#a cabling will go beanie

[dutchjan]

January 20, 2024

[souperbloom]

hey! i love your ash and luke one shots so i was wondering if maybe we can get a soft dom cal? something like he comes home late from a studio session and you get mad because you had plans for that night, so he begs for forgiveness by eating you out lol

i love your brain anon. this one was fun as hell.

enjoy some soft!dom cal <3 xoxo

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apologies. [C.H.]

🎸boyfriend!cal

the ask pretty much told y’all everything you need to know. kissy.

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, angst if u squint, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk/praise, squirting.

WORDCOUNT: 3.4k

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"Are you guys fuckin’ coming, or what?"

"Yeah, just— gimme’ another hour. We’ll be there…"

"Swear?"

"Fuckin’ swear, Ang."

You were lying.

You knew damn well you were lying. And so did your best friend, Angie.

Also known as; the one on the phone, that had been pestering you about your plans to go out for the last three hours.

You’d been stalling for a third of that time, which you weren’t proud of. These plans had been made weeks in advance and the only thing stopping you from just getting up and leaving right now was your rather untimely boyfriend.

Calum was the type to let time slip right through his fingers. He was terrible at managing how he spent that time, let alone keeping an eye on the clock. Especially when he was at the studio with the boys.

So you weren’t surprised when he had told you he’d be home to get changed at 10:30— yet now, it was well past midnight.

Letting out a frustrated huff, you toss your phone on the side of the couch. Your long sleeve ‘going out’ top was riding up your back and furthering the anger that was boiling right through you.

"Fuckin’ hell, Cal…" You mumble to yourself, talking into open air with nobody to reprimand, nobody to yell at and let off steam.

You were alone.

The clock on the cable box blinked 12:32. An hour and a half later than the original time of your plans. You were about ready to storm out of your apartment and leave a long, shitty note for Cal to read about just how angry he had made you; but you knew deep down that you’d have a better time with him at your side. You loved him, for fuck’s sake.

Too damn much, sometimes.

Just when you thought a little too hard about putting your shoes on, you hear the familiar sound of keys rattling against the door. It was more frantic than usual; most likely due to the sweaty hands that were manning them.

You snap your head around to watch the door bust open, revealing your panting boyfriend who had probably just run up the five flights of stairs it took to get to your apartment.

He was never a fan of waiting for the elevator.

"Hi, hi, baby— hi— I’m— I’m here, I’m here." An exasperated chuckle laces through your boyfriend’s words as he tried with all of his might to kick the door closed and take his coat off at the same time.

But you just sat there. Your legs crossed, your arms folded— the most scornful, disapproving gaze in your eye.

"You’re late, Cal," you say, disdain rattling off your tongue like a viper.

"I— I know, baby. Fuck, I’m sorry. Lost track of time… fuckin’ around when I shouldn’t have been. But— I’m here now. I’m here."

His words were coming out jumbled and frantic, while still running around like a chicken with its’ head cut off. He had ventured towards the kitchen island, dropping his keys and taking off his beanie that shielded him from the crisp fall winds.

His cheeks were glowing red, still laminated with the sweat it took to get him up five flights of stairs. Yet he hadn’t even made eye contact with you.

"We made these plans weeks ago." You try your best at remaining stern with him, sitting still.

"I know, I know, I know, I know…" Calum was now migrating towards your bedroom, his voice growing faint and trailing off as he exited. You watched the empty hallway; the sounds of rummaging through drawers, opening and slamming them shut was already pissing you off more than you’d like to admit. Your leg was bobbing impatiently now, trying to think of any kind of way to cool yourself off before you burst into flames.

Or, tears.

"Cal—." Your voice cracks slightly, to no response.

"Calum." You try again, a bit louder this time.

His head finally pops around the corner of the door frame. "What?"

"Just—" Your sentence breaks with a sigh, dropping your head into your hand as you pinch the bridge of your nose, "—forget it."

"What?" He steps out into the hallway completely, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Forget it, Cal… I-I don’t even wanna’ go anymore."

The clothes that were once in his hands drop to the hardwood floor as he rushes over to you on the couch.

"Hey,” he tries to console, "don’t say that."

"What’s the point? We’re already two hours late! Angie’s one phone call away from ripping my goddamn head off!" You can’t help but huff, dropping your head into your hands.

"Y/N, I’m really sorry." Calum voice rings soft, and sweet— but there was nothing more that you wanted to do than wring out his fucking neck.

"Just— drop it, Calum. I’m already in a shitty mood."

You hated being so mean.

Each time you yelled at him was like the snapping of one of your heart strings. But despite that tightness in your chest, he needed to know how much this affected you. Whether you liked it or not.

Calum stays quiet for a moment, seemingly nervous to say the wrong thing or misstep. He was always so cautious with you, never picking a fight. Even though you’ve picked many.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" He asks, squatting down to be level with your sunken face.

"No."

"I could… run you a bath?"

You shake your head. "Nuh uh."

"I could make you dinner?"

"I already ate."

When you peek out from between your fingers, you notice Calum’s lips pushed to the side. He braces his hands on your knees, still crouching and trying to get some sort of read on your face.

He could tell you weren’t happy.

And he fucking hated that.

"Can I see that pretty face?"

That almost got a smile out of you, but you opted just to shake your head.

"I’m not sure how else to say I’m sorry, my girl." His thumb starts a cadence of soothing circles around the outside of your knees.

"Try saying it in French," you mumble, rubbing your tired eyes.

Calum sucks his teeth, "Ouch."

Growing impatient and just about ready for bed, you sit upright. Faced with Calum for the first time since he bust through the door.

His heather green flannel was slouching on his shoulders, looking beat up from the 10 hour day he’d spend working in the studio. His curls hung lowly over his big brown eyes, in desperate need of a trim.

It was taking everything inside of you not to grab his face and tell him how much you loved him, because in spite of all this, you still did.

He was an expert at pissing you off, and it only made you love him more.

"There’s my beautiful girl," he says upon seeing you, smiling meekly, still trying to get your spirits up.

"’Don’t feel it."

"Why not?"

"’Cause you piss me off."

Cal chuckles, squeezing your kneecaps and adjusting his squatted position.

"Can’t really argue with that."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment; the decorative string lights from behind your couch were twinkling in his chocolatey irises, and painting him out to be some sort of angel. His pretty cherub cheeks were still rosy from rushing around and quite frankly, it suited him.

You’ve fallen too damn hard.

"Y’know, I thought of another way to make it up to you."

"Yeah?" You quip, leaning back on the couch cushions.

"Mhm."

His hands were still lingering, moving up to massage your exposed thighs that were now catching a draft from your lack of movement. You had planned to wear this outfit on the day you told Angie you’d be there tonight. So the fact that you were still in it, yet not where you said you’d be, was making your blood boil.

"Gonna buy me back all the time I wasted getting ready for tonight?" You seethe lowly, trying not to sound too bitchy yet coming across as the bitchiest bitch in the world.

Calum frowns, his Doc Martens squeaking against the hardwood floor as he adjusts his posture, "You’re really good at that."

"Good at what?" You muse, chuckling through your nose.

"Firing the shit I pull right back at me. It’s sexy."

"Don’t try to butter me up, Cal. I know I’m sexy. Hence why it took me an hour and a half to get ready."

For some odd reason, your whiny complaints and moody comments towards Calum didn’t seem to be effecting him. They were bouncing off his puffed up chest like he was made of rubber. He was used to your incessant need to be on time, and how he was quite literally your antithesis.

But those witty remarks you kept throwing at him were one of the things he loved most about you. Which is why he kept egging you on.

"I’m really sorry, baby. I’m really sorry I wasted your time."

You try your hardest to bite back a smile, but it doesn’t go over well. "You should be."

Without another word, Calum is dropping down to his knees and suddenly, your heart is racing.

"Can I make it up to you," his hand creeps towards the hemline of your skirt, "like this?"

"I’ll consider it," you nod, trying to seem unbothered by your boyfriend’s large, weathered hands, "But what’s in it for me?"

"Trust me, baby. It’ll be all about you. You won’t have to move a muscle and I swear, on everything I love…"

His fingers stretch across the width of your thighs, prying open your legs with a wicked grin.

"… I’ll have your fuckin’ legs shaking like crazy within the next ten minutes."

Your face flushes, hands subconsciously gripping onto the couch cushions down at your sides at your boyfriend’s promise. He’s still gleaming up at you, waiting for your approval; he’s never the type to handle you without your permission.

"The journey to forgiveness is a long, winding road… But this is definitely a good start, Calum. Well done."

Despite your cool, agile reply, your heart continues to thump out of your ribcage when you see how your unnerving boyfriend reacts to the sound of his own name. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply with that smile still painted onto his cheeks.

"Keep fuckin’ talking like that. See where you end up."

You scoff playfully, "Is that a threat, Mr. Hood?"

"Not a threat, my girl… It’s a promise."

His hands are dancing dangerously close to your underwear now, having crept up your skirt without you even noticing. But you hadn’t a care in the world. You were merely turned on by the sight of him, so eager to please you. So ready for your forgiveness.

"Fuck, you’re good," you groan, letting a whimper slip past as well, "Show me how sorry you really are, then."

In no time, Calum is leaving a sultry trail of kisses up your thigh. You hiss at the feeling of his cool lips against you; having not felt them since the last time the two of you fucked. Which was about four days ago.

He had been quite busy in the studio with the band’s upcoming album, so times like these were a novelty. Not like you minded much, any quality time spent with Calum was worth a million years.

And besides, he’s damn good at it. Why tamper with an already perfect system?

"I know what I said, but can you do somethin’ for me?" Your boyfriend’s head pops up from beneath your skirt with sparkly eyes.

"Mh, depends." You reply lazily.

"Wanna hear you, baby. Wanna hear that pretty voice."

"That won’t be an issue," you smile, lifting your upper half from the couch, "You may have to earn it though…"

Calum’s eyebrow quirks, looking like he’s just about ready to wipe that catty smile right off of your face.

"Since when are you the one to give orders around here?"

You sit up even further to spit back, "Since you decided to fuck around with your boyfriends and make us miss our fucking plans."

There isn’t even an opportunity for you to say any more, since Calum had decided to grip the backs of your thighs and yank you to the edge of the couch. He lifts your legs, ripping your panties off swiftly and tossing your knees over his shoulders before you can even blink.

You gasp at the sudden dynamic change, shallow breaths barely escaping your throat as your boyfriend is now heaving as well. His once angelic brown eyes had shifted to something darker.

Somebody needed to pinch you. You must be dreaming.

"Watch that mouth," he growls lowly, that soft demeanor of his slightly peeking through his cold exterior, "Not gonna tell you again."

Your face drops, now nodding like a desperate mess.

"I don’t care how sorry I am. Good girls get their way, bad girls don’t. And we both know that, don’t we my baby?"

"Yes— yes sir."

"Gonna be good for me?"

You nod again, fingernails digging into the couch cushions as his apology has not only become something you really really wanted—

It was now something you needed.

"Please, Cal. Promise… Promise I’ll be good for you."

He smiles, and a familiar warmth settles back into the pit of your stomach as he kisses both of your knees.

"That’s my fuckin’ girl."

Sweat begins to pool across your forehead when the first kiss is planted on your inner thigh. You writhe above him, patiently waiting for his mouth to travel down to where you needed it to be.

But patience runs thin in moments like these, especially since Calum was such a fucking tease.

"Cal, baby— please…"

Another couple of kisses later and you’re still feeling unfulfilled. At this point, his head was so far deep into your skirt that you could only see the frosty tips of his unruly curls. He hears your plea, nodding slowly.

"Getting there, pretty. Getting there…"

A shock wave zaps your spine the moment he makes contact with your clit. Your body jolts, feeling the slow rhythm of his tongue toying with your sensitive bud.

"Jesus fuck—" You sigh, trying to fulfill the promise of letting him hear you while simultaneously trying to lasso your head back onto your shoulders.

Calum hums happily, which sends another wave of flutters down your body. You were so damn sensitive, and your boyfriend knew it too. But when his head was between your legs, he never seemed to think, or care about anything else.

He flattens his tongue against your dripping slit, making sure to move slowly and pay attention how long it took him to drag his tongue from one part, to the next. You’re still wriggling around, but Cal’s got his arms locked around your thighs.

You couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to.

"Just— just like that, baby… Keep— keep doing that."

The blood rushes to your head when he finds that particularly sweet spot with the tip of his tongue; he’s moaning, you’re moaning, it was like a symphony of desperate pleas. Your hands fly to meet his head, fingers getting tangled in his chocolatey curls as he starts to use his nose in cohesion with his tongue.

"Fuck me, you’re magic, Cal…"

He hums again. Of course, he agrees. He knows he’s the only one who could ever make you feel this way, and he was damn proud of it.

Apology: accepted.

But you wouldn’t tell him that.

That familiar crash of adrenaline was beginning to wash over you, your stomach began twisting in knots as each tug of Calum’s hair produced more and more pressure onto your pussy. He was chipping away at you, collecting your juices onto his tongue and savoring each and every flavor of you. By the sounds he was making, you could only assume that he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

"Cal, baby… I’m close. Gonna’ cum… gonna’ cum really soon."

You say the magic words. Your lower half was already preforming backflips at only the flick of his tongue, but that euphoria heightened when he took it upon himself to pop his head up and start using his fingers instead.

He dips one finger inside of your dripping heat, his face slicked with your wetness as he finds your eyes for the first time since he started. Your mouth hangs open, trying your hardest to keep the eye contact as he begins to speak.

"Forgive me, baby? I’m really, really, really sorry."

You nod wearily through a breathy moan, attempting to stop your eyes from rolling into the back of your head.

"Y—yes… Yes Cal, I—"

Your sentence is cut short by the feeling of a second finger entering you, curling up to brush against that sweet spot with each new stroke.

"Yes what? You forgive me? Say it like you mean it, my girl… I know you can do it."

His taunting words pull another moan from your throat. He’s still looking at you with hooded eyes, enjoying every second of watching you fall apart. You weren’t sure what had gotten into your sweet boy tonight, but you definitely didn’t mind it.

"Yes. Yes, baby— I— I forgive you," you breathe, that swirling feeling in the pit of your stomach ready to burst, "I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you…"

Calum nods, his teeth sunk deeply into his bottom lip as he watches the obscene ways of your impending orgasm. If he was more honest with himself, your face alone could’ve had him coming on the spot. But he would never admit that. You always came first.

"Yeah? You mean it?" He asks another question. You swore this was some sort of game.

"Yes baby, I— I mean it—!"

Your breathing picks up, Calum’s fingers now moving a bit sloppily, yet keeping that steady rhythm that was driving you up the walls. The pressure building in your lower half was unfamiliar, drawing quick confusion out of you mere seconds before your orgasm.

"Cal, wait— I—"

Alarm bells were blaring in your head, now that Calum had taken his other, freer hand to press his palm flat onto your stomach. He knew what was coming, but you didn’t have a clue.

"Let it go for me, my girl. Let me hear it. Fuckin’ give it t’ me."

Not only does your orgasm rip through your body like a whip cracking down onto pavement, a new sensation was felt the moment Cal told you to let go. A spurt of wetness coats his fingers and the lower half of his face, bringing you to immediately go stark white.

Your chest is heaving, coming down from the high that your boyfriend had just whipped you through. He beat the clock and kept his promise, that’s for damn sure.

"What just— what the fuck. What the fuck, Cal?" You giggle through the comedown, watching Calum triumphantly admire his digits that were now soaked with you. The feeling of you. The taste of you.

"Think you just accepted my apology in more ways than one, baby," your beau chuckles, wiping his face with the back of his fist.

"I can’t believe I just did that," you mumble meekly, now slightly self-conscious as you realized what had just occurred.

Calum scoffs with a shrug, "I can, are you kidding? I knew you had it in you. And all it took was me fucking up to get it out."

"Don’t put it like that," you cringe, scrunching your nose, "Makes it weird."

