end of your shared bed, still smelling of dish soap and confusion. Though instead of answering his questioning gaze when you entered back into the room, wearing a lofty smile and overtly sedatedexpression, you went about wordlesslydressing yourself for bed, Taekwoon unaware that the prolongued amount of time you took to shimmy into your night clothes was all a conscious decision. He had been completely defenceless to your planned assault later that night when you had both settled down on your respective sides of the bed, your routine peck to his lips contorting into something far more foreboding.

Your lips had found the shell of his ear, tracing the lobe as you curled up behind him so that there wasn't a whisp of seperation, tongue peeking out to swipe at the skin as a hand slinked down to find his crotch where you applied a deliciously detrimental amount of pressure that had him all but gasping at the abrupt contact. Teeth had sunk into his soft flesh, the grip on him intensifying so that his focus was disrupted between your hand and your voice, “Touch this without permission and you won’t be touching any of me for weeks.”

And then you were gone, back faced to him, eyes closed in bliss as you faked sleep, smile so soft and peaceful that it was almost difficult to see the malice that lurked beneath.

 By day four, Taekwoon was on the verge of conceding and caving and while he wasn't entirely certain as to what he was being punished for; he was more than ready for the torture to be over. 

The night before he had come home horny from the risqué photo of you in your favourite lacy black and white bralette and matching panties that you had sent to him a few hours before his practice session was finished, the dance rehearsal made all the more difficult by his raging boner that he knew without your mercy wouldn’t be receiving any sort of relief. His worries were further confirmed when he reached your room, enticed by the muffled sounds of some sort of activity. He had opened the door to reveal you spread across the bed, clad only in the ensemble you had sent him a sample of and skin covered in sweat as you reclaimed the hand that had been stuffed in your underwear only moments before. There had been no oxygen in his lungs as he watched with unabated interest as you pulled your slick covered fingers into your mouth, retaining eye contact with him throughout as you gave the digits two deep sucks before removing them.

“What a shame- I just finished.”

 He couldn’t even last a week, five days was all he could manage before he was at his breaking point. Even though he was almost certain he hadn’t been putting up any sort of fight the entire week, instead allowing you to do completely as you pleased with the weight of your threat hanging over him like the knife of a guillotine. All he had done was not attempt to touch you, or himself for that matter, but apparently that wasn’t all you wanted. You wanted him crippled and tripping over himself, begging for a forgiveness and relief only you could grant. Sure he could have perhaps gotten off at work, but it wasn’t just the paranoia that you would somehow find out that had stopped him from him even attempting such a thing, there was also a piece of him that was thriving off of this dangerous denial.

Every bat of your eyelashes, every coy and brief brush of your body had been a weapon to get him to where he was now, continuously pacing the length bedroom while waiting for your arrival from your friends dinner, ready to omit and atone for every one of his crimes.

You were struggling with the handle of your bag that refused to detangle from your coat when you entered the room, slightly surprised to see Taekwoon standing before you, expression a beautiful concoction of frazzled and desperate. Your demeanour instantly shifted, air similar to that of the one Taekwoon had foolishly worn all those nights ago.

How the tables do turn.

“Taekwoon,” You drawled, setting down your bag as you nonchalantly breezed past him in favour of the wardrobe so you could finish undressing yourself. “I didn’t expect you home so early.”

“Finished practice early,” Was his response, voice thick in a way that you knew even with your back turned to him meant his pupils were blown and his jeans were tight.

The twist of your lips was instinctive, having to consciously remove it in effort to remain coy as you shouldered off your coat, revealing your leather skirt and tight blouse ensemble to be devoured by Taekwoon’s hungry eyes that you could feel were trained to each of your deliberate moves. “That’s nice,” You spoke into the otherwise silent room, “You’ve seemed a bit tense lately.”

His answer was quiet, so much so that you almost missed it under the gritted teeth and implications. “I wonder why.”

You hummed in a way you both were aware was posed sympathy, slipping your shirt over your shirt so that your upper half barely concealed the scraps of wispy material and lace that made up your bralette while your lower half remained concealed under the like faux leather. You turned, unsurprised to find his gaze down, it taking him a moment longer to meet your eyes.

