#an ugly couch from goodwill

[filmnoirsbian]

The truck hate on this site....I get it I do I too hate the pedestrian killers taking up 2 parking spots at every wawa...but some of us are dykes who grew up in farm country 😔

[hedgehog-moss]

Here are before/after pics of my two shorn llamas ✂ ✂ Pampoldine was the one with the most wool, which makes sense seeing as her father looks like a long-necked Komondor dog. I didn't shear Pampelune, she's my least woolly llama so I decided to leave her alone until next year, to her great satisfaction.

Shearing Poldine made me discover new aspects of her, like the fact that her tail is very impressive! It's not as striking when the rest of her is covered in equally thick hair but look at it now:

I had tried to prepare Poldine in previous weeks by stroking her with a stick in increasingly annoying ways while going bzzzzzz (we had reached a point where her only reaction to being bothered in this way was glaring at me). I should have bzzz'ed louder, though. Or maybe bothered her with an electric toothbrush instead, or sat on the couch with her to watch youtube shearing tutorials together with the volume turned up—because when the moment came she was very alarmed by what an ugly noise the shears made. Every time I turned the thing off to reapply oil to the clippers then turned it on again she was like aaaahhh what's that noise all over again.

I bought cordless shears so I could shear her in the pasture, surrounded by the emotional support of her loving family, but as soon as they saw Poldine tied to a post and heard that ominous robotic wasp sound, Pampe & Pampy went okay Poldine it was nice knowing you! And left. Abandoning their daughter / granddaughter to her grim fate.

(the very bad quality pics in this post are screenshots from bad quality videos) (oh and the grey fur you see at the bottom right is Pandolf's, my mum brushed him a few days ago. I promise I didn't shear Pandolf—although he would have probably volunteered, to share Poldine's suffering.)

Considering it was her first ever shearing, I think she was very brave and stoic! There was no spitting, no dramatic hyperventilating, no attempts to lie down on the ground and play dead as llamas sometimes do. (But wait for Part II.) She just danced around a lot to escape the shears, and made plaintive HMM sounds in a vain attempt to awaken some deeply-buried maternal instinct in Pampérigouste. Who never came.

The only (tiny) incident was when Poldine stepped towards me as I was shearing (surprising; she kept moving away before) so I took advantage of this spark of goodwill to lean over her back to shear on the other side, and then she abruptly stepped away and almost made me fall !

This second pic is the most malevolent Poldine has ever looked. She looks just like her mother!

But other than that, it went really well. The process was long and tiring (the shears get heavy after a while) and I kept discovering hidden unshorn spots when I thought I was almost done (look at these Niagara Falls of wool in the pic below!), but Poldine was very sweet. I didn't insist too much on her legs or under her belly as those were her least favourite parts, and I also left a little goatee at the top of her neck so she can stroke it pensively and look wise, and I gave her muesli afterwards and she gave me a kiss, no hard feelings. I couldn't have asked for a better llama partner for my first shearing.

My second shearing, however.

(Continued in Part II...)

[punkshort]

somewhere to run | 9. three lies

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Joel spends his day hunting down Patrick, and both you and Joel separately come to a depressing realization.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, references to drug use, smut (MDNI 18+)

WC: 6.2K

Series Masterlist

When you awoke the next morning, eyes still closed as you stretched your arms and legs under the sheets, something seemed off. Your eyes snapped open, forgetting where you were momentarily. Glancing around, you quickly remembered the day before with a heavy heart. It had started out so perfectly, wrapped up in Joel's arms, and then everything went to shit the minute Patrick was released from jail.

The way he snarled at you when he confronted you at work was seared into your brain. The words he scrawled all over your bathroom walls were burned into the back of your eyelids. The sheer hopelessness you felt when you saw the wreckage of your little apartment still weighed heavily on your shoulders.

What were you going to do? You had some money saved up, but the damage he did to the apartment would clean you out, not to mention having to replace everything. Could you just sleep on the floor until you could afford a new mattress? Maybe you would get lucky at Goodwill and find a decent couch.

Just as you were formulating a plan to go to the dollar store for some new plates and cups, you heard soft voices and rummaging around in the kitchen below you. Glancing at the clock, you realized you had slept in a little later than you intended, so you quickly sat up and looked around.

Joel's mattress was much better than yours. It pulled you in the moment you laid down and you hardly moved an inch all night. You ran your hand over the soft, white sheets before standing up and tucking the blue comforter into the sides and fluffing the pillows, doing your best to leave it the way it was before you arrived.

The whole room smelled like him. It was overwhelming and confusing not having him there. Every time you inhaled, you expected to see him. You were grateful you were so exhausted last night, otherwise you were sure you would have tiptoed downstairs and curled up into his side.

After changing into clean clothes, you were about to head downstairs when you happened to catch your reflection in the mirror over his dresser. You yanked out your makeup bag and tried to do a quick job of covering the bruises and marks that remained. They were healing, but they were an ugly yellowish green color now, and you couldn't let Sarah know what really happened.

Once you were satisfied, you took a deep breath and swung open the door, heading down the steps. The smell of toast and the sounds of a frying pan being scraped became stronger the closer you got to the kitchen. You couldn't help but smile at the scene before you: Joel, freshly showered but still in his pajamas as he stirred eggs in a pan while Sarah hovered next to him, scolding him for letting some of the food burn.

They both whipped around when you softly cleared your throat, a small smile playing on your lips when they gave you a look like they had been caught doing something wrong.

"Mornin'," Joel said, fumbling with the burners on the stove before nudging Sarah to hand him a plate. "Wasn't sure what you liked. Eggs okay?"

"You've already done so much, you didn't have to-"

"We wanted to," Sarah said, handing you a plate of eggs and a piece of toast. You took it from her and gave her a smile before choosing a spot at their table and sitting down. Before you could even ask, Joel set down a cup of coffee in front of you with a wink.

"Sleep alright?" he asked, pulling out the chair next to you while Sarah dug into her food across the table. You noticed he chose to skip breakfast in favor of another cup of coffee and you frowned.