Calum then begins a slow rhythm of massaging your thighs, something he always does whenever you’re coming down from one of your highs.

"Okay. Won’t make it weird. But let me ask you this— are you still mad?"

You raise your eyebrows, still flustered, watching him lean upward to rest his elbows on your legs. His flannel was in a disarray, as were his curls; you were so wrapped up in admiring him that the thought of anger never even crossed your mind.

"Mad about what?" you ask innocently.

"Mhm," he hums, before leaning in to peck you gently on the lips, "Exactly."

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[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls-Episode 3x9, Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving, Part II

LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU! NINJA MARIANO ATTACK! The Pea Soup Vomit coat makes its triumphant return (and possibly its last appearance?) In the spirit of Thanksgiving, perhaps he will return it to the Savlation Army reject dumpster from whence it came, to beclothe another down on his luck Victorian orphan.

It's never too early for some good old fashioned public macking.

Rory Gilmore, World Class Public Macking Self Saboteur: But but but...what about Dean?! If anyone wonders why I often go weeks without updating these things (and I'm sure this is something that keeps you all awake at night)... I've been stuck writing this piece for over two weeks because I plum ran out of new and novel ways to complain about this idiot in the red coat's continued preoccupation with Dean. Like, how many times can I say I want to smack her over the head with a rolled up newspaper like a disobedient dog? You're killing me here girl.

Rory, you're a dumbass. And also you're frigid. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, you should put out and let Jess stuff you. One of your legs is Thanskgiving and the other leg is Christmas and you should let him spend time between the holidays. I know having to look at the pea-soup-vomit coat is probably putting a damper on your libido, but you can take it off of him, I promise he won't mind. He's quite touch starved, that boy.

You wish, pal. Seeing as there's no high speed internet, premium cable porn, or dirty magazines to be found anywhere in Stars Hollow, a little street show might provide some tittilation to the sexually constipated residents of The Hollow. R: Yeah, you know, in the the street...with people watching... J: Go on...

Wow, this screen shot is a real beaut. Look at this gorgeous curly man. Someone should give me a gold medal in pressing the little button on the browser extension that takes screen shots for me, an award that is both real and possible to achieve. Shout out to GoFullPage. Why is his collar popped up so damn high? Is he trying to protect his neck from vampires?

R: We shouldn't flaunt it. J: But I want to flaunt it. R: It doesn't feel right. J: He's a big boy, Rory. It's not the first time a couple has broken up. R:It is for us. J: This is insane. Edit: Thank you @ernestonlysayslovelythings for reminding me that Rory is claiming she doesn't know how to manage her first breakup when Dean The Clod had actually dumped her twice by this point. She should maybe go and eat two beach pails of Ben and Jerry's ice cream over it again if the wound is still that raw.

WHAT doesn't feel right, Rory? Kissing your own boyfriend? Not that I'm unhappy you kinda sabotaged your relationship with Dean in order to get with Jess, but you did kinda sabotage your relationship with Dean to get with Jess. Now that you have him you're treating him like a collectible beanie baby, puttng him under glass and refusing to remove his little tag. Take him out. Play with him. Rough him up a little. Bring him to show and tell. Put him through the wash. For goodness sake.

Narrator: And they would never experience a single moment of comfort together ever.

By the time Millennials like me and Jess and Rory here are old enough to qualify for social security, there will be nothing left. So, yeah, never.

Me, outloud: Girl you are demented. Oh Rory, I don't know what you're so worked up about. I mean, what's Dean gonna do if he sees his ex girlfriend kissing someone else? Stalk her new boyfriend in an alleyway late at night and call him The Glad Man? Pshaw.

Narrator: Things did not get better over time. In fact, they got much, much worse.

ARRRRGH.

[witchwrestler]

Hey there, Sailor.

pairing: fisherman!eddie + gn reader

wc: 1.8k

warnings: talk of the upside down, brief mention of scars

summary: he's a fisherman now, 20 something and trying to figure things out. The bakery he passes on his trek home finally lures him in one day, and a new friend (or maybe more) is made

a/n: greatly inspired by this fic by @/dr-aculaa | i had so much fun writing this, and i really hope you enjoy <3

It was 1995. ten years had come and gone since then. Things had calmed down. He had calmed down.

He found himself in the dreary west coast town of seattle, working on a boat catching fish for a somewhat sketchy payment. The grimey parts of which even grossed him out sometimes. He'd seen slimy creatures with rows of teeth from other dimensions and yet still some sea creatures made his skin crawl.

He was out of hawkins---he had lived through everything. He fought hard. And he made it. The monitors still rhythmically beeped in the back of his mind when he slept sometimes. The dull scars still riddled his abdomen, a not so subtle reminder of his close encounter with death. After everything he'd been through, eddie resorted to a quiet existence. Gone were the days of the loud, long haired boy with silver clad hands. The ripped jeans and homeade denim vest, covered in patches and pins were left behind. Soon replaced with cable knit sweaters and dickies, his beanie covering his shaved head.

He decided the quiet was easier, Though socialization was hard to come by when his work day ended when everyone else's began.

Making the early trek back home from the docks, he finds himself passing the little bakery on the corner. Usually he passes it and finds a 'we are closed' sign hanging on the door, but sometimes he catches glimpses of you setting up your quaint little shop for the day. Today, as he approaches the shop, the sign reads,

'we are open'

He peers in the window for a moment, advertisements for local bands, theater productions and bar crawls plastered over the glass. Soon his feet carry him inside, contrary to his brain, which was still deciding. As he enters the shop, the clash blares quietly from the back as he moves to the front, a second voice accompanying the song quietly.

"...Should I stay or should I go?

If you say that you are mine, I'll be here till the end of time"

Once upon a time the clash was his fourth favorite band, but after everything that he'd been through he found himself with music like elliott smith, and the smashing pumpkins. He cursed himself sometimes for listening to shit he used to call 'sad bastard crap', but he wasn't who he was in high school anymore, and it fit who he was now. Though now, he thought he might start listening to that stuff again. He was happier when he did anyway.

Standing awkwardly behind the cash register, he pulls his beanie off his head and brings a cold hand up to scratch his buzzed hair. His eyes wander the case, the freshly baked donuts and pastries sat carefully placed behind the glass, and when he looks back up, there you were.

In a metallica tour shirt. A warm smile on your face. "Hi." You coo, voice floating through the air. "I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, I opened early---I wasn't sure anyone would come in though" You add lightly, grateful he was your first customer of the day.

"that's alright" He says timidly. Soaking up your voice like morning sun.

He quietly requests a jelly filled donut. Just one he says. You happily get a peice of parchment paper and pick up the donut, carefully placing it in a bag.

"anything else?" You ask sweetly. His dark chocolate brown eyes meet yours as you set his donut on the counter in front of him, his still cold hands stuffed into the pockets of his carhartt jacket.

"that's ok." He says, slightly shaking his head no. He didnt want to be a bother and he was trying to not get caught up in your kind, warm smile that had his heart fluttering.

"you sure?" You questioned, "no coffee?"

"just the donut is ok. thank you, though" He says, politely declining and pulling out a couple of crumpled dollar bills to pay for the donut. You turn around and pour him a cup of coffee anyway. He looked tired. And it was cold outside.

You softly set the cup down next to his donut "on the house." You push the cup and bag toward him as he stares at it for a moment. His eyes sort-of wide. "really?" He questions, seemingly quite baffled by the gesture.

"you are my first customer of the day, after all" You say, shrugging.

He gives you a polite nod and makes his way toward the door, but not before turning around again to catch another glimpse. He pulled his beanie back on and sipped the coffee as he walked, holding the donut in his other hand. He found a park bench near his apartment and sat down, deciding he would eat the donut now.

he pulled the sweet treat out of the white paper bag, bringing it up to his mouth and taking a bite.

the sweet bread and jam melt in his mouth, causing him to fight a smile.

He makes the walk back to his apartment, and shuffles into the slightly grimey room, his boots squeaking on the floor. The smell of fish and salty air clung to his jacket as he hung it on the hook. He tried his best to make his dirt cheap apartment feel like a home. He decorated the walls with old band posters from his room in his uncles trailer, glimpses of what now seemed like a past life. He hung mugs just like his uncle did, to make it feel like home. Sometimes he missed the sense of home his uncles trailer gave him, but he did everything he could to remind himself of it. Although he didn't want to be back in hawkins, he didn't want to forget it either. He stripped off his work clothes to get ready for bed, finding himself daydreaming of the bakery owner he'd met today, who gave him the best donut he'd had in years.

When he left work the next morning, the donut shop was once again, open early. As he approaches the flyer covered windows, he finds himself, dare he say, nervous. He wondered if you made any new pastries today that he could try. His stomach twisted a little at the unfamiliar feeling, he hadn't felt like this about a person in a while, or ever, really. He carefully opened the door, eyes traveling the case of pastries as he walked in.

"Hey there, sailor" You greet as you walk out of the back kitchen, this time a metallica song plays faintly from your radio.

He smiles shyly at your greeting and gives you a small wave.

"What can I do for you?" You ask, turning around and putting on a pair of plastic gloves.

"What would you recommend?" He asks after a beat of silence.

Your face lights up with a warm smile, pleased that he asked your opinion. "I made beignets this morning" You say softly. "they're fresh"

He perks up a little at your words and nods slightly. "that sounds good" He says, a tight lipped but sincere smile on his face.

You nod politely and start to walk into the back and prepare him a little paper boat of them but then stop yourself.

"---do you want to come into the back?" You say, before you even realized what had come out of your mouth.

"--but I reek of sea animals?" He says, intrigued but slightly confused why you're inviting this smelly fisherman into your workspace.

"that's ok. come if you want." You shrug and leave the little swinging counter door open for him to enter if he chooses.

You walk into the kitchen, trays of donuts lining the metal counter tops, making your way toward a small plate of beignets. You pick up the confectioners sugar placed next to the plate and lightly dust a helping of it on top of the fried delicacies. Turning around you pick up a small paper tray and carefully place some of them inside.

"I like the music" You hear his voice say from across the table. "You can turn it up if you'd like. the radios right there" You say, a sweet smile on your face as you point over to the radio on your counter.

"Now some men like a fishin'

And some men like the fowlin'

And some men like to hear

To hear the cannonball roarin'

Me, I like sleepin'

'Specially in my Molly's chamber"

He doesn't turn the radio up. He likes that it's faintly playing, just enough to hear it if you really listen. "You a metallica fan?" You ask, looking up for a moment before lightly dusting the serving you'd prepared him.

He smiles sheepishly, scratching his head. "---In a past life" flashes of his james hetfeild esque haircut running through his mind.

You hand him the serving of beignets, giving him a small nod and then leaning against the counter behind you.

"not so much anymore?"

"I've decided I like the quiet more" He speaks quietly.

The conversation comes to a halt as he bites into one of the beignets you gave him. A sigh of, relief? pleasure? You couldn't quite place it escapes his chapped lips.

"I hope they're good. I've been workshopping the recipe for weeks" You speak, hopeful.

"They're more than good" He says, in the same deep and quiet voice.

"good" You nod, the ghost of a smile on your face.

"Uhm- do you mind me asking what brought you here? ---to seattle, i mean. it's quite a gloomy place for a 20--something--kid to move to---but I guess I'm one to talk" You talk quietly, worried you were talking too much to someone who didn't like that---he was very quiet--you couldn't tell.

Big brown eyes look up from the breakfast treat and at you, he swallows and thinks for a second.

"my hometown is---strange. I love it---but I had to get out of there. and here seemed like a good fresh start, I guess" He says, his voice gruff but kind.

"how long have you lived here?" You inquire, trying not to impose too much

"eight years"

"seven" you say, trying to find common ground "you should start coming in more often, I could use a familiar face" You had regulars at the bakery, but they were all simple hellos and goodbyes and small talk. This one seemed like it could be a friendship. Maybe you wanted more than that with this gruff and quiet fisherman who stumbled into your bakery, but you'll cross that bridge when you get there.

He stares for a moment, seemingly considering and running all the possible outcomes. "Yeah---Yeah."

You smile warmly at him from across the counter. He smiles sheepishly back.

He walks home in the cold and light rain that morning, thinking of ways he could talk to you. He didn't know alot, but he knew that you seemed like someone he'd like to keep around.

[chaosbarelycontained]

Do You Ever Question Your Life

North Country Boy Chapter 6

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x AFAB!OC

TW: Swearing

Words: 1.2k

Synopsis: A trip to the boozer with her new colleagues sparks some more memories for Simon and Jules.

Jules groaned blissfully as the warm water of the shower cascaded over her body. She rubbed jasmine-scented conditioner through her hair, working out the kinks from the braids she’d tamed it with whilst they’d been on exercise. After they’d arrived back at the barracks, cold and grimy, there’d been a thankfully short debrief before they’d been dismissed for the evening.

Any shower would have felt like luxury after a night in the chill, damp, Herefordshire spring air, and Jules made the most of it, buffing the life back into her skin with a salt scrub before rinsing and wrapping herself in one of the giant, soft, towels she’d ordered from Next online. She’d just finished drenching herself with moisturiser when a knock sounded at her door.

“Hey, Tiger, fancy going down the boozer?” Gaz called, not sounding even half as tired as Jules felt.

She gazed longingly at the pyjamas laid out on her bed and sighed.

“Yeah sure, what time?”

“We’re setting off in a few. Want me to wait?” he asked.

“No it’s OK, I’ll meet you there. Which pub?” she replied, already beginning to squeeze the water from her hair with the towel it was wrapped in.

“The Bell Inn. It’s not far,” he confirmed. “You sure you don’t want me to wait for you? I don’t mind.”

“It’s fine, honestly. Get us a pint in and I’ll be there soon as.”

“No worries. I owe you one for the brownie anyway. See y’in a bit.” Gaz gave her door a thump of confirmation before Jules heard his footsteps retreat down the corridor.

She dried her hair roughly with the hairdryer leaving it, she hoped, artfully tousled. Dressing quickly in jeans she also chose a slouched, cable knit sweater; she liked the soft cream wool and the deep V made sure her neck wouldn’t itch the whole night. Jules pulled on a pair of black motorcycle boots and then headed back over to the mirror in her small bathroom, which was now thankfully unfogged. Concealer covered the worst of her sleep-deprived dark circles, brows were tamed, and mascara applied. She added a touch of tinted lip balm and a spritz of perfume before fixing small gold hoops in her ears and the necklace she always wore when she was off duty.

It was only a short taxi ride to what she hoped was the right place, an off-white painted building decorated with hanging baskets that were just beginning to come into bloom. A stereotypical English countryside boozer, it even had a chalk-painted a-frame at the entrance advertising “Good Home-Cooked Food.”

Jules walked in, heading for the Tap Room rather than the Lounge and immediately spotted her squad, not that it would have been difficult, a group of five hulking soldiers stood out a mile no matter where they were. Gaz caught her eye and waved her over, the conversation around the table faltering as she sat and picked up her pint of lager, downing a third of it in two big swallows. With a sigh of satisfaction she raised her glass.

“Cheers,” she said before realising that she was the focus of all their attention.

“What’s up, lads? Never seen tits before or something?” she laughed awkwardly.

“Not a pair that drinks like that,” Roach coughed with a grin.

“Tits that can drink? Where?” Jules pretended to scan the room. “It’s a medical marvel, Shanghai ‘em, we’d make millions.”

Her words garnered amusement from the rest of the squad, even the stoic Captain, but one remained silent. Her eyes tracked across the table to where Ghost sat, his usual skull balaclava exchanged for a black surgical mask and a beanie that was pulled down low over his forehead with the hood of his jumper over the top of it all. His eyebrow twitched slightly as he glanced down at her chest then back up to her face and Jules would have sworn he smirked beneath his mask.

Her fingers tightened on her pint glass and she took another swig to stop herself from launching it at his head. It took another minute before she managed to lose herself in the banter around the table. Whilst she’d have loved nothing more than to put on her pyjamas and crawl into her bed, Jules had to admit that she was enjoying herself. As glasses began to empty she rose from her seat.