“You alright over there?” You asked, a laugh threatening to escape at the way his eyes narrowed at your taunt that you played off with a life-threatening amount of ignorance as you stepped closer, placing a purposeful pointer finger on his collarbone, “You seem a bit- out of it.”

He remained silent, just watching as you picked and prodded at him, your expression never wavering from its mirage of civility and curiosity even though you knew the cause for his current state; you were the cause. You watched him struggle with the words, his inherent stubbornness causing his words to come out near choked, “Please.”

You batted your eyelashes, delight curling within you at the mere utterance of one word, you stepped closer, leaning in as if you hadn’t heard him, “I’m sorry; what was that?”

You admired the tensing of lithe muscle under the thin material of Taekwoon’s white shirt as his fists clenched at his side to both ground himself and to restrain from touching you, enamoured with how close you were, how good you smelt and how you were literally in arms length and he was powerless. It had been days since a touch from you had been anything more than fleeting and he hadn’t even attempted to initiate anything ever since you had set the rules that had never been truly set but he had somehow known to follow. The ball had been entirely in your court as he had made a futile play of resistance if you could even call what he had been doing resistance; you hadn’t even given him enough power to even resist. He had just been forced to endure and it seemed that that endurance had finally come to an end.

“Please,” He repeated, his broad chest that you had begun to slowly trace with your nail, “Let me just, fuck, let me just touch you.”

You let out a noncommittal noise as you scrapped your nails against the fabric of his shirt, focusing more on your fingers then his eyes that followed each of your movements especially as your hand begun to wander lower, toying between the hem of the article clothing and the waist of his jeans. “And just why, should I let you do that? Especially when you were so rude to me before.”

“I’m sorry,” He gritted out, coherency depleting due to how close you were to where he needed you most. “-just let me touch you.”

“So you understand,” You continued to drag on, tongue peeking out to swipe at your lips. All of sudden you were harshly cupping him in your hand making him bolt as if struck by lightning while meeting your gaze, your hand began to make assertive circles over the front of his trousers. “And why exactly, are you sorry?”

“Because I was an idiot,” He answered immediately, his choice of words being confirmed to be correct as you hummed in agreement. “Because I stupidly thought that I could be a total dick and get away with it.”

You nodded your head, entranced by the way Taekwoon’s hips all but buckled forward when you added slightly more pressure, though it still wasn’t enough, especially because Taekwoon knew there was no way you were going to let him cum. “So, what-” You pressed your thumb to what you knew was the head of his dick causing Taekwoon to nearly slump forward, “-have we learned?”

“That I should know -fuck-” He broke off into a whine when you gave him another tentative squeeze, “-when I’m being a tease and when I’m being an idiot. And I’m also, sorry, I’m so so so sorry.”

“Good,” You purred against the skin of his neck, pressing your tongue down to the juncture, relishing in the total relinquishing of control Taekwoon was currently exhibiting as he restrained himself from grinding into your hands and grabbing at you like you knew he wanted to. Taekwoon was everything but passive and it was rare that there was a time you ever felt completely in control. But right now, you were bathing in it. “Now Taekwoon; fuck me.”

“Yes.” Came his winded reply before your mouth was being consumed by a fire that made you almost step back in surprise, teeth and tongue instantly being added to the mix.

Your tongue swept against him, eleciting a beautiful whine from Taekwoon as he worked on herding you in the way of the bed, working on the zipper of his jeans while he hurriedly rid himself of the fabric. He was making all the moves, doing all the work, but you still remained in control, the fact evident in the way you pulled back, the cry of loss from Taekwoon causing a grin to spread its way on his face.

You slowly removed your skirt and underwear as Taekwoon finished removing the remaining articles of his clothing. It was as if the site of your entirely naked form set him off into some sort of dive into madness and utter desperation because you were suddenly being flipped over so that you were bent over the bed, the gasp that escaped your lips at the abruptness increasing in volume when two fingers were sliding into you.

You had to stifle a moan, gripping the sheets in search of some sort of support. You needed to ground yourself, just because Taekwoon had you bent over on his fingers didn’t make this any less your game. “If you’re not going to fuck me properly; I’ll do it myself and make you watch.”

That alone was enough to send Taekwoon in frenzy, the head of his dick finding your entrance before he was thrusting in and you were fighting the urge to let your eyes roll back into your head in ecstasy.