"Actually, yes. Thank you. I'll take the couch tonight," you said as you lifted your fork up to take your first bite. He shook his head and leaned back in his chair.

"No need. I usually end up fallin' asleep on the couch most nights, anyway," he said, then shot Sarah a look when she raised her eyebrows at him. That was the first lie he would tell that day. She grinned and ducked her head back down.

"How long will it take to fix your apartment?" she asked innocently. You froze, your fork hovering in the air, not sure what to say. Your eyes quickly shifted to Joel and he graciously stepped in.

"We'll find out more today once we get someone over there to look at it," he said, and that seemed to appease her because she nodded and pulled out her phone.

When she was distracted, Joel slipped his hand under the table to give your knee a reassuring squeeze. You glanced up at him and gave him a tight smile. Whatever this thing was between you was already getting complicated, and it had only barely been a day.

After breakfast, Joel got dressed for work while you did the dishes. Sarah sat at the kitchen island, her legs swinging off the edge of the stool as she flipped through a notebook, her eyebrows pinching together in frustration.

"Big test today?"

She glanced up at you and sighed.

"Yeah. English Lit. I love reading, but some of this stuff just goes right over my head."

"What're you being tested on?" you asked, drying the plates and leaving them in a stack on the counter when you suddenly realized you had no idea where anything went.

"The Great Gatsby. Have you ever read it?" she asked, looking up from her notebook.

"Yeah, a long time ago. I liked it. The parties and the lifestyle sounded so exciting," you replied as you began cleaning the frying pan.

"Well, I don't get it. Everyone's lying and cheating on everyone in this story and it ends in tragedy. Like, what did they think was going to happen?" she scoffed, flipping a page in her notebook.

You tried to not read too much into it, you really did. But once Joel left to take her to school, promising to return right after to take you to work since you never ended up taking your car the night before, you found yourself sitting on his bed looking around his room and wondering what did you really think was going to happen?

"Hey."

You inhaled sharply and looked at the door, surprised to find Joel leaning against it, watching you.

"Sorry. I didn't hear you come in," you said, untangling your legs from beneath you so you could gather your purse.

"Everythin' alright?" he asked softly, then stepped forward to circle his arm around your waist, pulling you close.

"Yeah. Just a lot to process," you said, allowing yourself to lean into his chest for just a minute.

"I still got guys 'round the clock lookin' for him. I'll find him, I promise," he said, kissing the top of your head. You tilted your chin up to look at him. His eyes were soft as he gazed down at you, his thumb gently rubbing against your jaw as he scanned your face, trying to figure out what else was bothering you. Before he could find out the answer, you pulled him down so your lips slotted over his own. His exhale tickled your cheek as you massaged his lips slowly, nipping at his plush bottom lip before pulling away, leaving him chasing after your mouth.

"We both have work, remember?" you said, your mouth hovering an inch over his.

"We got time," he said, dipping his head down further to graze his teeth over your throat.

You almost gave in, wanting desperately to forget all about your concerns for just a few precious moments, and then your eyes fell on the clock next to his bed, snapping you out of your trance.

"I have to be at the diner in fifteen minutes," you told him regrettably, taking a step back. He sighed and dropped his hands from your waist.

"He's my brother, y'know. I can make sure you won't get in trouble if you're late. It's one of the perks," he said, giving you a wink. You laughed and brushed past him, heading down the stairs.

"So along with eating for free every day, your girlf-"

You stopped yourself, coughing over the words and shaking your head. How could you be someone's girlfriend and also someone else's wife?

Joel said your name quietly as you shoved on your sneakers, clearly picking up on your mood shift. You forced yourself to smile when you looked up at him, pretending as though the word almost didn't slip past your lips.

"Ready?" you asked, hoping that he would just let it go.

You could tell he wanted to talk about it. You could see it all over his face. His mouth opening and closing, the gears in his head churning as he tried to come up with the right words, but failed.

"Yeah," he finally said, following you out the door.

The short drive to the diner was tense and Joel hated that he was at such a loss for words. But by the time he dropped you off, with only a quick smile and wave from you in return, he knew what he had to do to make you feel better.

When he got to the station, he threw himself into finding Patrick first, and then getting your apartment processed second. You needed to feel safe, and he would stop at nothing to make that happen.

He spent the morning speaking to everyone who had been involved in the search, triple checking their notes were correct and up to date before going back to his office to stare at the map of the county tacked up on the wall.

Patrick hadn't been to his motel room. Joel had a car parked outside his room since last night, and even if there was no activity, he made the officer report in every thirty minutes.

He sent two cars over to your apartment with his forensics specialist to take whatever evidence and photographs were needed. He also called a cleaning company, who were on standby, ready to go in right after the officers were done.

He was just making a mental note to stop by the hardware store and pick up supplies so he could try to patch the holes in your walls when he heard his calendar ping on his computer. He frowned and rounded the desk, leaning down to squint at the screen. When he read the pop up reminder, he sighed heavily. He had completely forgotten he had set up a meeting with the mayor that day to discuss the confrontation with Patrick in the bar.

Joel glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. He had thirty minutes, but more importantly, it meant he wouldn't be able to go to the diner for lunch. He pulled out his cell phone and leaned against his desk to type out a quick text.

Joel: I forgot I have a meeting today, I won't be there for lunch. Is everything okay so far?

He tapped his foot anxiously and waited for your reply, his eyes occasionally flicking up to the map in front of him as a distraction. You were busy. He knew that you couldn't have your phone out all the time, but he had hoped he would catch you before the lunch rush.

An agonizing ten minutes later, you finally replied.

You: No problem. Yes, everything is fine.

He stared at the words on the screen, trying to read in between the lines. Was everything really fine? He couldn't help but feel like something else was going on. You promised you would try to open up and talk to him, but he was beginning to discover that it might take you some time.

Just as he was struggling to come up with something else to say, anything that might draw you out more, you sent him another text.

You: Do you think it's safe if I go get my car after work?