“Same again?” she asked, making a mental note of everyone’s orders.

“Aye,” Soap replied with a grateful grin.

“Rack ‘em up, Newbie,” Gaz responded.

“On it,” Jules confirmed, making her way over to the bar and leaning against it whilst she waited for the barman to finish serving in the other room.

“Four pints of Stella, a pint of John Smith’s, and a Guinness,” she asked when he returned and he nodded with a smile before starting on her order.

A figure leaned against the bar next to her and she stiffened, immediately recognising the presence as the one she least wanted to interact with.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Ghost rumbled, nodding a familiar greeting to the barman.

“No thanks,” Jules replied, turning away.

“Saves you two trips,” he pressed.

“I can carry a tray of drinks, I worked at The Plough long enough.”

“Yeah, I know. Do us a quick whisky, Bill?” he directed to the barman who paused in pouring pints for Jules to hand Ghost his request.

She couldn’t help turning her attention back to him as he raised his mask just enough to down the amber liquid, making a noise of satisfaction. He covered his face once more but not before Jules caught sight of his scruff-covered jaw, and the red scar that bisected his upper lip. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Nice necklace,” he nodded before picking up three pints in his large hands and taking them back to the table.

“Fuck you,” she muttered, unheard, as she paid for the drinks, picked up the other three glasses, and followed him back to their squad.

Of course he had to fucking notice, she thought as she caught herself pulling at her chain for the hundredth time that night, her fingers messing with the charms that hung from it. There was her Mum’s engagement ring, from an absentee father that never made good on his promise, a golden R for Rob and then…

“Oh my God, Si, it’s gorgeous.”

“Not as gorgeous as you, love,” he said, as he fastened the opal pendant around her neck.

With half a mind to rip the offending jewel from her neck, Jules shoved her stool back from the table and retreated to the sanctuary of the ladies’ room. A few splashes of water on her face and some deep breaths had her calm and back in the present once more, or at least as much as she could be. Leaving the bathroom she brushed past someone with a little more force than was necessary and she stopped in her tracks.

“God, sorry,” Jules said, turning to the person.

“No, my fault,” they replied, their voice a friendly rumble.

Jules looked up, and took in the face that accompanied the voice. The guy was hot, that was for sure, and still wore his work gear. A tradesman then, she assumed.

“Not seen you in here before, you visiting?” he asked goodnaturedly.

“Something like that,” Jules hummed as they reached the door to the tap room and the guy opened it for her.

“Ah, I get it, you’re from the base,” he nodded sagely before extending his hand. “Danny,” he offered.

“Jules,” she replied, shaking his hand in return.

“Now, I would offer to buy you a drink but I’m a little worried I might get lynched,” he chuckled, tipping his head to indicate over her shoulder.

Jules turned and let out a huff of exasperation at the sight of the five lads, even the Captain, leaning back in their seats with their arms folded across their chests, glaring daggers at her new friend.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “Sorry about them. They obviously still have their watches set to the 18 hundreds.”

“No bother,” Danny replied, seemingly unperturbed. “I’ll leave you to it. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jules flushed a little, smiling back at him.

They parted ways and Jules headed back to her seat with an exasperated expression.

“Subtle boys, very subtle. You gonna insist on chaperoning me everywhere now? I don’t think it’s necessary, I mean, I managed to get a taxi here all by myself like a big girl…”

“We look after our own,” Price rumbled, taking a swig of his Guinness, but Jules caught the sly smile and wink he threw in her direction.

“God, I’m going to end up an old spinster aren’t I? Training recruits until I’m too old and crooked to do it any more, lamenting my lost chance of true love.”

She’d meant the words as a joke, and in any other company it would have been, but the laser-guided stare of the phantom across the table from her made her falter just slightly. Mentally shaking herself, she tried to cover it up with more sarcasm.

“Cavemen bodyguards weren’t mentioned in the transfer papers, Captain,” she joked.

“Must’ve forgotten to mention it,” Price replied. “I’ll speak to HR in the morning.”

“Bunch o’ twats,” Jules snickered into her pint, but her chest bloomed with a welcome feeling of camaraderie.

It felt like no time at all before the barman was calling last orders and Bravo Company began to work out the logistics of getting all six of them back to the base. Jules left them to it, paying another visit to the bathroom before heading outside into the crisp night air. The pub was falling into darkness now as the inside lights were turned off one by one and the last patrons wandered off to their relative destinations. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and hunched her shoulders against the chill. There was only one other person outside now, leaning against the wall and taking a final drag of his cigarette before grinding it out on the floor.

“The others started walking,” Ghost rumbled, pushing off from the wall. “Said I’d wait for you.”

“Of course you fuckin’ did,” Jules muttered under her breath before turning to face him. “You don’t need to wait, I’ll just get a cab.”

“Already rang one,” he said, nodding towards the pair of headlights that were pulling up in front of the pub.

“Mint,” she replied, sarcasm bleeding through in her tone.

Wordlessly the pair of them climbed into the taxi and Jules told the driver their destination. Without even trying, Ghost took up most of the back seat and Jules scooted as far over as she could, pressing herself against the door for the short journey back to base, her eyes staring out of the window at the night-drenched countryside, her jaw set in a determinedly stubborn line.

* * * * *

Jules pushed​​ through the press of bodies to reach Rachel, leaning her chin on her friend’s shoulder as she grabbed them two drinks from the crowded bar. Turning, Rachel handed Jules the bottle of lemon Hooch and she took a grateful swing.

“Oh fuck,” Rachel hissed in surprise, gripping Jules’ arm. “Your brother’s here.”

“Shit!” Jules cursed, hunkering down a little to avoid being spotted, unsteady in her heels and tipsy state.

Through the dim light and haze of cigarette smoke she looked in the direction Rachel had indicated and saw Rob, his arm ‘round his latest bird, bobbing in time to the beat that blasted from the club’s speakers. Just behind him, in a pale blue shirt, was Simon bloody Riley.

“Your gob’s open,” Rachel grinned, nudging Jules with her elbow and nearly sending her flying.

“Piss off,” Jules grumbled, surreptitiously smoothing her hair.

“Thought he was seeing that Debbie from Athol Street?”

“Nah, she got caught with Skinny Mike round the back of the chippy. He sacked her off,” Jules sniffed, looking offended on Simon’s behalf.

“Oooooh, could be in with a chance now Jules!” Rachel teased drunkenly.

“Shurrupppppp!” Jules wailed, flushing red and hiding her face in her hands.

By the time they’d finished their drinks, and another three, the two girls were out on the dance floor, the threat of discovery all but forgotten. Rachel had managed to find herself a lad to grind against but Jules was content to just keep dancing, that is until the potential couple began to examine each other’s tonsils. She tapped Rachel on the back and headed to the bathroom, the quieter space a respite from the thud of the bass.

Tottering slightly, Jules washed her hands and smoothed her damp palms sloppily over her hair in a drunken attempt to tame any flyaways and then pushed her way back into the main body of the club. The wall of music and heat hit her and she swayed on her feet but someone caught her arm and kept her upright.

“Y’alright there Jules?” Simon asked, concern etched across his face.

“Simon!” she squealed happily, wrapping her arms around his neck, the alcohol finally making her forget how shy she usually was around him.

“What the ‘ell are you doin’ in ‘ere? How d’you even get in?” he asked, his hands at her waist.

“Flashed my tits at the bouncers,” she teased, her face falling when he pushed her back a little. “Jeez, I’m kidding, chill y’beans. Besides, what else would I be doin’ on a Saturday night? Sittin’ on the park drinkin’ shit cider wi’ all the high school kids?”

“Don’t let Rob see y’in this state,” he warned, knowing just how overprotective her brother could be.

“Don’t worry about it, he’s probably off in the corner shaggin’ Stef, or Sammy, or whatever her fuckin’ name is.”

Simon huffed out a laugh. “Where’s your mate?”

“Probably doin’ the same as Rob!” Jules threw her head back and cackled and Simon found himself grinning along with her.

The music transitioned into the soft intro of another dance track and Jules’ eyes widened in delight.

“Oh my God I love this one!” she exclaimed, throwing her head back and singing tunelessly along. “Do you ever question your life…do you ever wonder why…?”

Turning away from him she headed towards the dance floor but her fingers brushed a trail down his arm and hooked around his own and she tugged, looking over her shoulder at him with a devilish smile.

“Come on,” she mouthed.

Rolling his eyes, as if it were the last thing he wanted to do, he followed her out into the melee, just to keep an eye on her and make sure she stayed out of trouble.

By the time the DJ played the last track Rachel had found them again, her makeup smeared and her chin red from stubble rash. Jules’ feet were throbbing in her heels but she didn’t want the night to end. The only time Simon had left her side was to get them more drinks and she didn’t think she’d had as much fun in her life.

“You got a coat?” Simon asked when the music finally ended.

“Yeah!” Jules replied, shoving her hand down into her bra and fishing around for a moment before triumphantly presenting him with a crumpled, and slightly damp, ticket.

He disappeared just for a minute, returning with the cardigan she’d spent forever deciding on that afternoon, making sure it matched her royal blue velvet mini dress. Instead of putting it on she tied the sleeves around her waist and they joined the crush of people making their way outside, Simon kept a hold of her hand in an effort not to get separated and neither of them questioned the moment their fingers laced together.

“My feet are killin’ me,” Jules whined, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

Simon gave a long-suffering sigh but smiled cheekily as he hunkered down a little and patted over his shoulder.

“Come on then, Princess, if it’ll stop y’whinging,” he deadpanned.

Jules gave a squeal of delight and jumped on to his back, wrapping her arms around his neck as he hooked his arms under her thighs and hoisted her up.

“Lifesaver,” she thanked him, hugging him tighter.

When they reached the end of the queue for the taxis Simon released Jules and began to step towards the front of the cab but Rachel screeched “shotgun” and darted under his arm, grinning devilishly as she buckled herself into the front seat. He opened the back door for Jules, shutting it behind her before walking around the other side and climbing in.

“Gorton please, mate,” he said to the driver, giving him first Rachel’s address and then the street where he and Jules both lived.

Jules was strapped into the seat in the middle and, by the time they made it to Rachel's, her head was leaning against his chest, her eyes heavy with tiredness and alcohol. His arm had somehow found its way around her shoulders and Simon had convinced himself it was so she didn’t slump too far forwards and hurt her neck.

Helping her out of the cab wasn’t as much of a struggle as he thought it would be. She was steadier on her feet now and he walked her through the ginnel to the back door of her house just to make sure she got inside OK.

“Thanks for bringing me home, Simon,” she said, her words not even slurred now, despite the late hour.

“Anytime,” he replied, surprised when Jules popped up onto her toes and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

She did wobble then, falling into him a little more and his arms went around her waist to steady her. She giggled softly, looking up at him with a smile, their noses so close they almost touched. Neither of them moved and even their breath seemed to stop. Simon had half a thought that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to…but then her lips were on his and he couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason not to pull her closer.

Taglist: @aykxz98

[endless-summer-soldier]

ice ice baby - chapter eight

pairing: CollegeHockeyPlayer!Bucky x CollegeFigureSkater!Reader

summary: Bucky is a college hockey player, Y/N is a figure skater without a partner. What's happens when these two opposites start sharing the ice...

warnings: enemies to lovers trope, some alcohol use

word count: 1.9k

taglist: @sebsgirl71479 @whiskeyrosepoetry

series playlist

series masterlist

Y/N studied herself in the mirror for the hundredth time. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a date and this all felt so foreign to her. Bucky didn’t tell her where they were going, but he told her to dress casually. She opted for her best pair of jeans and an oatmeal cable knit sweater. She was pacing in her boots, waiting for him to pick her up. She audibly gasped when he knocked on the door, so lost in her own thoughts that the sudden noise startled her. She grabbed her purse, coat, and keys and opened the door.

Bucky was clad in a forest green hockey jersey that read “Minnesota Wild” in script. 

“Hey doll,” he said, as his brilliant smile spread across his face, “I missed ya.”

The moment she saw him, all her anxiety melted away and a blush crept up her cheeks. This was Bucky, she had no reason to be nervous.

“Don’t tell me we’re going to a Wild game,” she joked.

He shrugged, “The Canucks are in town. I couldn’t miss it. And I had to give you a little glimpse into my world.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” she smiled and slid into his car. In the front seat there was a green beanie with white stripes, the Wild logo, and a green pom-pom on top.   

“Here’s your hat,” she said, handing him the beanie.

“Oh no, that’s for you. Couldn’t have you showing up without gear.”

She grinned to herself as she pulled down the visor and opened the mirror. She put the beanie on and adjusted her hair before turning to him with a smile.

“Please don’t ever take that off. You are unbelievably adorable.”

She blushed yet again and said, “Stop flirting with me and take me to this hockey game.”

“You got it,” he smiled, putting the car into drive.

They entered the XCel Energy Center and Y/N followed Bucky’s lead as he navigated the crowd and showed them to their section. They stopped at the concession stand for a couple pounders of Coors Light and some nachos, “must haves” according to Bucky. When they took the steps down to their seats, Y/N kept expecting them to stop and file in; but they didn’t stop until they reached the glass. She could almost feel the envious stares they received as they took their seats in the front row. They were situated in the corner of the rink, facing the goal that the Wild would shoot at for two of the three periods.

“How did you get these seats?” she asked him.

“One of the scouts offered them up to me. You ever been to a hockey game before?” he asked her.

She shook her head, “Not a professional one.”

“But you’ve been to others?”

“A few in high school. Maybe a few in college.”

He perked up at this, “Oh really? So you’ve seen me play?”

She played coy, “Maybe.”

“Wow, how did you keep it together being around me all this time? You must’ve been fangirling so hard.”

“Oh my god, so hard. You have no idea,” she joked.

He laughed at the sarcasm but didn’t let up, “So you knew who I was that day I walked into the rink?”

She nodded, “I knew who you were.”

“And what was your first thought?”

“Honestly? I thought it might’ve been a big joke to you. That’s why I was a bit closed off at first.”

“That’s understandable. What changed your mind?”

“The day you gave me pushback. I could see it in your eyes that you cared.”

He considered her words, “When I first met you, I was really intimidated and that wasn’t how I usually felt around girls. You had this confidence about you that was incredibly attractive, but it made me nervous. I wanted to skate to your standards and I didn’t even know if that would be possible.”

“Well you did it. You impressed me. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

“I am nothing if not stubbornly determined.”

She laughed, “Now that I know.”

The lights in the arena went black and spotlights darted around the crowd in an attempt to amp up the audience for the face off. Players from both teams skated out and started warming up as pop punk music blasted over the speakers. Y/N found herself feeding off the energy in the crowd and growing excited. The taste of light beer and artificial cheese somehow enhanced her experience. 

After the initial faceoff, she found it hard to pull her attention away from Bucky. She asked him questions about some of the rules she didn’t quite understand and he offered her tidbits about the players as they skated around the rink. When something exciting would happen, Bucky would stop mid sentence to cheer or yell at the refs, then fall right back into the conversation with a brief apology. Y/N found it endearing that he was so passionate about the sport and that he cared enough to make sure she was having a positive experience. 

As the gameplay continued, she felt more comfortable with the sport and started cheering along with the crowd at important moments. One of the Wild players tapped in a goal right in front of them and they both stood up in tandem to cheer. Y/N lifted her arms up to give Bucky a double high five, but instead he wrapped his arms around her torso and squeezed her tight. While she was starting to get more used to his touch, it still gave her butterflies. 

The game was tied 1-1 going in the middle of the second period. Y/N could feel the tension mounting between the two teams. The players were slamming each other into the glass like they had personal vendettas against each other. It was exciting to watch. Bucky kept waiting for the gloves to come off in an actual brawl, but it hadn’t reached that level just yet. Y/N was also impressed with the crowd engagement tactics used. Outside of just showing fans dancing on the jumbotron, they showed videos of the players trying to name as many ice cream flavors as possible in 30 seconds and had a montage of players naming their favorite TV shows. Y/N was most tickled by the look-a-like segment, where a notable celebrity or character was displayed on the jumbotron and then a fan in the crowd who looked similar to the person in question was projected on the screen side-by-side. As the segment progressed, the comparisons became more and more accurate, eliciting cheers and giggles from the crowd.