“Fuck,” He cried out from behind you, his voice close with how was he hunched due to the overwhelming sensation of finally being inside of you. “Fuck you’re incredible.”

“I know,” You panted, hands scrambling for purchase. “And I expect –shit- for you to get me exactly to where I was the other night and this time- actually finish the job.”

You could only assume that he understood because your answer was a powerful thrust that had you moving forward and had your back arching. There were few things you liked better than being fucked by Taekwoon and you would be lying if you hadn’t missed the feel of his dick during the last five days.

“I’m not gonna last,” He gasped, his hips never stopping for a second while you met him in the middle with your own.

“I dare you to cum,” You snarled, the air stolen from your lungs as he hit a specific spot. “You’re going to have to try harder.”

This seemed to spur him into action because suddenly there was a loss of his cock inside of you and instead you were being flipped over, the absolute devastation of his expression enough to have you keening as he loomed over you. There was also a certain renewed determination in his gaze as he pinned you down, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he supported his weight on his arms that he placed on either side of your head.

“You’re the fucking devil,” He stated, his words punctuated by thrusting himself entirely into you causing your nails to instinctively search for purchase on his shoulders where they bit down into his skin. He rolled his hips again and you couldn’t stop the way your body arched in turn, “You’re also a fucking tease, punishing me for not letting you cum when you wanted it, making me suffer over nothing.”

“You’re- fuck-,” Your thought was broken by the cry from your lips as he hit your spot directly, too far gone to really be that fussed with the seemingly switch in control, you were finally getting what you wanted and fuck if it hadn’t been fun getting here. “-the one who started all this, you’re the real tease here.”

His grin touched your lips as he pressed them down to yours, let out a moan of his own as you clenched down on him. “Maybe, but fuck you really did a number on me.”

“Seem pretty okay to me,” You snarked, making defiant eye contact despite the fact that you were so close to cumming you could actually taste it. “What you did was also an asshole move and you know it.”

“And I think you did a pretty thorough job of making me pay for it.”

“I could have done more.”

Then there was a pinch to your clit and you were ready to cave. There was some satisfaction that even though there had seemingly been a shift that happened often happened between you and Taekwoon when it came to who was in control, you couldn’t help but notice the look of concentration on Taekwoon’s face that revealed that he was struggling not to cum.

You clenched down just to see his reaction which was a glare sent in your direction, you would have revelled further in satisfaction if it weren’t for the overwhelming pleasure that hit you when a thumb was pressed down to your clit. Sensing your climax, Taekwoon’s thrusts became more frantic, coherent sentences being replaced by broken sentiments of pleasure and desperation for release. It took only a few more moments before you were greeted with a blinding orgsam and you were sure you were crying out Taekwoon’s name.

“Fuck,” He moaned, his thrusts carrying you through your high, his own being advanced by the way your walls pulsated around him. He allowed you to be fully taken over by your orgasm for as long as he could before he could no longer bear it. “Please- fuck- please- can I cum?”

You hummed, “Yes.”

His shoulders visibly slumped in relief before he was rolling his hips into yours with a renewed vigour and moments later, he was groaning out your name as he fully spiralled.

Your mouths met in a messy but coaxing kiss, love pouring through each slide of tongue and lips. His body blanketed yours as he relaxed, all strength drained from his arms resulting in him no longer being able to support his own weight.

There was a few moments of content, silent connection as you simply enjoyed the feel of each other, making up for the lack of intimacy that had been provoked by the last couple of days.

 “I can’t believe this all started because I didn’t make you cum one time,” Taekwoon tsked, his skin all but glowing under the clear, heated water of the bath you had both recently moved into.

His comment was returned by a splash and an insulted scoff, “That one time just happened to be after I had the most tiring day and had been sexually frustrated because of your fucking leather-clad ass.”

He let out a laugh while swatting away the continuous flashes of water, undeterred by your weak assault.  “You could have just said that instead of going on this mission to make me beg to just touch you.”

“But it was so much fun,” You pouted, poking at his bicep. “And don’t even try to lie and say you didn’t enjoy it, I felt your dick, I know everything.”

“Are you somehow implying that my feelings are entirely controlled by my dick?”

“Would somehow I be wrong?”