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought it over. He didn't like the idea. Your car was practically a tracking beacon, not just for Patrick, but the whole town would see you parked in his driveway. But then he decided the benefits outweighed the risks. You wanted some freedom, and he didn't want to deny you that. Besides, he was determined to find Patrick, if not today, then tomorrow. The town was small and everyone was on the look out for him now, it was only a matter of time. And the way that gossip traveled around, he wouldn't be surprised if people already knew you stayed the night at his place. He would get you back in your apartment once it was cleaned and Patrick was behind bars again.

Joel: Sure, but I'll pick you up and take you. Don't walk home.

You: Thank you :)

He smiled a bit when he saw the smiley face. It was a small gesture, but it put his mind at ease.

He glanced once more at his watch and pushed off his desk, yanking his blazer off the coat rack before warning Bobby he was heading out. Once the meeting was over, he could get back to tracking down Patrick. Maybe some distance from the station would help clear his head.

"He's pressin' charges, Joel. Got word this mornin'."

Joel sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, Dan, I figured as much. He's got no case, I got a bar full of witnesses that'll say he came at me."

Dan Flowers, the town's mayor, had held the position for nearly twenty years. He knew the town and its people like the back of his hand, Joel being no exception.

Dan eyed him up wearily before sitting down behind his desk, the chair creaking under his weight. He had never been a small man, but even Joel couldn't help but notice the weight gain the past couple years. The buttons on his shirt were pulled so tightly he was afraid one would pop under the pressure as he readjusted in his chair.

Joel dragged his eyes up from the buttons and met his penetrating gaze. He had to assume Dan heard the rumors, but he refused to be the one to say anything first.

"Get Hank to give a state-"

"Already got it," Joel said, cutting him off.

Dan narrowed his eyes at him and laced his fingers together in front of him on the desk.

"Michelle still your lawyer?" Dan asked, and Joel's nostrils flared.

"You know she ain't," he scoffed. He knew what Dan was doing. He was trying to get under his skin. He was trying to make him talk about you.

"Okay, then we'll get you one," he said, glancing down at his desk, flipping through some papers. Joel watched him, his temper flaring low in his belly.

"What's goin' on with you and this guy's wife, Joel?"

Joel took a deep breath and hung his head, trying to keep calm. He knew it was coming, but he still had a hard time controlling his reaction.

"I've been hearin' things. Margaret's daughter, Nikki? She's tellin' some people somethin' else mighta motivated you in the bar that night."

"She's just pissed because we went on a few dates and it didn't work out," Joel gritted out.

"You sure?" Dan asked, leaning forward. When Joel took too long to reply, his gaze pinned to the floor, Dan sighed.

"Joel, I gotta level with you," he said, finally catching Joel's eye. "If somethin's goin' on, you gotta think long and hard 'bout how this'll affect not only her, but you."

Joel tensed. His gaze shifted back and forth between Dan's eyes, his mind racing. Too much was happening. Michelle, Nikki, and now you. Dan was trying to push his buttons, and it was working.

"Nothin's goin' on," he finally said. His second lie of the day.

Dan stared at him for a long moment, making Joel think he wasn't as good of a liar as he thought, or maybe he was doing a piss poor job of keeping the anger from reaching his eyes.

"Good," Dan said, leaning back and clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Because if there was, it could jeopardize this lawsuit against you. Maybe even your job."

"My job?" Joel repeated incredulously. Okay, that one he didn't see coming.

"Hypothetically, if somethin' were goin' on and this guy can prove it, you might be asked to step down," Dan said, scratching his mustache as if deep in thought. "Or at the very least, won't be able to run for re-election."

"Christ," Joel muttered under his breath before standing up from his chair. He had enough. "We done here?"

"Not tryin' to upset you, Joel," Dan replied, standing up with a grunt. "I'm tryin' to help you. You gotta see the bigger picture here. The guy's an asshole, but don't forget he's a cop. He knows the law and he's got a good lawyer. You don't wanna screw this up for either of you. Especially her."

Joel felt his stomach clench and he suddenly felt flush. He needed to get out of there. He needed a chance to think.

He managed to nod as he turned and headed towards the door, his vision narrowing the harder it became to breathe.

"I know you're used to dealin' with the locals, but this is a whole different breed," Dan said, pulling on the door and holding it open for Joel to step through. "This ain't like Marcus and one of his episodes."

"Yeah, I hear you," Joel muttered, desperate to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

In a haze, he made it back to his truck. Slamming the door angrily, he took a minute to sit in the driver's seat, breathing heavily with his forehead resting against the steering wheel. He had foolishly hoped he could keep your relationship a secret until everything blew over, but considering how fast news travelled already, it seemed like that would be impossible. What was he going to do? The thought of not being with you made him sick to his stomach, but as much as he hated to admit it, Dan was right. And deep down, he knew it all along. Carol already tried to warn him. He was quickly losing sight of the situation, his mind focused on all the wrong things.

He couldn't fuck this up. It was too important. If Patrick got away with it again, next time it could cost you your life. And as badly as he wanted you all for himself, he cared about you too much. He knew what he would have to do and was going to break his fucking heart.

On the way back to the station, Joel swung by your apartment to see where things stood. When he hopped out of his truck, he was pleased to find the cleaning service already making progress. He peeked into your bathroom and saw someone wearing earbuds scrubbing away at the walls, looking completely unphased by the filth.

"How's it goin'?" Joel asked the older man he found sweeping up the floor of your kitchen.

"Makin' good time," he said, eyes still focused on the mess before him. "Should have it done this evenin'. Place ain't that big."

Joel nodded and glanced around at your living room. He flipped the couch back over and gave it a shake. It seemed salvageable, at least, so he dragged it back to its original position in the room. He sighed and looked around at the rest of the destroyed furniture. Maybe he could ask around and see if anyone had anything you could use. He knew Tommy and Maria wouldn't have a problem letting you borrow the mattress from their spare bedroom.

It was a start.

As he headed down your stairs, he found comfort in knowing at least your apartment would be fixed for you.

Now he just needed to find Patrick.