What Y/N did not expect to see, was the kiss cam. She’d seen it in several rom coms from the early 2000s, but had assumed the tradition had died out. Regardless, she wasn’t worried about being featured on the screen. There were so many other people in the stadium that must have looked more interesting than them. 

They started with a couple in their seventies who shared a quick peck. Then the screen displayed a young mother with a young child sitting on her lap. She peppered the child with kisses on the cheek as the baby smiled at the camera. The next couple were both wearing hockey jerseys and were caught by surprise when they noticed they were on screen. The female had just taken a big swig of beer and almost spit it out when she saw herself. The male was looking straight ahead and shaking his head with wide eyes. He then kissed his cup of beer and chugged it while his friend laughed along with the crowd. 

And then she saw Bucky on the screen, her own image projected by his side. They both had their eyes up at the screen and they turned toward each other at the same time. 

“Let’s give ‘em something to cheer about, yeah?” he said. She didn’t have time to respond, but he could tell from the smile on her face and the look in her eye that she was in.

He crept in close and gingerly placed his hand on her jaw. His lips met hers in what started out as a sweet kiss. He deepened the kiss, using the slightest bit of tongue without being sloppy. When he started to ease up, Y/N’s lips spread into a smile and they shared a few loving pecks as the crowd cheered for them. She was immediately embarrassed and leaned into Bucky’s shoulder to hide her face. Bucky took the opposite approach. He wrapped his arms around her shoulder and thrust his other arm into the air, much like Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club. The crowd loved it, amping up their applause.

When the segment ended and the crowd simmered, Bucky leaned back into his seat and Y/N’s expression was that of pure disbelief. 

“That did not just happen,” she said. 

“I wish I could take credit for that, but it was pure kismet.”

“I just didn’t think things like that happened to normal people.”

“Well maybe that’s because you’re not a normal person,” he suggested.

She turned to him with eyebrows raised, waiting for him to elaborate, “You’re extraordinary.”

Instinctually, she leaned into him and kissed him again, using her actions to portray her feelings.The kiss was soft and sweet, leaving Bucky in awe yet again.

As she pulled away, Bucky took his time to open his eyes. When he was ready to return to reality, he opened his eyes and looked straight into hers.

“I never want you to stop doing that,” he flirted. She blushed and they returned their attention to the ice.

The night continued to be more and more exciting. The game was still tied up into the third period. With about two minutes left, the Wild scored a goal right in front of them. They both jumped up and banged on the glass in excitement. The crowd went into a frenzy as the players celebrated with padded up group hugs and high fives. They stayed for the last few minutes and were relieved to see the game end with a Minnesota victory.

As they walked out of the stadium to the car, Y/N felt the buzz of the win running through her. It was unlike anything else she ever felt, even medaling in a competition. 

“You okay,” Bucky asked her, as she kept smiling and looking at the crowd filing out around her.

“I’m great, I feel like I don’t want this night to end.”

“Is that because of the win or the date?” 

“A little of both.”

“I mean if you want we can grab a drink somewhere when we get back to campus if you want to keep the night going.”

She nodded, “We’ll see how we feel.”

They loaded into the car and waited for their turn to exit the crowded parking lot. Once they escaped the initial bumper-to-bumper, it was smooth highway sailing back to campus. They found a parking spot near her apartment. Y/N pulled out her phone for the first time all night and her face immediately went blank.

“Shit…” she muttered.

Bucky looked at her concerned, “What is it?”

“USFS is calling a press conference tomorrow morning.”

“Oh shit,” he replied in surprise.

“Now I definitely need a drink,” she replied, wanting something to calm her nerves.

“I think we can manage that.”

[avengerscompound]

The Interview - Chapter 24

The Interview - A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Rating:  E

Warnings: mentions of racism, family drama

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Melody Danes

Word Count: 2743

Summary:  Melody Danes gets the break of a lifetime when as a lowly intern, she’s assigned to write a profile piece on Captain America.  Steve Rogers is a hard man not to fall for and as she and Melody get closer and Melody’s career takes off, jealousy leads to sabotage, and the potential to bring her whole world crashing down.

Chapter 24

Melody woke the next day to an empty bed and the sun coming through the window.  She groaned and pulled her pillows over her face.  If the bed was empty, Steve was up.  If Steve was up then Steve had met her parents without him, and god knew how that was going.  He was probably cornered in the kitchen, being force-fed while they asked a million questions.  She’d have to get up and rescue him, but she needed a moment to collect herself.  It was early and there were so many stressors working on her right now.  The lingering stress of the hacking.  Potentially needing to get a new job.  The late-night travel.  Now she was here in her family home, a place she hadn’t stepped foot in over two years, to spend time with her parents who she hadn’t seen in person since then.

It was a lot, and she really wished that her boyfriend was still in bed with her so that she could talk it out with him.

She groaned again, rolling over and picking up her phone.  She opened it up and immediately was greeted with a tirade of racism about who Steve was dating. She sighed.  Today was going to be a nightmare.

She let her phone fall on the mattress and lay there willing herself to get up, or at least fall back asleep.  After a while, the second didn’t happen, and she relented and did the first, rolling over and heaving herself up.

It was cold out of the covers.  Colder than New York was right now.  It wasn’t unheard of for it to snow here during November and she wondered if they might see some during their stay.  She pulled on a robe and slippers and went to use the bathroom.

By the time she was heading down to the kitchen, she was feeling a little fresher and slightly more prepared for this. 

The scene she’d been imagining ended up being fairly accurate.  Her mother and father were sitting at the kitchen table with Steve and a woman she’d recognized from Facebook as her brother’s girlfriend, Kieu.  Her father was still in his pajamas, a flannel set with blue and white stripes that looked like it came from a catalogue for old men’s pajamas, paired with a mismatched red robe, green slippers, and a black beanie covering his bald spot.  Her mother on the other hand was fully dressed, in a brightly colored wool dress, her braids spilling out over the top of a bright headscarf.  Kieu was bundled up more than anyone else in jeans, a long blue cable knit sweater, a black scarf, and a black wool hat.  Her long black hair was braided down her back and she held a cup of steaming liquid to her face.  Steve was still in his pajamas but he’d pulled on a gray sweater over them.  Everyone had plates piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, and pancakes.

The fire was lit, but going on the temperature, it was a recent occurrence and the two dogs were now lying as close to it as they could get.

Steve saw she was up first and stood.  “Mel.�� You’re up,” he said.

Her parents both jumped to their feet.  Everyone stood frozen for a split second and then her parents rushed forward.  Her mother reached her first, pulling her into a tight hug and kissing over the side of her face.  “Oh, my goodness.  I am so happy you are home.  Don’t go putting so much time between your visits again.”

Melody stood stiff, patting her a little awkwardly but not pulling away.  “Well - we’ll see,” she said, skirting the statement.

Her dad put his arms around them both and kissed Melody’s cheek.  “You’re looking well, Mel.  We’ve been talking to your boyfriend.”  He pulled back and looked at her.  “Let me get you some breakfast.  It was my turn to cook.”

Melody looked at her mother.  “Really, mom?  You’re gonna subject Steve to the Englishman’s cooking first?”

She laughed and patted Melody’s arm.  “We researched before you all came.  I know his parents were Irish.  We didn’t want to kill him with spice for his first meal here.”

“And I appreciate it,” Steve said, watching from the table.

“Come.  Come.  Sit.  It’s been too long,” her mother said, pulling Melody toward the table.

Steve kissed her when she reached the table and Kieu stood and held out her hand.  She was shorter than Melody and much shorter than Steve, but still had a few inches on her mother.  “Hi.  It’s so good to finally meet you,” she said.  “I’m Kieu.”

Melody took her hand.  It was a surprisingly firm handshake that made Melody instantly smile.  “I know.  River talks about you all the time.  And I’ve seen the pictures.  It’s good to meet you too.”

She took her seat next to Steve and looked at him. “So, were you getting pumped for information.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head. “No. Well - there’s been questions.  But it’s been fine.”

“Mom!” Melody yelped.  “Give him a chance to breathe.”

“Oh he did fine,” she replied.  “We just want to get to know him.”

Her dad brought a cup of coffee over to her.  “How have you been?” he asked as he set it down.

This felt so strange.  She wasn’t even sure why she’d done this except that she wanted Steve to be part of her family and this was a step to get there. The thing was; aside from her brother, she’d barely even spoken to any of her family in years.  In the two years since she’d been in New York, it was barely more than a brief Facebook message.  Before that, she didn’t speak to her parents at all for a full year, and then only on holidays or special occasions.

They had really hurt her.  Their rejection of Bobbi had hurt.  They were the reason the two women had needed to spend time living out of their car or in shelters while they waited for college to start.  Now here they were playing nice and acting like there wasn’t all that pain looming over them.

Melody wasn’t sure that she had a full-blown confrontation in her.  Not yet at least.  But she could name-drop Bobbi constantly and see what happened.

“Generally pretty good.  Bobbi and I moved into a bigger place.  Her boyfriend is going to move in too,” she said.

Her parents looked at each other and her father dipped his chin forward.  Her mother nodded in return.  “How is Bobbi?” she asked.

Melody’s blood boiled, and her eyebrows knitted together.  Steve’s hand moved, taking hers and linking their fingers together.  “Well, you know Bobbi,” Melody said, her jaw twitching as she tried to reign in her anger.  “She’s very resilient.  Bounces right back from adversity.  She’s got a job in a dinner theater.  And some on-camera work.  A very nice boyfriend.”  No thanks to you.

“That’s so good to hear, Mel,” her father said. “I’m glad she’s got things together.”

That was the final straw.  She pushed herself back from the table and stood.  “I can’t do this. I can’t.  I have to go.  Steve.”

Steve stood beside her, moving like lightning as he got to his feet.  She was shaking, and the edges of her vision were wavering thanks to the pure white hot rage she felt.  “I’ve got you,” he said.

“Mel, please,” her father said.

“Wait,” her mother added, getting to her feet.

She wheeled back to them.  Poor Kieu was sitting there like a deer in headlights, her gaze flicking from the people in front of her to the hall, as she tried to decide if she could flee.

“No.  I can’t just sit here pretending everything is okay.  Talking about how good Bobbi has it.  Acting like everything is good.  We were living in homeless shelters because of you!” she shouted.

Kieu jumped to her feet. “I’m just…” she pointed to the hall and then quickly scurried off down the hall.

“Honey,” her father said.

“No!  No!  Don’t honey me.  You had one job as my parents, and you couldn’t even do it.  All you needed to do was to open your home to your niece when she’d been kicked out.  You know her parents were wrong.  I know you know that.  But instead, you would rather we both be homeless!”  She was shouting and visibly shaking.  Steve put his hand on her back.  It was the one thing keeping her in any way together right now.  If River had been sleeping he wouldn’t be now.

Her mother took a few steps closer.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “Melody, you have every right to be angry.  I’ve gone through so many stages trying to figure out what happened and why I made the choices I did.  And the truth was, I was scared to lose one of the only friends I’d made in this town.  I tried to blame you and Bobbi for it.  But it wasn’t your fault.  You should expect your parents to accept you.  And I was a coward.  I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Do you know what it was like for us?  For Bobbi?  She couldn’t even go to a women’s shelter with me,” Melody said.  “We were sleeping in cars some nights because she was terrified.”

“I can’t even imagine.  Karla was so wrong and so cruel for what she did to Bobbi.  I’ve always raised you to believe in family and helping out people in need and acceptance, and you did everything I raised you to do, and I failed you,” she said.  “I’m sorry, Melody.”

Melody didn’t know what to do or how to feel.  She’d been carrying this around with her for so long.  Having your child be homeless because you didn’t want to make waves was such a failure.  She had this anger in her that she didn’t want to let go.  But here they were telling her all the things she’d been wanting to hear.  They were the ones that were wrong.  They were sorry.  This was what she wanted.  She’d dreamed about it and played it out in her head over and over.

So why couldn’t she just accept it?

“I just - I - I need some air,” she said.

She didn’t move for a moment and both her parents just stared at her, holding themselves like they were trying to approach an injured animal.  When she did break, it was at a run, dashing for the back door and shoving it open.

A gust of icy air hit her as soon as she stepped through the door, but it didn’t stop her.  Thick frost coated the deck, and she nearly slipped as she moved to the railing.  She was breathing heavily as she tried to stop herself from completely breaking down into tears, and every breath she pulled felt like she was breathing glass.

Steve had followed her out and he slowly approached her.  As soon as his hand touched her shoulder she turned into him, burying her face in his chest as she burst into tears.  He held her, rubbing her back in slow soothing circles.  His body was like a furnace compared to the air around them and she pushed as close to him as she could as she cried.

“You’ve been holding that in for a long, long time, huh?” he said as he held her.

She nodded.  Maybe that was all this was.  She had erected a dam to hold back her emotions just to survive.  And now here she was, with the apology she’d been waiting for and she didn’t need to hold on to it, but she didn’t know how to let it go.

“I don’t know what to do.  I’ve been waiting for them to say sorry for so long, and now here it is, and it doesn’t even feel like enough.  But I came here.  I came here wanting validation.  I wanted to have that relationship.  It’s on the table.  Why can’t I just accept it?”  She looked into his eyes, searching for the magic answer that would fix all of this.  “They didn’t even reach out to us to say they were sorry.  They waited until I was here confronting them.”

Steve cradled her cheek, his palm warm against her chilled skin.  “Honey, it’s okay if you need time to process.  It’s okay if you decide that you can’t forgive them.  But I think you want to.  And I think in the long run, for your sake, you’ll feel better if you do.  Even if you do and still don’t talk to them again.  You want to let this go.  You want it off your shoulders.  What they did was terrible.  They know that.  It’s cost them and they have to live with the consequences of their actions.  But you survived it.  You got through and you thrived. Look at what you’ve done.  And Bobbi too.  All despite your parents.  I know that’s beside the point, but here we are, you’re in the position of power.  What you do now, needs to be for you, because they weren’t thinking of you when it mattered most.”

She nodded and hid her face in his chest again.  He held her and slowly ran his hands up and down her back.  “Whatever you want to do, I’m here to support you, Mel. But do you think we can do it back inside?”

She started laughing and pulled back.  “If I go back inside, I’ll have to talk to them.”

Steve shook his head.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

She loved him for believing that.  She leaned up and kissed him before moving her hand to his and leading him back inside.

Both her parents stood as she came in.  Her mom took a tentative step forward.  “Your breakfast is here,” her dad said.  “Come in and get warm.”

She walked in and took a seat and both her parents sat down and stared at her nervously.  She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was going to have to say something.

“That whole thing really fucked me up, you know?” she said.  “Not just being homeless, but knowing that being in our family had conditions.  You raised me making jokes about me marrying Bobbi.  She was over all the time when you all thought she was a boy.  Even as a teenager, you let us sleep in the same room.  Then she comes out and suddenly she’s not welcome?  Not even when I said I’d be staying with her?”

“You’re completely right, honey,” her dad said.  “I should have stood up for you both.  I should have put my foot down.”

“I need time to let this go fully.  I’ve been carrying it for so long.  You didn’t even call me, you could have reached out to have this conversation so many times between then and now.  If I hadn’t come today would you have said sorry?”

Both of them dropped their eyes.  That was as clear a no as if they had said the word.

“Mel,” her mom said.

She shook her head.  “I’m allowed to be pissed!” she snapped.  “I’m allowed to, mom!  I lived in a car because they wouldn’t let Bobbi in the women’s shelter!  It’s been years since then and I got nothing from either of you!  I want to forgive you.  I believe you’re sorry and I want to accept that, but I’ve had to carry this for years.  It’s going to take time.”

“It’s okay, Melody,” her father said.  “We deserve that.”

She sighed and looked up at them. “I came here because I miss you all.  I want things to be okay.  I wanted to introduce you to Steve because I’m serious about him and you’re my parents, and even if you still hadn’t realized you were in the wrong, you could see I’d found someone who loved me and I plan to spend my life with.  I want to spend Thanksgiving with you all.  I want to forgive both of you.  But I have a lot of hurt, and currently a lot of stress in my life too.  So I might lash out while I’m here.”

Her parents looked at each other and nodded.  “As long as you’re here, we can live with that,” her dad said.

// NEXT

[sea-salted-wolverine]

So I got my mom to brush and braid my hair on account of the elbow debacle. And like. We should have some measure of pride for everyone involved in this endeavor because it is best described as "not as bad as it could have been".

And incomplete list of phrases uttered during the full hour it took to do this:

Fuckknot

Its bigger than a weasel

Go get the cable splicer

Jesus my hands are cramping

Congratulations on your face lift, you look like you're twelve

Training to resist enhanced interrogation

Put a beanie on

Im fairly certain none of my children are black

See this is why you had you hair so short as a kid, I'd just give you scissors and you'd chop it off yourself

Its even-ish, that's like a 200 dollar salon job.

Not too late for a buzz cut

The fuck you mean i still gotta do the other side?

Maybe we could get ahold of whoever grooms the zoo animals

Fucking French people

Tada! No dreadlocks for you! Except for the ones that I put there on accident! It was fine and then I touched it! How the hell does your hair do that!?

ITS HEREDITARY

+honorable mention from the father figure hiding upstairs

Yeah, I could do that

[apprenticestanheight]

I don't know if your taking requests still 😭 but I would kill for some reader and adam angst, like Adam and reader were in the trap and are both suffering with the aftermath of it, but they have eachother to help, fluffy and angsty💔❤️ but bit more angsty for reader, maybe PTSD triggers if your okay with that?.. thankyou!! I love your work and you're fr keeping my obsession alive 😭 idk what I'd do without your works, love you bb <3

We'll Be Okay- Adam Stanheight x gn! reader

Hi!! I love me a good post-bathroom trap centric fic (nearly all of mine for adam have been aus where he lived because I refuse to think otherwise) and writing this was a good distraction from my life as it is now so thank you for sending this in!

One thing before we get into it--Adam is where Lawrence was in terms of the trap, and the reader is where Adam was. They wake up in the bath tub like Adam did because I needed their fear of water to make sense and that was the way to do it.

Fic type- this is hurt/comfort with angsty elements

Warnings- mentions and depictions of undiagnosed PTSD (the reader does mention going to therapy eventually but that's not until the fic is near it's end as to my understanding, therapy wasn't that big of a thing nor was it normalized in a big way until the early-mid 2010s. Might also be wrong there but google refused to tell me very much so meh), depictions of flashbacks, mentions of a fear of the water and such hindering the ability to shower for longer than three or so minutes (make up wipes are used in place because it was my first thought), a mention of serial rapists (in terms of Jigsaws victims), mentions of guns and bullet wounds and guns misfiring, mentions of drowning and being shot into the bathtub, reader is afraid of water and the dark post-trap

TWO MONTHS POST BATHROOM TRAP

You'd escaped the bathroom trap with Adam two months before you found yourself standing in a garden in Jersey after having left your apartment for the first time in two weeks. You were wearing basic outfitting--a pair of black jeans, a white cable knit sweater because Jersey was finally cold enough for you to dig it out of your closet, black Dr Marten boots that you'd owned since high school and would never give up on despite the wear they'd accrued in the eight years since you'd graduated, a black cardigan and a white beanie because when Jersey was cold it was better to wear too much than wear too little.

You hadn't known what your goal of the day was when you'd woken up--grants that your closest friend had applied for for you to get funds after the traumatic incident covered your medical bills and had been covering your rent for the two months post escape. You were applying for jobs after quitting your other one because there were too many reminders of the trap there, but you'd decided the night before that you weren't going to go job hunting that day--but you knew you had to do something.

So, you got up. You did your best to shower--waking up in the bathtub and nearly drowning in it had hindered your capabilities to be under water for longer than three-ish minutes--and you told yourself that that was enough while you made sure you didn't stink by using make up wipes that smelled like your favorite scent.

You got dressed in the cable knit sweater you'd thrifted when you were eighteen, put on the black jeans you'd borrowed from a coworker that July but would probably never return, put on a couple of pairs of socks to help combat the cold while acknowledging that the Dr Martens you'd splurged on just a couple days before you were taken still needed breaking in. You grabbed the cardigan off of your coat hanger by the door, did up the three buttons on the waistline, and grabbed a hat when you remembered you needed to grab your phone and apartment and car keys before you left.

Then, you left your apartment. You decided to walk instead of drive and stopped by a local breakfast bakery because you'd been meaning to start supporting locally owned businesses anyway. You grabbed a cinnamon roll and your hot drink of preference, then you left the store and kept walking.

You found yourself standing in one of the only gardens in Jersey, the mornings frost dusting the grass in a way that makes it look almost more beautiful than it does in spring.

You breath in deep, the air bitingly cold, but you find yourself thankful for it. You've started noticing that you're thankful for a lot lately--after a couple of bullet wounds from Zepp and Adam both, you had to spend three weeks in the hospital just...healing.

The minute you stepped out of the hospital, you found your case wasn't quite old news and press just kept hounding you, going so far as to wait for you in the lobby of your apartment complex.

Coupled with that was the fact that you had to go to the police to give a statement while the events were still clear in your mind. Because of complexities on the force and with the Jigsaw case, your statements kept being interrupted because of how thin things were stretched even with the FBI on the case, so that occupied the first week of your second month out.

Then, it was a myriad of issues. You were too afraid to have the spaces in your place be dark, you couldn't handle being in the water for too long because Zepp had shot you into it when he shot you in the shoulder and the chest, being unable to move because Adam had misfired and shot you in the leg when the gun was within his reach and Zepp had tried to wrestle it away from him.

But, still. You took a deep breath in, watching the ground, and were grateful for that capability. Just like you'd thanked the barista who'd taken your order, thanked your luck that you'd woken up in your apartment rather than the bathroom like your nightmares had told you you would. Just like you would thank the first stray cat who ran up to you and rubbed their cheek against your hand when you extended it--Jigsaws aim had been to make sure you felt grateful for the life you got, and while it had left you traumatized, the innate urge to thank things that you'd taken for granted before seemed to come along with the fact that you'd survived.

You weren't grateful for the fact that you'd been trapped--the trauma you inherited along with the survival had kind of hindered that. Instead, your time was spent angered at Jigsaw for doing as he'd done.

"Y/N?" You hear your name being called, recognize the voice calling it instantly. "What are you doing in the garden? It's the middle of November."

You laugh a little bit as you turn to face him. "I don't know," you say. "I just--it's standing in the garden that will be relatively free of people until the spring or job hunting. I've been using a grant to pay my rent since we escaped, so I chose to do this instead."

Adam laughs a bit in turn, and you let yourself approach him.

He looks good--his hair has grown out a slight bit, he's got his camera slung over his hip. He's wearing glasses, too, and oddly enough they suit him.

He's wearing outfitting that you just think is so him--a pair of blue jeans, henley layered with a flannel or two, and a leather jacket. He looks better than good--he looks amazing.

"What do you do for work?" You ask in the interest of making polite conversation. "Are you still working as a--"

"PI? No," Adam says. "I work in photojournalism now. Don't even smoke as often as I used to, I get so damn terrified he's around and watching me."

You snort. "Oh, believe me, I can relate. I've debated adopting a dog recently but I'm too afraid that I'll see an old man sitting somewhere sketching away whenever I take them on a walk. I hate it, but it's the new normal so I guess all we can do is adjust."

"You could adopt a cat," Adam suggests. The two of you start walking toward the garden entrance. "Unless, of course, you decide to leash train them. In which case, just make sure they don't climb up a tree and I'm sure you'll be okay."

You laugh a little and realize that you haven't laughed so much since before the trap. It's a little disheartening, but you and Adam were dropped at two separate hospitals. You couldn't have talked to him before that moment, and you were going to cherish it and all the laughter it brought along.

"If I did adopt a cat, I would want to make sure I had a job beforehand. The grants my friend got me on can be used to pay for rent and other expenses but I don't want to adopt a cat using 'hey, you were traumatized and we can't fix that but here's some money!' money. You're able to apply for them up to three months after the incident, so if you're needing something to cover the rent and make sure you have adequate groceries from paycheck to paycheck, I'd look into it."

Adam shook his head. "Pfffffftt," he breathed. "What--rent money and grocery money? In this America? How foolish a thought!"

You laugh. You'd not experienced any trouble with putting food on your table thanks wholly to the grants, but before the trap you were making enough to cover rent and rent only and as such would frequent the foodbank nearest your apartment.

"Seems a luxury until you realize that living without roaches is, in fact, your right as a tenant. Does your new job at least pay you enough to move somewhere?"

"They gave me a place, actually! It's near my job and the rent is cut from my paycheck. I get five hundred for groceries which goes a long way when one is shopping sales and at places like Aldi," Adam says. "I'm also using a company owned car--my friend Scott knows someone who knows someone else. Got an interview, didn't flunk my way through it, and now I've got a solid set up, I think."

You smiled. You were so happy for him.

When you're within a foot of the exit, Adam sidesteps, gestures at it and lets you through first with a sarcastic grin on his face. "The one who's got more bullet wounds gets to leave first," he says as you exit.

"I don't have that many more than you do," you say.

"You have four," Adam says. "Two in the chest, one in the shoulder, one in the leg. I have one--a shoulder wound is nothing, especially considering that Zepps aim was off."

You smile close-lipped at him, and Adam shakes his head.

"I know," he says. "Too soon. 'M sorry I didn't visit you--I meant to find your number in the phone book after I'd gotten out of the hospital, but I didn't know if you'd gotten out yet and I didn't want to leave a voice message. Doing so would've felt pathetic, I think."

"It's all right," you said. "I was a mess until my last four days in--had I seen you, I think that I would've needed to be sedated. John definitely got to me in a way that was not very fun at the start."

"You're on a first name basis with him now?" Adam asks, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"Oh yeah," you said. "Kramer and I get coffee every Wednesday, and I hear all about the relatively innocent people he plans to put into his murder machines. Not a lot of photographers, though--you must've been a one-off."

Adam snorts and you laugh, leaning against him a bit. It's like something in your dynamic has cracked, returned you to the people you were in the bathroom--Adams sarcasm, your riffing off of his responses and hitting back with your own. The difference is that Adam found the key to the chain around his foot in a cracked and lifted area of the floor two feet away from where the chain on his foot kept him, and left after finding that the key required for the cuff on your foot was different. You were stuck for a few days before Kramer and one of his accomplices freed you after asking if you'd held out hope and when you responded yes desperately because you were dehydrated and hadn't eaten and you were bleeding out.

Adam sighs. "I have to get to work, but I'll call you, okay? You have a landline?"

"Yeah," you nod. "It's the number beside my name in the phone book."

Adam nods. "Okay," he says.

And then you're watching him go, and the coldness of reality is returning.

FOUR MONTHS POST BATHROOM TRAP

In the months that follow, you end up with a job working in marketing. Adam calls your landline and you give him the number associated with your flip phone. You start meeting for coffee when your shifts line up and let you do so before or after work, and on the weekends and most weekdays you two are inseparable until midnight comes and you're telling Adam to call you in the morning while you go about your nighttime routines.

Adam stays over on the weekends, or you stay at his. It depends on who's place the coffeeshop or bar you go to after work is closer to because the two of you take turns choosing where.

When, two weeks into your second month post escape, you adopt the pair of stray kittens you find in the dumpster behind your apartment, Adam starts picking coffeeshops that are closer to your apartment than his own.

The cats are both boys and are named Cinnamon and Nutmeg for their brown coats. Cinnamon is completely brown all over and blue eyed, whereas Nutmeg is a calico that has shades of brown all over his back, paws, face and tail, where white is on his tummy and neck area.

Adam has spent more time taking photos of them than he'll willingly admit, but as time develops he also has a ton of photos of you doing anything and everything--opening the windows, falling asleep while you two watch a bad horror movie, doing some work from home, making coffee and tea, holding a joint, making breakfast, eating an edible.

He also realizes as time goes on that you are a lot worse off than he is. Three months in and you can't stomach the thought of going to the part of Jersey where the trap was located. You can't exist in spaces absent of light for too long, you look over your shoulder constantly because you're afraid that the act of lighting a cigarette while in a public space will have you trapped again. You cry a lot and are sometimes terrified to be in your apartment because you were taken from there, just like Adam was.

There are days where something sets it off and you're thrown off kilter so bad that you have a panic attack. Nutmeg the cat is very receptive to moments like that one, often rushing to your side with Cinnamon the cat on his toes, ready to press his face against your tear stained cheeks while you idly pet at the fur on the top of his head, and Adam lights the lavender candle you use because the scent of lavender is calming.

Three months in and Adam is suddenly fond of notebooks because he likes to keep track of the things that trigger it for you. Winter-era power outages from the wind are not at all helpful in your recovery post trap, he discovers. You hate it, even with the candles lit. You cannot stand living in the dark--it reminds you of waking up in the bathroom, waking inside a full bathtub with your foot chained to a pipe on one side of the room while Adam was chained to one on the other. You can't stand the smell of the sewage in downtown Jersey or the smell of the dumpsters behind your apartment building because it smells too much like the bathroom. You get anxious about the idea of taking baths and being submerged in the water and find showers difficult most days.

You thank baristas and hold the doors open for people. You thank Nutmeg and Cinnamon whenever they cuddle up next to you or in the all-too-common instance that Nutmeg tries to use kisses as a reason for you to feed him two dinners. You laugh at dogs in the park doing silly stuff and you love the taste of coffee. You watch the news warily whenever a new Jigsaw victim or survivor comes out of the woodwork and you love the job you ended up with. You can't stand the sight of Walkmans or the sound of cassette tapes. You seem to thrive off the sound of Adams laugh in the way he thrives off yours.

By the fourth month, Adam has realized that his lists of the things that set you off and their solutions have just become lists of things you do and don't really notice while you do them--the smile on your face when you feed Nutmeg and Cinnamon or choose to donate a dollar to whichever charity when you and Adam are ordering your coffee from the coffeeshop you've both taken a liking to near your apartment.

The way that you look when you're baking or the way that you look when you watch the sunset, the sound of your laugh in the mornings.

The way that you look when you've just woken up and are registering the fact that Adams hand is carding through your hair because he's been awake fifteen minutes longer than you have. The sheer excitement you seem to radiate while you make your first cup of coffee of the day, the serenity that takes you over whenever the two of you watch the sunset from Adams fire escape, the way that you lean against him, arm looped through his elbow, when things get too much or when the world gets too quiet.

His lists of the things that he likes about you and the ones about things that set you off are eventually put into two separate notebooks after a while of meaning to separate the two things and have two different styles--the ones of things he likes about you are rambles. They go on for pages at a time and there are more run on sentences than there aren't.

The lists of things that trigger your trauma responses are simple--Adam writes the trigger and the solution.

Staying in the dark for too long--consider buying a small lamp for corner of room as Christmas gift, light candles, open windows (cold is good--Y/N likes the cold. Helps keep them grounded) play shitty 80s horror movie so that there's light from the tv

The smell of sewage and dumpsters behind apartment complex--avoid the areas of Jersey where the sewage is prominent, tell Y/N to plug nose and breathe through mouth when taking the garbage down

They're simplistic in their own right, complex in that too, but they're good.

Adam is holding a six pack of donuts and a tray with two coffees from your favorite local breakfast bakery when he opens your door, startled to find it unlocked. Your apartment door was always locked unless Adam called beforehand and you knew you'd be in the shower when he showed up, thus unable to let him in, but he'd not called that morning. He knew you didn't have to work and neither did he, so the fact that your door was unlocked set him on edge almost instantly.