He sat in his truck, staring out the windshield as he rubbed his thumb over his lip, lost in thought. His mind kept wandering back to you and he had to fight the swell of emotion that bubbled up when he thought about what he was going to have to do. To distract himself, he tried to focus on Patrick. Where the hell could he be? How hasn't he turned up yet?

He was about to give up and head back to the station when a thought occurred to him. It was a long shot, but he had to try.

With renewed purpose, he turned the key in the ignition and buckled his seatbelt before swinging his truck around, driving in the direction of the trailer park at the edge of town.

It wasn't a place he liked to frequent often if he could help it. It was unfortunate, but it just so happened that a few of the residents in the trailer park tended to have more overnight stays in the cells than most, and their neighbors weren't always the friendliest towards Joel as a result.

He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun as he tried to locate the numbers on the trailers while he slowly crept down the dirt road. It had been a while, but he thought he remembered the right address.

When he pulled up to a familiar off-white double wide, he shifted his truck into park and looked around. The numbers 8667 were nailed next to the door, but one of the 6's were missing, leaving a dirty outline of the number in the paint.

Slowly, he stepped out of the truck. His gaze landed on a few neighbors peeking through their windows, their curtains ruffling closed when he made eye contact.

He swallowed and forced his feet to move. He put one foot on a rickety, wooden stair, testing it before trusting it with all his weight and knocking loudly on the front door. As he waited, he looked around, noticing a beat up old car in the little driveway next to some overflowing trash cans. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door and he turned his head towards the sound, a plume of cigarette smoke swirling around him when it opened.

"Joel?" an old woman's shaky voice said from the other side of the screen. "Lord, what'd he do now?"

"Nothin', ma'am," Joel replied with a soft chuckle. "But is he home? I gotta ask him a couple questions, he ain't in trouble," he reiterated. She sighed heavily and leaned up against the doorframe, her graying curls snagging on the splintering wood.

"Enough with that ma'am talk, told you to call me Gertie years ago," she said, flicking the ash of her lit cigarette before yelling over her shoulder. "Marcus! Get your ass out here!"

Joel heard some rustling in a room down the hall before a door creaked open.

"What, Mama?" Marcus whined, rubbing his eyes as he shuffled up the hallway. When he saw Joel standing on the front porch, he froze. "I didn't do nothin'!"

"He knows that!" Gertie scolded, blowing out one last puff of smoke before stubbing out her cigarette. "Sit down! Joel, c'mon in," she said, her voice softening when she addressed him.

Joel stepped inside, about to slide off his shoes but then thought better of it once he saw the sticky, orange carpet.

"Can I getcha anythin'?" Gertie asked, leaning up against the sofa chair where he sat.

"No thank you, ma'am, I'll be quick," he said, turning his attention back to Marcus. "You ever hear anythin' 'bout a guy named Patrick?"

You were waiting in the foyer of the diner after your shift, your eyes flicking up every time you saw a car rattle by, each time expecting to see Joel's truck. He was almost twenty minutes late and it gave you time to think. Too much time.

As far as you could tell, nobody seemed to know about the two of you, and that gave you a small bit of relief. The rainy evening he had innocently stayed overnight, the entire town seemed to know within hours. So you knew it was inevitable before word got around this time.

You wished more than anything your life wasn't so complicated. Why couldn't you just date like a normal person? Why couldn't you just be happy? How did you manage to let yourself get sucked into this shitty life with Patrick?

The guilt you felt for bringing his wrath upon this poor town was unbearable. This wasn't their fight, yet they continued to stand up for you, one by one, putting themselves in harm's way. Half of you was filled with gratitude, however the other half, the much louder half, felt like a burden.

And then there was Joel.

He was such a good man. He was willing to go to such extreme lengths to keep you safe, but all you've really done was cause more work for him. You could see the stress written all over his face, even though he tried to hide it. The muscles in his shoulders twitched and he would grind his teeth when he was anxious, thinking nobody noticed. But you noticed.

You worried about Sarah, as well. She was just a teenager. You couldn't imagine trying to navigate through the most complex years of your life while your dad dated a married woman. Her words from that morning rattled around in your head all day: everyone's lying and cheating on everyone... what did they think was going to happen? And although your situation was very different and most reasonable people wouldn't label your behavior cheating, you weren't sure someone her age would see it the same way.

Your head snapped up when you saw Joel's truck finally pull into the parking lot. You rushed out the doors, hoping nobody would notice you climbing into his car. Even if it was inevitable, you needed a break from the drama.

"Hi," you said after you quickly jumped into the truck and slammed the door. He looked at you curiously for a moment and then grinned. Despite what he knew he would have to do, he couldn't help but smile when he saw you.

"Everythin' alright?"

"Yeah, it's just-" you glanced out the window and waved your hand, not sure what to say, so you opted for deflection. "Working late?"

"Yeah, sorry," he said, shifting the truck into reverse and backing out of the parking spot. "But it's for a good reason."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yep," he said, and you took a moment to examine his face while he drove. He looked more like himself again. Less stressed.

"Well, are you gonna tell me or leave me in suspense?" you teased, and his grin widened as he stopped at a light and turned his head towards you.

"We got 'em."

Your mouth hung open in shock, his words echoing in your brain. All you've ever known was fear. You spent so much of your life lying and waiting until the next fight that you had just expected this one to end the same way as all the others: more bruises and dropped charges.

He pulled into the lot behind your apartment building and parked a few spaces away from your car as you still struggled to wrap your head around the news.

"H-how?"

"I had a hunch, it paid off," he said with a shrug as he pulled the keys from the ignition. He was about to open the door when your hand shot out to grab his arm.

"What do you mean?"

He sat back in his seat and sighed.

"I'm sure you remember Marcus?" he began, and you winced.

"Yeah, rings a bell," you said sarcastically.

"Well, it's a small town. The junkies all know each other, and I know you said Patrick used in the past, so I paid Marcus a visit. He told me where I could find him. Sent a couple of officers to the location and they found him with-"

Joel cut himself off, not sure how much to divulge, but you circled your wrist in the air, encouraging him to continue.