He proceeds in with caution, setting the coffee and donuts on your coffee table. Nutmeg the cat meows at him before starting in the direction of your fire escape, the curtain drawn to a close over the window through which you got to it. When Nutmeg turns around to make sure Adam is following, Adam starts to.

He pulls the curtain over your window back, blinking a little in the surprise he feels as he realizes that it's mostly closed. Your back is pressed against the railing, your body facing the window, your eyes closed but your face tilted skyward.

Adam opens the window, steps onto the fire escape. He closes the window behind him after gently shooing Nutmeg the cat indoors so that he doesn't have to deal with the cold bite of Jersey in January.

"Y/N?" He asks in a voice that's barely above a whisper. He's helped you through panic attacks as you've helped him through the same, but he's never seen you like that before.

Your eyes open. You don't look at him.

"Do you ever get nightmares?" You ask.

Adam inhales sharply. His capabilities as far as sleep are concerned have been detrimentally affected since he escaped the bathroom trap. He went from getting somewhere just past the seven hour threshold on weekdays and nine or ten on weeknights to nightmares no matter how mundane the day. Because of the nightmares, he'd averaged out to three or four hours a night, two on his worst and five on his best.

"Every night since I left," he says. "When I escaped, I had a nightmare about leaving you behind--which, I did at first. I'm sorry about that, by the way."

You were chained to a pipe near a bathtub. Adam had been chained to a pipe near the door. Adam had found the key in a cracked and lifted part of the floor about two feet away from him after several hours of bickering and telling Adam to shoot you despite his protests. That day had been one of the worst days of your life.

Still, four months after your escape and well into a January in the city of Jersey, the days you spent starving to death, fading in and out of consciousness and bleeding from four wounds barely managed to top that.

"I didn't have too many," you say. "Not until recently--went for a three month visit to check on the wounds in my chest. Think that spurred me on a little, and I've been having them for three weeks now."

"What are yours about?" Adam asks.

You meet his gaze. Adam is startled to find that he can probably drown in the relief he feels as you do, following it by a gentle shake of your head and a smirk while you stretch your right leg out, crossing your ankle over his left foot. Adam presses his back against the window and idly wishes he could smoke.

"Nah," you say. "Nope. You first."

"Leaving you behind, mostly," he admits. "Some are about one of us being put into a trap again, the other of us being forced to watch them die. Mundane stuff compared to what old man Jigsaw is known for, right?"

You laugh. "Mine are somewhat the same," you say. "You leave me behind, but it's your choice to do so. Others center around my experience escaping, most are about drowning in the bathtub while you hold me, though. Sweet stuff--you're sobbing and you kiss my forehead and you ask the sky 'why, why them?'"

Adam snickers. "Had that been how it happened, I absolutely would've done that," he says. "God isn't really someone I believe in, but I would've stopped believing in him had you died. I uh--well, people have been put into Jigsaw traps for worse than us, right?"

"Worse reasons, and pettier ones, too," you say. "You spy on people, I fudged the data on a couple of marketing reports when my old boss promised me a raise, which you ended up investigating."

You approach and Adam welcomes your embrace, settling with you sitting against the fire escape railing by the window, one of Adams legs up and your leg tucked beneath it while the other sat near his foot, your foot resting against his calf.

"We're going to be okay," you say. "I mean--not now. Probably not by March, but we will be, I think."

Adam scoffs. "You think?"

"I don't know," you shrug. "Nothing is certain, really, but if I'm remembering correctly, 'time heals all wounds' was, in fact, my senior quote. Either that or something from a Jane Austen novel."

Adam laughs, presses a kiss against your forehead. You relax for a minute, eyes closing as you breathe the cold air in and whatever kicked up that trauma response seems to settle.

"For the record--I think we'll be fine," he says. "I mean, my margin for fine is a little on the low end, but I really do think we'll get there one way or another. We have to."

You grin at him, take his hand.

An unspoken truth exists there--you'll be okay if you have each other. You'll claw your way to okay if you have to, but you'll get there and you'll do with hands entwined, no matter how exhausting it becomes.

SIX MONTHS POST BATHROOM TRAP

You were working. You liked your job. Yours and Adams romantic relationship had been going on for a month when you decided to turn on the news on a crisp evening somewhere near the second week of March.

Another case. Another victim and survivor both, another instance wherein Jigsaw completely evaded capture and no leads on his location are findable.

Sometimes, despite the number of good days you have, you have bad ones, too. Adam is the same--his trauma isn't as bad as yours in the long run, but sometimes his nightmares throw him for a loop or he finds the darkness too unsettling or he gets too close to the part of town where the trap was without realizing until it's too late.

You both have your bad days and your bad weeks, and you've both come to rely on each other during those times. Adam knows how to get you onto the ground again when you feel like you are floating outside of yourself, and you know how to help him when his nightmares have left him helpless, drowning in the thought that he'd left you to die alone in the bathroom.

Adam knows your signals well enough, which explains the closeness he keeps to you when he shows at your apartment after his shift where yours had ended only forty-five minutes beforehand and you'd been home for all of thirty.

You'd managed to take a shower in that time, but in combination with your trauma exacerbated by a nightmare when you'd slept the previous night, it still left you reeling. Every drop of water against your skin was another reminder of the fact that you'd been shot into the bathtub, would've drowned if not for the fact that Adam pulled you out in a panic.

So, you were standing in your living room, your hair was damp. the news was on in the background, some reporter droning on about the specifics of the newest set of survivors and the victims who'd been identified thus far.

You were wearing a pair of adidas joggers and one of Adams hoodies, socks covering your feet because your floors were always cold. You were asking Adam if he wanted to order a pizza while he interlaced your fingers and nodded, pulling you back toward him when you started walking away and pressing a kiss to your forehead when you melted into his embrace for a split second.

You ordered the pizza while your brain was still trying to process everything, some part of you wanting to go back to watching the news despite knowing that such probably wasn't in yours or Adams best interests.

Once the pizza was ordered, you and Adam went to your living room. Adam looked at you how he looks at you when he's trying to determine the best way to help and ends up pulling you close, the two of you swaying along to the tune of the weatherman reporting the next week of Jersey springtime temps.

You're shaking, still a little on edge. You've been the way that you are for six months, and in those six months you've tried everything that you can short of going to therapy.

You bought melatonin gummies to combat the fear of falling asleep and thus falling victim to another nightmare and you take them as the fear sets in.

You've started gradually working on your fear of water rather than doing as you used to--forcing yourself under the shower head and trying to wash and condition your hair while in the midst of a panic attack--and you're slowly starting to work on your fear of the darkness, though you doubt you'll ever again find solace in it like you used to.

Adam, though, is a delightful constant in a life that, before your trap, was almost completely absent of them. You see each other daily, have each others backs and can read each other like neither of you can read anyone else.

Adam knows you inside and out, and that's why he knows to keep close while you sway, hands interlaced in order to keep yours from shaking.

Externally, you just seem like a couple in their mid twenties, swaying along to the music in their hearts while the news talks in detail of the latest local and global tragedies.

Internally, though, you're stuck in the bathroom again. Your chest is stinging with the reminder of the two bullets that were shot into it. Your leg aches like the wound is new and your shoulder begs for a reprieve from the burn of a bullet wound.

Internally, you're watching Adam try to jam the key into the lock attached to the chain on the cuff attached to your foot. He's angry because it's not working and you're begging him to go because you don't want him to see you bleeding out.

You're telling him "If you go, you have a shot at saving me. Go and get help, Adam. Please."

And he's responding. "I'm not going to leave you behind," and your hand is against his face, one of his is on your hip and you're both covered in blood that is his and yours both. Zepp Hindle is dead. The doors have slid open and Adam can go.

You push him away. "Please," you croak.

And then you watch Adam go, hope leaving you as he turns his back after promising that he'll come back and find you, even if it kills him.

Internally, you are once again the person who fell into murky bathtub water, and you're hearing Adams shouts as Zepp tries to drown you but Adam fights him off and yanks you out.

Internally, you are person startled awake by the feeling of two hands against your shoulders. You're mumbling Adams name.

"No," says a grizzly voice. It's the kind that just...has to belong to an older guy, the kind that you would hear from some sixty year old who'd chainsmoked his way through the previous ten years of his life.

"I have a question for you, Y/N," the voice is saying. "Have you held out hope for Adams return?"

In your bouts of consciousness, the first thing that you've spoken has been his name. "Yes," you're croaking, voice raspy from the disuse and the fact that you haven't drank water in days.

"Congratulations, then. You've passed your test, and it is time you got to a hospital."

Internally, you're hearing the sound of keys being inserted into the lock on the chain that holds your foot captive. You're being carried bridal style out of the building by a woman, dropped into an SUV. You're blacking out, starving and dehydrated, while you're driven to the hospital.

Then Adams voice meets your ears. "Y/N?" One of his hands moves to the small of your back. Your hand starts shaking but Adam moves it to his face, your thumb against his top lip. "Come home. We aren't in the bathroom--not anymore."

You're breathing in. Your eyes are opening as you trace your thumb over Adams lips. Adam steps just a little closer as your hand moves from his lips to his shoulder. You're careful not to touch the wound there.

"We're okay," Adam says. "It's been six months. Today, actually--it's the six month anniversary. I made it out and I called for help while I was sitting on a gurney in the ambulance. I didn't leave you behind, I promise. I told you I wouldn't and I didn't."

Despite the inklings of progress you've made, Adam senses that the reassurance isn't bringing you back like it's meant to. He tries to think of what you'd told yourself after a series of flashbacks--he's got it written somewhere, and despite himself, knows it almost like the back of his hand.

"Your name is Y/N L/N," he starts. "It's been six months since you escaped the bathroom trap, which you were placed into on September 10th, 2004. You were put into the trap because you fudged data for the promise of a raise that you desperately needed because your boss had lowered your pay to the point where it was either covering rent or eating on payday."

You did it like that--your name, the duration of time since you'd left the trap, the day you were put into it, the reason. That was always how it started.

"You are twenty seven years old," he continues. "You have two cats named Cinnamon and Nutmeg and you thank everyone for everything all the time. You say sorry a lot, too, and you like weed but you find nicotine a little disgusting because of how it tastes and the headaches smoking leaves behind.

"You like the coffee and baked goods from Maries on the corner of Cornelia and 45th. You hate the water and you hate the dark and you hate being left alone when the loneliness of that sets in, but you love things too. You love sunrises and sunsets, the smell of coffee and Jersey in the winter."

You squeeze his shoulder a bit, press your forehead against it. Adams hand moves from your lower back up to your shoulder, falling down your arm. He gives the hand of yours that is still tucked into his a squeeze.

"You love it when Nutmeg meows at you, the way that Cinnamon always runs to the good spot for sunbathing in front of your fire escape," he says. "You love late nights and the opportunities they give you in the realm of stealing my sweaters. You love cinnamon buns and music and the sound of birds chirping, and in an unexpected turn of events, your favorite movie is 1987s 'The Princess Bride'. You escaped the trap and we're in your apartment, we've ordered food, and everything is as okay as it can be right now."

You take a deep breath in. Adam squeezes your hand again, presses a kiss to your forehead.

"You surprisingly put up with my music taste despite the fact that ours differ," he says. "And you survived. You survived, Y/N. We both survived, and that has to count for something, at least."

Internally, the flashback ends. You exist outside of yourself for a solid thirty seconds more before Adams lips against your forehead brings you back to the ground.

"Thank you," you say, offering a weak smile. Adam grins back, reassuring and warm.

"Anytime," he says.

Six months in, things are okay. They could definitely be better, but they're okay enough and that's what really matters.

TWELVE MONTHS POST ESCAPE

The six months to follow are relatively decent--Adam moves into your apartment and his paycheck is bumped up significantly as he's not living where the company was paying for him to.

You find a therapist you like in order to work on your residual trauma and start going in every Saturday from two to four. You and Adam buy Cinnamon and Nutmeg a cat tree almost as tall as the wall in your living room and every single morning becomes one full of tired, groggy voices, hugs from behind and the sound of exhausted laughter.

The morning of September fourteenth comes quicker than you or Adam had expected for it to, but you try to go about your day as normal. Jigsaw is still at it, wherever he's ended up. You wake that morning to news of a detectives disappearance and one of his past victims having been tested again. There were two survivors in total--Amanda Young and Daniel Matthews, the son of the missing detective.

You try not to let it dampen your mood and decide to order breakfast rather than make it--you have the day off, as does Adam. You took it because you figured it wouldn't be a very good day and Adam took it because he wanted to suffer with you, in his words.

Off the bat, there's nothing that triggers it. Sure, the news has you in a tizzy as you discover that a group of people was placed into what evidence is reportedly calling "The Nerve Gas House," and you feel a moment of resentment for the fact that all of it is being sensationalized by the media, but that barely scratches the surface. It doesn't trigger much more than mild anxiety and resentment as you really start thinking about it. More people dead. Two left alive.

You wonder how Eric feels, how Amanda feels--both of them are being bombarded by the media just like you and Adam were, and you remember that much as though it were yesterday.

The true crime reporters were a different kind of ruthless, some of them trying to visit you while you were still in the hospitals recovery unit. News reporters also kind of sucked, but then it seemed like everyone wanted a scoop, and you could recall being told to "savor your fifteen minutes of fame" once by one of the particularly ruthless reporters who tried to visit you, even going so far as to open the door to your hospital room and enter while you were high on morphine and still being hydrated through an IV.

The entire thing has made you angry in recent months--Jigsaw, you can admit, puts a very wide scope of people into his traps. It ranges from people with a history of drug addiction or people like you who'd committed relatively minor offenses for decent reason to serial rapists and people who were the direct cause of someone elses death.

The ones who survive his traps are usually left with something to serve as a consistent reminder. For you it is back-of-the-mind worry about things in relation to your heart because two bullets were lodged there for several days. For Adam and you alike, it is the fact that you feel the bad weather before the bad weather hits because you'll get pain in your legs and your shoulders. For others, its the scars that self mutilation has left behind, sometimes even as far as consistent reminder of the loss of a limb coupled with the trauma and the responses developed from it.

So--the thing that makes you angry about all of it is that people survive the things that Jigsaw puts them through, and then, traumatized and having been given a hefty medical bill, the media circus will start. They'll be harassed by reporters as they walk down the street or after giving their statement to the police and the harassment will just continue until the next case comes around.

But, you suppose its better to digress. You turn the news off as you get a call that your food has arrived. Adam, having woken up and taken a shower only to get redressed into a pair of sweatpants and one of the baggy cableknit sweaters you loved digging out of your closet come the first of September, gets it from the door and thanks you for ordering food.

You sit and eat your breakfast while laughing at Cinnamon as he tries to steal Adams bacon, where Nutmeg the cat has settled between your side and the corner of the couch, head on your thigh as he purrs because you'd given him a few pieces of shredded cheese earlier, when you were snacky before you stepped into the shower and braved your way through standing under the water longer than five minutes.

Adam looks to you for help, and you shrug. "You're the one who took it upon yourself to feed him a small piece of bacon when he was nine weeks old," you say.

He laughs a little, holding his bacon egg sandwich in the air and laughing at Cinnamons persistence as he jumps from Adams lap to his shoulder, stretching out over Adams arm.

"I aided in the raising of a demon cat," he says. "You adopted a demon cat."

"I adopted two demons," you said. "I just don't happen to like bacon and Nutmeg calms down when I give him a little shredded cheese once every few weeks."

Adam shakes his head and relents, ripping a small piece of bacon off and letting Cinnamon have it. He's able to eat peacefully from there, Cinnamon settling on the couch cushion behind him.

You eat breakfast in a medley of calmness, talking about work and the apartment and getting snippy at one point, Adams sarcasm coming into play and you reminding him of how quick witted you can get when you riff off his sarcasm like it's nothing. You both mention how good a walk in the gardens sounds while the gardens are still walkable and not bitten by frost, but don't end up deciding to go right then.