"With a few other users in an abandoned house on the other side of town. He was passed out cold, it was an easy arrest."

"Other users? You mean, women?" you pressed.

"Some were women, yeah," Joel admitted.

"And he's in jail?"

"Yes," Joel confirmed, nodding his head. "He'll be transferred to Austin and await trail there."

"Oh, my god," you breathed, closing your eyes and burying your face in your hands.

Joel frowned, trying to read your expression but not having much success. That is, until you flung yourself across the seat and wrapped your arms around him.

"Thank you," you said over and over into his shoulder. He was quick to return the embrace, his eyes closing as he tried to push the bigger issue from his mind. He would talk to you later. He didn't want to ruin this moment.

"There's one more thing," he murmured into your hair. You pulled back, your eyes glistening as you looked at him questioningly. "C'mon, lemme show you."

He took your hand as he led you towards the back of your apartment building, not caring if anybody saw. He wasn't sure how many moments like that he had left, and he wanted to make them all count.

When he led you into your apartment and up the stairs, you audibly gasped.

There was still work to be done. He hadn't had a chance to patch the holes in the wall, but it was clean. The words on the wall of your bathroom just a distant memory. The shattered glass and ceramic gone.

"Tommy and Maria let you borrow a mattress," he said, flicking the light on in your bedroom. "The couch was fine, and Bobby had an old kitchen table-"

You cut him off with a searing kiss, your fingers getting tangled in the curls at the base of his neck. He leaned into it, pulling you close and trying his hardest to memorize every second.

"Couldn't find a TV," he mumbled against your mouth.

"I don't care," you whispered, pressing your mouth against his with more urgency. "Thank you," you kept repeating between peppering kisses against his lips. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Your tongue flicked at his lower lip as you pulled him down closer, wanting to just melt into him, but he leaned back, breaking the kiss.

"We gotta talk," he said, his voice pained. Your eyes dropped, and even though you knew it was coming, you still felt that ache in your chest. The one that settled there whenever the other shoe dropped. That deep sadness that always simmered just below the surface.

"I know," you said softly, trying to keep the emotion from your voice, but he picked up on it. He always did. You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his chest, feeling his heart thumping loudly just underneath. He wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, trying to find the strength to say what he needed to say.

"We can't do this anymore," you said before he could speak. Not a question, but a statement. A realization you had come to on your own, as well. He felt the tears burning in the backs of his eyes as he pulled you in closer, resting his cheek on the top of your head, trying to wrap himself around you in every possible way.

"No, we can't," he finally agreed, his voice wavering.

He heard you sniffle against his chest and when he felt the wetness from your tears seep through his dress shirt, he couldn't stop his own tears from falling and getting lost in your hair.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Just for a little while. Just until-" He paused when your shoulders began to shudder, the force of your quiet sobs shaking your whole body. "Just until the legal shit is over and he's in jail," he managed to finish.

"Okay," you whispered back, your face still hiding against his chest. He brought his hands up to pull you back and cradle your jaw. His gaze trailed over your puffy eyes and tear streaked face as he tried to wipe them away until he realized they were his own tears falling on your cheeks.

"Nothin's gonna change," he told you, his lip trembling. "I'm still here for you. I'm still gonna see this thing through, okay?" His eyes were soft and wide as he stared at you, making sure you understood him. "You can't perjure yourself when the time comes to testify. I can't - I won't be the reason he gets away with it again."

"I know," you said, nodding your head as you gazed up at him, his hands still gripping your face.

His heart broke as he looked at you, hating more than anything that he was the cause of the pain you were feeling. He swore to himself he would never hurt you, and here he was, doing exactly that.

"Once it's all over, we'll be together," he said, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

"You promise?"

"Yes," he said immediately, leaning down to kiss you. "I promise," he said, kissing you with a little more force. "We can still talk," another kiss. "I'm still gonna help you," he tilted his head in the other direction as he kissed you again. "Help you find a lawyer," he mumbled, his lips barely breaking contact with yours now. "We just can't-" he didn't let himself finish, his mouth crashing down on yours, your face still clutched tightly in his hands as if he were afraid to let go.

"We just can't kiss?" you asked, finishing his sentence once he gave you a chance to breathe, your chest heaving. He nodded as he backed you up towards the wall outside your bedroom, his lips never stopping, even though he knew better.

His tongue slipped past your lips, swirling around yours with urgency as your fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.

"We shouldn't," he mumbled, but he dragged his mouth down your neck anyway while you shoved his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms.

"No, we shouldn't," you agreed breathlessly, tilting your head to the side, his mouth latching onto your throat, leaving a small mark that you would end up admiring in the mirror for days to come and shedding a tear when it inevitably faded away.

"It'll just make it harder," he said, his words holding no conviction, especially when his hands slid down your sides and cupped the back of your thighs, hauling you up so you had to wrap your legs around his waist as he walked you backwards towards your bed.

"I know," you whispered, your fingers getting lost in his hair. He dropped you on the bed and immediately crawled on top of you, his mouth finding yours yet again while each of you hurriedly undressed the other. "I - I need to feel you. Just one more time. Please, Joel," you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut with a gasp when his hot, wet tongue circled your nipple.

Joel always thought of himself as a strong man, but he had his weaknesses, too. And he was quickly finding out that you were his biggest one. He could never say no to you. It was too late. He was already too far gone. All he ever wanted to do was make you happy, so that's exactly what he did.

He was already addicted to it: the way you moaned his name, the way you smelled, the way you tasted, the way you felt when you came on his cock. He would never get enough, he knew that. He also knew this would be the last time he would have you for a long time, so he did everything he could to prolong it.

You both lost count. Lost count of how many times he made you come, how many times he said I'm sorry, how many times you said each other's names, hushed little whispers muffled against skin.

But Joel had kept count of how many lies he had told that day.

Three.

The last one being the one he told himself while he held you close as you laid on your borrowed mattress together, exhausted and sore. A lie that dismissed that feeling in his chest whenever he thought of you or the butterflies he got whenever you looked at him. Because that one was a lie of necessity. A lie he told himself in order to survive the next few months without having you like this, knowing full well if he admitted the truth, he would never be able to walk out your door.