There comes a point where Adam moves closer to you and you curl against his side and there's a silent knowledge that passes over you.

The one year anniversary of Adams escape was four days ago. The one year anniversary of your escape is today. Three days exist between the 10th and the 14th, all of which you spent alone. You were alone in that hospital, just as Adam was alone in his. Neither of you had reached out to your families beyond a few stunted phone calls, but you were still alive. A year gone and you were still standing.

Adam presses a kiss to your forehead. "'M sorry I left."

"I told you to go."

"I know, but I feel like I should've stayed."

You turn to look at him, shaking your head. "No," you say. "Had you stayed, we both would've failed and we would've been left for dead. You left because I begged you to go, you got to stay alive, and so did I. We both passed the test that Jigsaw set up for us and now we're here. You can't wallow in the what-ifs, okay? I already know how it would've ended had you stayed and I am relentlessly glad that you didn't."

You press your forehead against his. He grabs your hands. You interlace your fingers and give his hands a squeeze. Of course that day was not going to be an easy one--a year gone already? A year of nightmares, of flashbacks, of good and bad moments both, passed you by like it were a blink.

"We're okay," you whispered. "And we're okay because you left. You left, Adam, and you saved my life."

You pull away, meet his gaze. He's looking at you like you're the love of his life and he hates that leaving you was something he had to do at all.

"We're okay," you whisper.

"We're okay," Adam nods.

To tell the truth of it, you're not sure whether or not you're lying to yourselves. If you are lying to yourselves, however, then the lie is pretty damn convincing.

--

You and Adam end up walking through one of the only gardens in Jersey as the sun goes down. It's the first time you've been to the garden in ten months, and the ten months that have passed have been ones that were good, bad, everything.

Adams hand is interlaced with yours. Your cheek is against his shoulder. Things don't really feel okay, but you know that they will start to eventually.

But, there is also the truth within that that 'okay' is not a constant. There will be moments of your life wherein the thing in its entirety comes crashing down upon you, moments where you feel like breathing is a struggle, like blinking will make you exhausted. There will be moments wherein you're okay, moments where okay elevates to good. Good elevates to great, and great elevates to amazing.

There is not one constant state of feeling or emotion, there is not one constant state of being. Things will fluctuate, as they do, and as Adam lifts his camera to snap a photo of a stray cat, you think, for the first time since your escape, that you're fine with that.

Whatever the next phase of your life looks like, whatever it means for the trauma that still lingers from your time spent in the bathroom trap, you can handle it. With Adam by your side, with your apartment and the adorable cats you adopted two and a half months after you'd been dumped at a hospital with severe bleeding, blood loss, and several bullet wounds, you can handle it. Whether or not you'll be okay throughout all of that time, you'll handle it, and that's what matters.

[sheabutterbitch]

It’s 2:00am and I can’t sleep + my boyfriend is snoring so here is a short list of things that I never used to like or was indifferent toward but now I love because of him:

sports

room temperature water

cats

reading food labels

cable knit beanies

aquaphor healing ointment

saying “let’s fuckin go” when something good or exciting happens

this emoji 🤭

[dutchjan]

January 04, 2024

[space-arts]

Third hat I wanted a staple piece of the very basic rib/cable type beanie with the foldover brim. I looooove this yarn it's got these linen flecks in it that I think looks very charming with this style of hat. I am going to get more of it and make more hats just for fun. The pictures of this hat look very blue but it is more that periwinkle type colour. It doesn't like being photographed and I don't like taking more than two seconds to edit the pics so eh.

[oblivionsdream]

As long as there are some good cable knit sweaters I'll be happy. Though a lady lighthouse keeper would be a lovely twist given how rarely they show up!

Oh there is DEFINITELY going to be good cable knit sweaters and beanies and cozy vibes.

What do you do when you're a lady lighthouse keeper with hermit-ish tendencies just wanting to live your life but after a seal washes ashore trapped in a fisherman net and you help free it you suddenly have a selkie guy following you around like a lost puppy???

[atearyamallari]

A Turtle's Guide to Escaping Midtown Precinct South: Part Five

Click here to start from the beginning!

//

As Sun Tzu said, if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If your enemy might find out your brother is in a holding cell, then you can count on him to do everything he can to make sure your loved one is in his custody. Therefore, you must make your move before your enemy has the chance to.

As soon as Don got off the subway, he bolted out of the station and sprinted home. He slipped on a few patches of ice along the way, but he was always quick to scramble back to his feet and keep running. Thankfully, none of his brothers were around to witness his clumsiness – especially Michelangelo. It was kind of ironic, though, that the one time he got to work on the Battle Shell in peace was the one time he had to fix it in record-breaking time.

At last, he reached the warehouse on Eastman and Laird. Don grunted with effort as he slid open a window in the side of the building, then slipped inside. He turned on a space heater, slipped off his gloves, then popped open the hood of the Battle Shell and looked inside.

If the transmission was stuck, then the problem was most likely the shifter cable getting stuck in the machinery, but the cable looked fine. Don frowned. Maybe the problem was one of the detent bolts or spring. He couldn’t tell if that was the case unless he removed a few brackets, however.

Don grabbed his toolbox from the side of the room and lugged it back to the Battle Shell. On his way, he ripped off his white beanie cap and replaced it with his headphone set. “Leo, this is Donatello,” he said, as he pulled out a wrench from the toolkit. “I’m in the warehouse fixing up the Battle Shell.”

“Alright,” came his brother’s voice. “You said it would only take about an hour to fix, right?”

“Yep,” Don said. He started twisting the bolts on one of the brackets with the wrench until it was loose enough to unscrew with his fingers. “In fact, it might even take less –”

Leo sneezed, interrupting him. Grimacing, Don pulled his headset off – though at this point, the damage to his hearing was already done. “Bless you.”

“Thanks. You were saying?”

“The transmission is going to be an easy fix. It might even take less than an hour.”

“So, what was the issue? Did the Battle Shell just… need new transmission fluid? Like an oil change?”

Don cringed. There was no denying that Leo was a smart turtle – just not smart enough to know what he was talking about when it came to auto mechanics. “Just worry about the mission and leave the mechanic stuff to me,” he said. “Anyway, I’m going to call the chief of police. I’ll keep you updated.”

He removed the bracket and set it to the side before pulling out his phone and dialing the office of the chief of police. The phone range twice before it picked up. “Chief Alice Torres, speaking,” said a stern woman on the other end.

“Chief Torres, my name is Bishop. I am calling on behalf of a government agency. This line is secure,” Don said. He didn’t bother to imitate Bishop’s deep, raspy voice. His focus was on reciting his lines just like he rehearsed on the subway. Meanwhile, he let his arms move on automatic mode, loosening the bolts on a second bracket.

“Which government agency?” Chief Torres said. Don imagined a mean-looking woman narrowing her eyes at him in suspicion. “Are you with the FBI?”

“No,” Don answered. “I work with a covert organization dedicated to protecting the Earth from extraterrestrial threats. That’s as much information as I can disclose, I’m afraid.”

She let out a throaty chuckle. “That’s a good one. Can’t say I’ve heard it before,” she said. “But unfortunately for you, misdemeanor prank calls carry a fine of up to one thousand dollars and up to one year in prison time.”

Don figured she would have her suspicions. “At approximately 10:03 this morning, two of your officers arrested a suspect for fare evasion at the subway station on West 4th Street, Washington Square,” he said as a matter of fact. “But that suspect was not an ordinary human. He was of extraterrestrial origin.”

Chief Torres scoffed. “If you think that’s enough to prove that you’re part of some secret organization, then you’ll have to try harder than that.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was hoping you’d work with me here,” Don said. “But if it’s proof you want, then I have evidence that could land your precinct in hot water.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been taking bribes from David Williams, CEO of South Hudson Prison Properties. You send dozens of people to his prisons each year, and in return he pays you handsomely. You enable your officers to use intimidation and coercion tactics to bring up higher charges against the suspects that come through your precinct – in fact, you encourage it. And when one of your former officers, Sergeant Brianna Martin, came forward to expose these practices in your department, you hired a hit against her.”

The other end grew quiet. For a second, Don was worried that he was wrong about those accusations. “Who told you this?” she said at last.

“Like I said, I work for the federal government,” Don said. “It’s my business to know a little bit of everyone’s business.” He removed the bracket and leaned on the frame of the armored van. “I understand if you still don’t want to cooperate, but I also doubt that you want to lose your prestigious position.”

While she stewed in silence, Don took the opportunity to inspect the detent bolts. Just as he suspected, one of them was loose, which had allowed the transmission to lock itself in reverse. This was going to be an even quicker fix than he thought. A pang of guilt tore through his chest. Mikey hadn’t broken the transmission like he thought. It was Don’s own fault. He had messed with the detent bolts the last time he made modifications to the Battle Shell and simply hadn’t tightened it properly. All this trouble because of a tiny piece of metal smaller than his thumb.

“What do you want?” Chief Torres said, interrupting his thoughts.

Don shook his head, as if waking from a reverie. Now was not the time for a pity party, he reminded himself. “I want the alien suspect currently in your custody,” he said. “Now, listen carefully to the instructions that I’m about to give you.”

He gave her coordinates to one of the docks along the East River and told her that it would be their rendezvous. Then he gave more instructions – bring the suspect in an armored vehicle with no windows, only bring along two other officers to ensure the transfer of the suspect, make sure the officers swear to secrecy. She listened to his every word and only interrupted to ask a few clarifying questions.

As they talked, he tightened the detent bolt with some power tools, making sure to mute himself so that she wouldn’t hear the grating buzz of his power drill. He was in the middle of talking and screwing the brackets back into place when he heard a voice behind him. “Donatello?”

Startled, he jumped and hit his head against the hood cover. Sharp pain blossomed on the impact, and he had to bite his lip to hold back a cry of pain. He whipped around to find Splinter standing just a few feet behind him. “Sen –!” Don started. Then he remembered that he was still on a call with the chief of police. “Please hold!” he squeaked before muting his end of the call.

“Donatello, what’s going on?” Splinter asked.

“Master Splinter, I…” Don sputtered.

Leo’s voice came through the headset, nearly startling him again. “Uh oh.”

“Who are you talking to?” Splinter continued. “And what are you doing here? I thought you were at April’s with your brothers.”

“I, uh, was but we needed the Battle Shell for…” Don said. He wasn’t sure what to say. It had never occurred to him that Splinter may come up to the warehouse. “Wait a minute, what are you doing up here, sensei? You never come up to the warehouse.”

“I just had a hunch,” he said, crossing his arms. “And right now, my instincts are telling me that you are stalling.”

Splinter wasn’t wrong; Don still didn’t know what answer to give him. Should he just tell the truth and explain what happened? He didn’t have time for that, not with Chief Torres on hold. And Don definitely didn’t want to be the one to earn Splinter’s ire by explaining what happened. There was just no way to sugar coat the fact that Raph had gotten arrested and was being held by the NYPD – for fare evasion, no less. He wished that his older brother with chime in with some advice in his ear, but Leo remained silent, most likely holding his breath in anticipation like Don was.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have much time,” Don said. “We’ll explain everything when we get back. I promise.”

Splinter narrowed his eyes. “You and your brothers need to be back home before seven,” he said.

“We will, sensei.”

“Seven o’clock precisely.”

“We will, sensei.”

Master Splinter turned around and walked towards the elevator. When he disappeared behind the stone doors, Don finally let out the breath he had been holding. “We’re so cooked,” he said out loud.

“I know,” Leo said with a groan. “I’m almost tempted to leave Raph behind in the precinct.”

“I’m nearly finished with the Battle Shell, and with the call. I’ll tell you once I hit the road.” Don said to him. Then he unmuted himself from his call with Chief Torres. “Where were we?” he asked.

As he answered some more of her questions, he finished replacing the brackets, then closed the hood. “Thank you for your cooperation,” Don said as the call came to a close. “Although few people will know what you have done today, you will have done a great service to your nation. But, of course, I will extend my generosity and offer you payment of up to one and a half million dollars.”

“I’m sorry, did you say million?” Chief Torres asked in a shocked tone.

“Of course,” Don said. “We pay handsomely for research and information, and by giving us a live specimen, you are contributing more to alien research than most people have in decades. Unfortunately, however, you may have to incur some upfront costs.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Twenty thousand dollars. I know it may be a lot –”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I receive more than that on a monthly basis from Mr. Williams.”

“Well, that amount will help us pay for the transfer of the suspect. I already have a trust fund set up for you to deposit the money into – and I will wire the one and a half million dollars to you by tomorrow at close of business.”

After giving her the banking information, Don thanked her once again and hung up the call. He cleaned the black grease from his hands with a rag, turned off the space heater, opened the garage door to the warehouse, then gathered his gloves and beanie cap and climbed into the Battle Shell. No sooner than he turned the key fob than the engine purred and came to life. He eased the Battle Shell onto the street, then shifted the gears to one, then two as he drove on the road, smiling with smug satisfaction when he found that the gear shifts were as smooth as butter. “Man, I’m good,” he said out loud. “Hey, Leo. I’m headed your way. I’ll be over there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Good. When you get closer, I’ll tell you where to park,” Leo said. Then he sneezed again.

Don frowned as he remembered that Leo had briefed him that he would be hiding on the roof of the precinct. “Stay warm, bro,” he said.

“I’m doing my best,” he said miserably.

As Don got closer to the police department, Leo gave him instructions to get to the parking garage. Don drove in and pulled the Battle Shell into the parking space labeled “VIP Parking,” just like he requested.

“I need you to do one last thing, Donatello,” his brother said. “Do you see the car parked next to you?”

Don peeked through the window of the Battle Shell and did a double take. A bright red Ford Mustang was parked in the chief of police’s parking space. “You mean the 1987 Mustang?” he said. “Do I.”

“I need you to unlock the trunk of that car. After that, you can join April. She’s waiting in her van,” Leo said. “And mind the cameras on the side of the building.”

Don peeked through the windows on side of the Battle Shell that faced the precinct and immediately spotted the camera he was talking about. “Copy that,” he said. He took off his headset and replaced it with his beanie before reaching into the glove compartment. There he kept a spare set of tools for unlocking doors. He opened the van door on the side facing away from the cameras and was immediately greeted by the biting cold. Shivering, he stealthily crouched behind the Mustang and began unlocking the trunk. The cold made it difficult to move his fingers, but after a few seconds of jiggling his tools in the keyhole, he felt an inner mechanism give and heard a click. The trunk opened just a crack.

He placed the tools in the pockets of his jacket and sighed. It was a shame that he couldn’t steal this car just like he had stolen Zanramon’s space cruiser. Part of him was tempted to ask Leo if he could – though given the stakes of the mission and the intricacies of the plan, the answer was going to be a resounding “no.” That wouldn’t stop him from dreaming, though. Don stood to his feet and walked towards the back of the parking garage until he found where April’s van was parked.

April was already in the driver seat, waiting. She unlocked the doors and he climbed into the back passenger seat, sighing with relief as soon as the hot air blowing from the heater met his skin. “Got the old Battle Shell up and running?” she said.

“Yep, she’s as good as new,” Don said. In the end, it was only a ten-minute fix. All the more reason to feel guilty. He hugged his arms to his chest.

“What’s wrong?” April asked, sensing his change in mood.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just… I don’t know. Disappointed in myself, I guess.”

“What for?”

“It’s just that, the problem ended up being so easy to repair,” he said. “If I had just fixed it as soon as my brothers discovered that something was wrong, we could have taken the Battle Shell to your place. Raph wouldn’t be sitting in a holding cell right now.”

“True,” April said. “But if he hadn’t gotten arrested, we wouldn’t have found out about the corruption going on in the precinct. And remember, this plan won’t just help Raph. It’ll take down a corrupt cop. We’ll be helping a lot of people.”

“Huh, I guess you’re right,” Don said. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Donny.”