A/N: I decided to start a notification blog for anybody interested in keeping up with just fic updates - @punkshort-notifs. I will keep the tag list for this series until the end, however, because I want to make sure everyone who is following this story doesn't lose it by missing this note.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed@merz-8@sarap-77@nandan11@anoverwhelmingdin@fandomscollide@survivingandenduring@honeyedmiller@pedropascalsbbg@southernbe@pedrosfanny@gobaaby-blog-blog @eloquentdreamer @yomiyasxx @mrsparknuts@missladym1981@spacedoutdaydreamer @cosmic006533-blog @prettyinpunk85@maried01 @sunnyskyapplepie @sawymredfox@gobaaby-blog-blog@stevie75@mxtokko@sleepylunarwolf@lizzie-cakes@laurrrra@annieispunk@here4thedilfs @navystandardheatingoilcap @slugz-writes-shit@devilbat@ashleyfilm@scp116@tragerlover@iveseenstrangerthings50 @yvonneeeee @brittmb115@lulawantmula@abbysgirlll@ro-nahime-things@whxtedreams@ashhlsstuff@little-pookie@serenadingtigers@paleidiot@ashy-kit@lizlil@detectivejuliuspepperwood@buckyispunk @fckinel @sarahhxx03 @krispeenuggiez @flippittygibbitts@picketniffler

[shortcrust]

Hello! Hope you’re well. I just wanted to drop in to compliment the hell out of you and your writing. keep with me forward is such an incredible character study and also sooo experiential/visceral. As someone from the Midwest, you captured the joyful melancholia of small town life so well.

I think about this fic so often and I have so many things I’d like to learn about it’s inner workings, but I wonder: how does Eddie think Steve feels? And/or what is Eddie hoping for as he and Steve’s endgame? It feels like he’s content to have Steve sleep on his couch forever and always, even though it hurts to have him so close, but do you think this version of Eddie would have ever told Steve plainly how he felt?

The Steve POV is perfect for capturing Eddie’s inner conflict, because Steve is SO perceptive! And Eddie can’t help but emote! Agh it’s so cool!! I can’t help but want to peek in Eddie’s brain!

Oh my gosh! Thank you so, so much for such a thoughtful and kind comment, I have the biggest grin pasted on my face. I’m delighted! And so, so delighted that you’ve enjoyed keep with me forward, that it’s been a happy or rewarding read for you. To have captured something that felt real for you is so meaningful to me!

I always hope to write things where you can feel that there’s a whole human being whose narrative of the situation we are simply not getting from our point of view character, and for Eddie, here, I think that is especially true. I think a rewrite of the story told from Eddie’s perspective would feel very different. I think he comes at emotions more hotly, is more reactive but more reserved in what he gives away about how he’s feeling, and is equally lost but in a sort of cheerfully disaffected, angry way. A sort of ‘exactly the same but in the opposite direction’ thing. We know what Steve is putting together about Eddie's take on it all. Eddie might not be quite so adept.

Because he knows Steve, ish, right, and he is seeing him, but Steve’s feelings and indecision and complexity can only pass through Eddie’s lens of feelings and indecision and complexity and can only mean what he knows them to mean. He sees Steve wanting to stay, but saying he won’t. He sees Steve looking like maybe he might begin to love him, and acting like he can’t. So in between the times on shift where he’s staring into space or being lightly micro aggressed but unpicking why it feels different to how it did before or reckoning with wow, okay, well, it’s a sort-bad life but not a kinda-bad day, maybe I like could almost like it here, he is treating Steve like what we know to be Steve’s messed up, grab bag jumble sale of emotions that are making it out apparent the soup of him crafting an identity are Steve’s actual, 100%, intended outputs.

I think he weighs up and comes to two potential conclusions; Steve is not happy here, and he’s not going to stay, or, the worse one, he’s happy here, but he’s still not going to stay. Because Eddie can only look at what Steve is giving him, and how he feels himself, about himself. He doesn’t see him as Steve does. So when Steve says, ‘I have to leave,’ Eddie is unsurprised and mad about it because, yeah, I fucking bet you are, and when Steve then counters with, ‘I love you,’ that makes it worse. Because it means that even Eddie’s good things, even someone who likes him, can’t like him enough. It simply doesn’t occur to Eddie that Steve doesn’t seem himself the way Eddie sees him, and therein lies the problem, both ways.

I don’t think KWMF is about ‘realising you’re good and consequently that other people can love you’, I think it is about ‘realising you’re good’ and ‘letting other people love you’, separately. So I think you’re absolutely right; Eddie would have let Steve sleep on his ugly reclining Goodwill couch forever, even if he knew that Steve loved him, because he doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who thought that that part was the stumbling block. 

[abstergo-industries-hr]

Damn, I guess you all were thirsty for Clay’s cats! Actually, we’re totally fine with that option--much less depressing.

This one is Altaïr. He is so far the best at the “cat parkour” obstacle course that Clay set up (with help from a “dumb muscle” local bartender and two other friends who are now in an undisclosed location.) Unfortunately, this skill has now lead him to climb literally everything in the apartment and try to “stealth kill” the tops of people’s heads. Also, Clay attempted to measure him for little Levantine robes, and blood was drawn, so maybe watch those little claws.

But, he’ll also sit in your lap and purr when you least expect it, so that’s a plus.

This one’s Ezio, and before you ask, they’ve all been spayed/neutered. All of them. This Ezio will not be fathering a whole country of illegitimate kitties like his namesake.

He’s usually a bit more happy-go-lucky than his siblings, but that can change in an instant. He’ll literally spend half the day asleep in the sun, and then go and smack Altaïr and Kassandra around. Clay needs to make sure he always has access to a scratching post, or things will not go well for the furniture. RIP that ugly ass couch from Goodwill.

And finally, Kassandra. We’re pretty sure she was an outdoor cat that Dave, the previous owner, “rescued” because she loves trying to sneak out of the apartment. But, she knows that Clay has food and toys and an obstacle course for her, so she comes back. Usually with a dead rat or bird as thanks.

She also likes to kick the shit out of her brothers. Altaïr and Ezio stop being all high and mighty when she jumps onto their perch and knocks them off.

So, those are the official Assassin kitties! Maybe if you’re nice, Clay will sneak them into work for the day.

- Erudito

((all cat photos sourced from Google Images because Author does not own cats))

[steelydans]

Highlights from my goodwill visit today

[malbryn]

I see so many CK fics that mention Johnny's sofa being terrible, and it is! In that it is old and ugly and has a suspicious stain on one of the seats that no one wants to know the origin of.

HOWEVER.

It is also ~~incredibly comfortable~~. It is the goddamn comfiest couch Daniel LaRusso has ever sat on, and he is So Fucking Angry about it. He spent $3000 on a beautiful Italian leather sofa that leaves him with a crick in his neck, but Johnny Lawrence picks up a couch at Goodwill that would put an insomniac to sleep.

(Source: My ugly-ass couch from college that looked suspiciously like Johnny's.)

[thepointoftheneedle]

The Sports Coat

Look I'm obsessed with "that" jacket. Here's a ficlet about it.

When his bellowing of her name became physically painful she put down her book with a deep sigh and trudged upstairs. Her mom was spending some quality time with their son tonight and she’d been looking forward to lying motionless on the couch for at least four hours. Jug was standing in his boxer shorts, staring helplessly into his closet. It was a good look on him, she didn’t hate it, it almost made climbing the stairs worthwhile, despite the fact that it was the end of a very long week and she was as exhausted as any young mom had ever been.

“Where’s my sports coat?” Betty looked at him blankly. “You know the plaid one. Grey kinda.”

“Ugh, yeah, that terrible old thing. I was taking some of the little guy’s baby things that he’s outgrown to goodwill last week so I had a quick sweep of our closets while I was about it. I don’t imagine anyone’s going to buy something as ugly as that but they recycle textiles so…”

She trailed off because the colour had drained from his face as she was speaking.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“You took it to goodwill? Like, it’s totally gone? Gone-gone. You aren’t joking about?”

Betty began to feel a little nervous. The hideous jacket had been at the back of the closet since before they were married. She’d never seen him wear it, not even once. When she’d been surveying the hangers, rushing as always, it had seemed obvious that its space was more useful than its presence and she had stuffed it into the trash bag with the other donations. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d even miss it.

“I’m sorry Jug. I didn’t realise it was important. You never wore it. I mean, thank God for that because it was so ugly, actually heinous. And you do have a lot of jackets. Almost too many.”

Jughead sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. For a moment she wondered if he was about to sob. She knelt on the floor in front of him and put her hands on his knees, looking up into his face. His brow was furrowed, eyes closed as if in pain. She was actually a little scared now. “Jug, Juggie. I’m so sorry. What did I do?”

“It was Stephen King’s,” he whispered. He wore it on Dick Cavett right after The Shining was released. The cameraman said he liked it and King just gave it to him. And the camera guy sold it to me for three hundred bucks. I lived off instant ramen for three weeks to pay for it. Well, ramen and scotch. It was when I was pretty low.”

Betty didn’t know what to say. Normally she was solution orientated but there was no rectifying this one. The jacket was almost certainly being shredded for insulation right at that moment. Secretly she wondered if that wasn’t maybe for the best, kinder to put the thing out of its misery. Ha, Misery!

She stroked his shoulder in what she hoped was a consoling manner. She could see why it was important to him but he had a first edition of The Shining and it had been an absolutely godawful coat. She was sorry… but not that sorry. Still, she stroked his hair back and kissed his ear, moving down to nibble gently at his ear lobe, he always liked that. His eyes flickered up to hers and she murmured against his neck, “Let me make it up to you.”

She woke late on Saturday morning, the quiet of the house a strange and slightly unsettling novelty. The great gift of an unbroken night of sleep was a treasure she hadn’t fully appreciated until she’d become a mom. She luxuriated for a moment, stretching across both sides of the bed, but then she began to miss both her boys. She had planned to get some chores done before going to pick up the little man but she felt like there was a fishing hook in her heart and it was being reeled in, pulling her towards Elm Street and his soft hair and sticky hands.

She guessed Jughead was writing so she padded downstairs only find the house empty and silent. There was a note on the coffee machine. “Love you sleeping beauty. Had an errand to run. I’ll pick up the boy on the way back. I miss him.” He’d scrawled a sad face followed by the crown he used as his signature.

Betty poured herself a coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to wait. She hoped the errand involved donuts.

Twenty minutes later she heard the truck pull up outside and went to the window to watch them come home. Her son was pretty evenly covered in powdered sugar, streaks of jelly in his hair and a doughy mess in one pudgy hand. The errand had been donut related. Her husband looked even more thrilled than his boy. He was wearing the monstrous coat.

“Betts! Look, I got it back! The guy said they were keeping it for Halloween. I guess he must have known about King somehow. I gave him a hundred bucks for it. How lucky is that? I’m going to wear the hell out of this thing. Aren’t you pleased?”

Betty managed a smile. “That’s great Jug. So great.”

[cherienymphe]

Protect & Serve IV (Steve Rogers x Reader)

WARNINGS: Cop!Steve, cop antics, VIOLENCE, KIDNAPPING, NON-CON(FINGERING)

IF ANY OF THIS OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE DNI

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers}

summary:  escaping an ugly past, you have no choice but to return home. While much has remained the same, Officer Rogers is a new addition who has won over the hearts of the town in your absence. And no one believes you when you start to see him for who he really is

~

You didn’t sleep at all that night. Not because someone was banging on your house and skulking about your yard, but rather…the opposite. He didn’t come, and you were left alone with no one but you and your thoughts. You didn’t even know why you weren’t referring to him by name.

Steve.

Steve Rogers.

Officer Steve Rogers.