It grew quiet except for the hum of the heater blasting warm air. Don looked out the window at the flurries that rained down hypnotically onto the streets outside the parking garage. After today, they would have helped a lot of people – but only if their plan worked.

Previous | Next (Next Estimated update: September 21)

[wizardofarles]

For the ask game -

LYKMC and the LYKMC bonus christmas story!

💙 thanks for playing, here are your snippets!

LYKMC ch17:

It seemed that the longer he practiced, the worse he played. His fingers started to feel clumsy, and he found it more and more difficult to maintain the speed at which he'd begun playing. An ache was blooming in his neck, and in the wrist of his bow arm. Laurent knew that he needed to relax his muscles, but found himself unable to. Since Loyse had pointed it out, he couldn't stop noticing how tense he was when he played. And the more he noticed it, the more he tensed, and the worse his playing became.

He furrowed his brow and kept going, convinced that he just needed to push himself harder and eventually a breakthrough would come. As he had been doing for days, Laurent practiced for hours without pause. He didn't stop to eat, he didn't check his phone; he didn't allow himself a moment that wasn't dedicated to practicing. He hadn't even been to the stable to see Pyrrha all week. Messages from Torveld, Ancel, and Damen piled up on his phone as the days melted into one another, and Laurent ignored them all. Only the shifting light outside his windows and his occasional need to use the bathroom tethered him to the passage of time and the world outside his bedroom.

~~~

LYKMC Bonus Christmas Chapter:

“Laurent!” his mother called from the kitchen. “Would you get the door?”

Laurent skated down the hall in his socks, sliding to a stop when he reached the front door. He threw it open and was blasted by the frosty breath of winter. A man stood on the step with his hands shoved inside his pockets, his cheeks and nose pink from the cold. His breath was a white cloud in front of his face and snowflakes dusted his brown hair and the shoulders of his coat. He smiled at Laurent.

“Uncle Berry!” Laurent leapt, and Berenger scooped him up into a hug as he stepped into the house.

“Merry Christmas, Laurent,” Berenger said with laughter in his voice as he set him back down on his feet.

Laurent giggled when Berenger unbuttoned his coat. “Did you just come from an ugly sweater contest?” he asked, pointing his chin at the cable-knit monstrosity that couldn’t seem to decide if it was brown or dark green. “You look like a grandpa.”

Berenger threw his head back and laughed heartily. “I never did have an eye for fashion. I suppose that hasn’t changed.” He ruffled Laurent’s hair.

“Berenger,” Hennike greeted him with warmth as she stepped into the foyer, wiping her hands on a towel. “Thank you for coming.” A red apron was tied around her waist, the straps looped double around the front. Laurent could see the bones of her hips outlined beneath the fabric.

He turned back toward Berenger. It was easier to look at his Uncle Berry in his ugly sweater and plain brown pants, looking much the same as he ever did, than it was to look at his mother’s bony frame, or the festive green and red beanie on her head that Grandma had knitted her to cover her baldness. Though Laurent was only twelve years old, he wasn’t stupid. He knew his mother was dying.

“Thank you for having me,” Berenger said as the doorman, Huet, took his coat. “I hope I’m not late.”

“No, not at all. The turkey is still in the oven, and the Fortaines haven’t arrived.” Hennike gave Berenger a quick hug, then glanced out the window where the wind was thick with swirling snow. “Is it getting terribly bad out there?”

“The main roads are still being well-plowed, but it’s getting messy on the back roads.”

“Oh, dear,” Laurent’s mother clicked her tongue in distress. “I hope the Fortaines are close. Laurent, would you text Aimeric?”

“I texted him when you asked me ten minutes ago,” Laurent complained. “He said they were on their way.”

“Did he say if they were on the road?”

“He just said, ‘we’re on our way’.” Aimeric’s response had actually been, we’re on our way, buttface, calm ur tits, but Laurent thought it better to paraphrase for his mother.

Her brow wrinkled in worry. “Okay. Well, tell him they should be careful. Have him tell his father to stay off the back roads.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, but sent the text.

“Where’s Clarence?” his mom asked Berenger. “Did you two take separate cars?”

Berenger bent to pull off his boots. “No, I’m sorry, Hennike, but my husband won’t be able to make it after all. It turns out he had a prior engagement. He sends his regrets.” He handed the snowy boots to Huet and offered an apologetic smile to Hennike.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s too bad.” Her bony fingers fluttered over the hand towel like the legs of a restless white spider.

“Uncle Berry, is that you?” called a voice from the living room. The three of them walked in to meet it. A Christmas album was playing on the stereo and a log burned merrily in the fireplace, filling the room with warmth and the rich scent of burning pine.

“Where’s my godson?” Berenger smiled and spread his arms wide. “Come here, you.” Auguste crashed into him and they wrapped each other in a fierce hug.

Laurent went to stand beside his uncle—his true uncle by blood, unlike Berenger who wore the title as an endearment. Dressed all in black with a stiff white clerical collar around his neck and his thick brown beard neatly trimmed, Uncle made a handsome figure, Laurent thought. He smiled down at Laurent and slid a pale hand onto his shoulder. A ruby glittered on his finger, red as the blood that bound them to each other.

“You look well,” Berenger told Auguste as they broke apart with laughter and claps on each other’s back. “How’s the mechanic job treating you?”

“Good,” Laurent’s brother said, beaming. “It’s good work, and rewarding.” He glanced at their father, who was sipping champagne on the couch beside Grandma, and his grin faltered. “But I don’t know if it’s what I want to do forever. Actually, I’ve been thinking … Dad and I have been talking about it, and I think I’m going to enlist.”

~~~

(Fun fact: I intended to post this bonus chapter last Christmas but didn’t finish it in time. Hopefully I’ll have it ready to post by next Christmas!)

[starlitangels]

What You Are (You Can’t Hide)

This came to me randomly... I posted a bit of it for Tidbit Tuesday yesterday and I was excited to post the whole thing! 2.0k words

CW: general Imperium suckiness?

—

“I… I’ve wanted to tell you for so long…” he whispered. “I… I’ve been in love with you for years.” James held onto his childhood best friend, desperately clinging to their shoulders and hips, as their mouth dropped open in surprise.

Their breath hitched in their throat. “J… James…” they breathed. “I… I love you too. I always have.” They leaned in closer to him. He crashed his mouth into theirs, kissing them desperately. Who knew how long this would last—before the Imperium tore them away from each other. He knew it was a matter of time no matter how much he dared hope otherwise—

They froze in his hands. Unnaturally still.

Slow clapping met his ears. “Oh—oh this is just precious!” a voice exclaimed as low laughter joined the clapping.

James whirled.

Sitting on the railing of the apartment building’s windway was a boy. A young man, really, but he seemed too young to be considered such. An Imperial-red beanie sat on the boy’s head, in stark contrast to his dirty blond curls and lightly-glowing violet eyes. The boy was in jeans with a cable-knit sweater on.

James clenched his jaw. “What did you do to them?!” he snarled, looking between the boy and his rigid best friend.

The boy scoffed and waved dismissively. “They’re not actually here, moron. They’re just a projection in your dream.” He hopped off the railing and snapped his fingers. James’ friend turned to dust and blew away on a breeze James couldn’t feel. “See? If they were really in your dreamscape I couldn’t do that.”

“Who are you—what do you want?”

“I’m Elliott. Friends call me Eli. So you can call me Elliott.” The boy—Elliott—smirked. He’d started circling James. “As for what I want…” He chuckled. “I want you to hold still so I can get a good look at you.”

Another snap of the boy’s fingers—and James couldn’t move. His arms snapped to his sides and his spine straightened like Elliott had strapped a broom handle to it.

Elliott inspected him. “So… what have we here…” He was noticeably shorter than James, looking up to hold James’ gaze as he reached up and flicked a lock of James’ black hair off his forehead. “Mmm… delicious. We’ve got a humanborn.” Elliott chuckled. “I’m impressed at how long you’ve been able to hide your truth—James, was it? That’s what your projection called you?” That smirk was lopsided and made James’ heart drop right into his stomach.

James didn’t say anything.

A pain like fire burned over his skin—but he couldn’t see anything. He cried out on instinct. He tried to double over but still couldn’t move.

“Answer me when I ask you a question—got it?” Elliott snapped.

“Got it. Yes. I’m James,” he ground out.

Elliott grinned. It was a wicked sort of look. “Good boy,” he said. Despite the fact that James had to be at least four years older than him.

The pain of the fire vanished. Elliott went back to slowly circling him. His violet eyes were narrowed inquisitively.

“So, humanborn. What truth are you hiding? You have magic, that much is obvious. But what are you?”

“I don’t know,” James lied.

Elliott rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Boring,” he complained. “It’s always so boring when they lie. But, at least you tried, Telepath.”

One of Elliott’s hands lashed out, planting the heel of his palm on James’ forehead. Can you hear me in there? he mocked without moving his lips. Can you hear me when I say that you’re pathetic? Why would you hide what you are? Why would you try to exist as nothing—no one—when you could have everything? Take it from the guy who somehow ended up getting raised by unempowereds—life on this side of society is so much better.

James ground his teeth. “Let go of me.”

Elliott snorted. “Why? You pose no threat to me. You don’t know how to use your magic. Telepaths and Dreamwalkers really aren’t that different. The mind is the mind, after all. Reading thoughts, walking in dreams—they’re closer branches of magic than... probably any other two. You’d be uniquely suited to push me right out of this cutesy little dreamscape. But, oh, that’s right—you can’t. You don’t know how.” He pouted his lips. “Like every other pitiful humanborn I’ve hunted down, all you know how to do is suppress your magic.”

You can’t hide what you are, Elliott’s voice said. Stabbing into James’ mind with such power it made him recoil.

Finally, Elliott took his hand off James’ forehead.

“What do you want from me?” James growled.

Elliott started laughing. “Me? Oh, I already got everything I wanted from you. I found you. I know what you are. Humanborn Telepath. That’s it.”

“So why are you still here?” James tried to break out of the magic holding him still, but he wasn’t physically strong enough—and he didn’t know how to do it with magic.

Elliott hopped back up onto the windway railing. “Oh I’m just here making sure you stay asleep,” he remarked casually. With a wave of his hand, dust appeared from nowhere and coalesced back into James’ best friend, but they were still frozen. “You can go back to your cute little confession fantasy. I’ll just watch.”

“I’m not going to—not with an audience,” James snapped.

“What if you couldn’t even see me?”

“I’ll still know you’re creeping. No thank you.”

“Suit yourself. You’ll just have to stand still, right there, until I let you wake up.”

“I’d rather that than let you see my best friend be vulnerable like this.”

“Oh for God’s sake, lover boy. That is a projection. Your friend isn’t here.”

“I don’t want even their likeness to be vulnerable like that in front of someone like you.”

Elliott rolled his eyes. “How noble. You’re not the only one who fell in love with their unempowered best friend, y’know. The difference between you and me is that I wasn’t a simpering coward about it.”

James swore at Elliott. 

Elliott just laughed. “Ohhh... I should come back and check up on you in a couple years. See if the Imperium doesn’t chew you up and spit you back out. It’s always fun to watch spirits like yours break.” Elliott examined the fingernails of one hand. “And, by the way, don’t think moving across the continent will spare you. Physical distance doesn’t mean jack in the dreamscape.” Elliott leaned back, looking up toward the sky. “Well. Good news. Time to wake up, lover boy.”

Elliott readjusted his beanie and snapped his fingers.

James jolted awake.

There was a fist pounding on the front door of his apartment as he came back to consciousness.

—

“E-excuse me?” a small voice asked. I looked up. A guy maybe a couple years older than me was standing there. Black hair, green eyes, tanned from summer sun. He slouched severely and was apparently trying to look as small as possible—which was a feat given he was definitely over six feet tall. “May I... sit next to you?” He gestured to the empty chair on my left.

“Of course,” I said, adjusting my backpack on the floor so it wasn’t accidentally falling into his space.

“Thanks,” he muttered. He took off his own backpack and set it down before sitting beside me.

I brushed my magic toward his head to test his mental barriers. There were none. But he flinched so hard at the magical contact that I withdrew immediately. “Sorry. This is going to sound rude, but you don’t have any mental wards and you’re a Telepath too. I’ve never met a Telepath who didn’t shield their mind from outside telepathy. Why don’t you?”

The guy didn’t look at me. Just unzipped his backpack and pulled out a notebook. “I’m humanborn,” he said quietly.

“Untrained at your age? How did you hide that long?”

“Kept my head down. Minded my own business.”

Hey, maybe something you should try, Geordi’s voice in my head joked. I shoved the thought away.

“Huh,” I said. “So... this is probably one of your first classes in Telepathy, then.”

“Mmhmm.”

I stuck my hand out and offered my name. 

He tentatively shook my hand. “James,” he replied.

“Nice to meet you. Listen. I, uh... I’m magic-born. Grew up in a whole damn family of Telepaths,” I said. “If you need—o-or want—any extra... help with your magic, I’d be happy to help.”

“Thanks,” James muttered. “I’d... I’d actually appreciate that.”

I smiled at him. “My pleasure. We’ll have you slinging your magic around in no time.”

He hummed. “Yeah...”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Right... one of the humanborns who hid. Not one of the enthusiastic ones. Oops. I grimaced and turned my attention toward the front of the classroom.

—

“How’s this?” I asked. “We’re pretty far outside of Dahlia. The press of other people’s thoughts is about as little as we can get it.”

James looked around the forest. “It’s fine. Why are we all the way out here?”

“Better to train in relative solitude so you don’t get overwhelmed. If we were doing this in the academy library you’d get a nosebleed from all the thoughts getting broadcasted directly into your head.” Maybe that was an exaggeration, but I’d seen it happen before.

James inhaled deeply and released a long sigh. He sat on a fallen tree. We were pretty deep in the woods. Technically shifter territory, but the local pack for these woods knew me and my family and that we were only here to hone mental magic, not disturb their turf. We had a tentative agreement to leave each other alone.

I sat beside him on the trunk. “You okay?” I asked.

He shook his bangs off his forehead. “I never wanted this. I... I don’t want magic. I don’t want to be a Telepath. I don’t want to read minds. People’s thoughts are so private. They should stay that way. I don’t want to know what people are thinking. Eavesdroppers never hear anything they like.”

I pursed my lips in thought, and slowly set a hand on his knee, trying to comfort him. “I know,” I said. “That’s something I had to learn the long way. My... well. He’s my partner, but the Imperium doesn’t know that. He’s unempowered. My Geordi, he... he had to make me see that. It took a lot of work for me to change my worldview after growing up constantly around unfiltered thoughts. But I learned and I changed. And I know what it’s like to hear thoughts you don’t want to hear. Learning things you don’t care to know.”

“What do I do?”

“Well...” I sucked in a sharp breath. “You can’t just not use your magic, unfortunately. You’ve probably already experienced what happens if you don’t. Those floods of thoughts that you can’t force out, no matter how hard you try. You can’t just... not read minds either. I mean, sure, you can use your magic for other things. I find Fire Elemental command really fun, personally. But our specialty will always pull our Core toward it. Our Cores need to be used in that way, or they will make us use it in that way.” I leaned back on the log. “God, it’d be so much easier to be a Freelancer. No specialty forcing their Core one direction or another. Sounds nice.”

James grunted noncommittally.

I sighed. “Look. I’ll do everything I can to help you learn how to use your magic moderately. It doesn’t... magic doesn’t have to be a weapon to hurt. The nights when Geordi and I are just quietly existing together in his head is beautiful. It’s intimate and special. It can be a tool to build a bond, if you let it be.”

He finally met my eyes. “Really?”

I nodded. “Mmhmm.”

James almost smiled. Almost. “That’s comforting.”

I did smile. “Good. Now, let’s get started. We’ll make you a proper Telepath in full control of your mind reading in no time.”

I stood from the fallen trunk and offered my hand. He took it and let me pull him to his feet. “Here’s hoping,” he muttered sarcastically. “Where do we start?”