Officer Rogers was the one who’d been making your nights a living hell for weeks, and the thought made you want to hurl. In fact, that was exactly what you did. As soon as you’d gathered yourself enough to stand, you’d run straight to the bathroom, throwing up for several minutes. Your vision was blurry, body trembling as you hugged the toilet.

Your mind whirled as you fought to make sense of everything. At first, you’d tried to convince yourself that your mind was doing that thing again. Coming up with the most outrageous theories, but the more you thought on it…the more sense it made.

Didn’t police respond to emergency calls based upon who was closest? Steve responded to every single one of your calls, and you remembered that sometimes he wasn’t alone. Was Officer Barnes in on it too? He had to be. They always came in the same car.

You suddenly jumped up, remembering that you’d given the dark-haired cop that blood sample. Steve’s blood sample. His best friend’s blood sample. You pressed your hand to your mouth, feeling like you were going to be sick again.

Officer Romanoff had said that the lab results could be back any day now, but… What if they had never been sent off to begin with? You wanted to cry, and with a start, you realized that you were. Tears were skipping down your face, and for the first time in a long time, you noted that they were tears from fear.

Should you go to the police?

You shook that thought from your mind. Your problem was the police, and what would happen to you if you ran in there to tell them about a crooked, possibly two, cop in their midst? Surely it would get back to Steve, and now knowing what you knew, there was no telling what the man was capable of.

You’d stayed up all night, stewing over what to do. You’d gone over every option there was, and it seemed that the best course of action was to simply leave town. God, you were so tired of running, but this situation was much different from your last.

Sure, Aldrich had money, and had definitely used it to his advantage when escaping the law, but even the luck of someone like him had to run out sometime. He wasn’t completely untouchable. Steve… Steve was the law. You could confront him, and he’d arrest you for whatever charge was believable, and there was no doubt in your mind who they’d be more inclined to listen to.

The thought that Steve could do whatever he wanted and get away with it was a terrifying one. Hell, he had been doing whatever he wanted and had gotten away with it. More tears collected behind your eyes, thinking about the fact that he’d been harassing you during the day and the night. He’d pretty much been in control of every facet of your daily life, and you wondered to yourself…

What did he want?

Was he truly so angry that you’d turned him down? You let out a humorless chuckle, thinking to yourself that you should’ve just gone on the stupid date to save yourself all of this strife. Another part of you argued against that, telling you there was no telling what would have happened on that date or what would have happened after.

It was in the early hours of the morning, and you were packing now. You’d finally made up your mind to just get the hell out of dodge. You didn’t have time to pack up everything and properly move, so a suitcase worth of clothes would do until you sorted everything out. You’d stay in a hotel for a while, whatever it took to get away from him.

You contemplated going by the diner first to see Wanda. You didn’t want a repeat of last time. You wanted to keep in touch, but you decided that your safety came first. You could always look the phone number to the diner up and reconnect with her later. You had just locked up your house, turning towards your car with your suitcase in hand, when a police cruiser pulled into your yard.

Your heart stopped, and you tightened your grip on the handle of your suitcase. Relief did not fill you when none other than Officer Barnes stepped out of the car. You swallowed, warily eyeing him. You were almost positive that he was in on it with Steve. You weren’t sure, but the evidence was damning.

He sent you a friendly smile as he approached you, and you did not return it.

He never smiled at you.

“Morning, Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted.

“Morning,” you mumbled back.

He stopped at the bottom of your steps, lifting one foot to rest on the bottom step as he looked up at you, blue eyes unreadable. You watched the way they traveled from your face to your suitcase and back.

“Going somewhere?”

You thought about telling him the truth, knowing he’d relay it to Steve, thinking that it would make him happy to see you go, but… You didn’t exactly know why Steve was doing this to you. You didn’t know his motive nor his endgame, so maybe it was best to keep him in the dark.

“Not anytime soon,” you joked, forcing a chuckle. “I’m just going to drop some things off at Goodwill…”

The dark-haired man hummed, nodding as he studied you.

“What brings you here so early in the morning?” you casually asked, moving to walk past him.

“Truthfully…Steve,” he answered.

You frowned, heart skipping a beat, and you were glad that your back was to him as you made your way to your car.

“Steve?” you wondered over your shoulder.

Bucky hummed.

“He was worried about you. Said you seemed pretty upset yesterday…”

You slid your suitcase into the backseat, pursing your lips before shutting the door and turning to face him.

“Upset?” you repeated.

You didn’t like the way he eyed you, and it was then that you knew… Your suspicions were correct. There seemed to be an unspoken battle between you two, both of you trying to figure the other out, seeing who’d slip up first. You had been through this a million times with Aldrich…

“He said that you…seemed confused and distraught…accusing him of some pretty awful things…”

You blinked, lips parting before letting out a soft scoff.

“Oh my God, you’re right. I did,” you guiltily replied. “I’ve been so stressed lately, and Officer Rogers has been nothing but kind to me, and I completely misinterpreted it.”

Bucky appeared to be shocked by your response.

“I’m still working through things, trying to undo a lot of what my ex-husband did. I took it out on Officer Rogers, and I feel terrible.”

He didn’t respond right away, simply eyeing you before slowly nodding. You turned to slide into your driver’s seat, glancing up at him with a small smile.

“Will he be working today? I’d really like to apologize to him properly. If not, I suppose that I can go up to his house later,” you offered.

He ran his eyes over you, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards ever so slightly.

“No…he isn’t in today,” he eventually replied.

“Then I’ll stop by his house later then. If not later then definitely in the morning,” you told him.

The two of you just stared at each other for a moment before he smiled at you.

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. Drive safe, Ms. Y/L/N.”

He moved to leave, and you stopped him.

“I also wanted to ask you about the blood sample I gave you. Officer Romanoff said that the results should be back any day now, and I was wondering if they’d come in yet…”

He sadly shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. The ETA for these things are never exact, anyway. I’m sure we’ll get the results back soon though,” he answered, but you didn’t believe him.

You nodded, and he bid you goodbye one last time. He closed your door for you, and you looked in your mirror, watching him go back to his car. He sat in it for a while, but you sighed in relief when he eventually drove off. You closed your eyes, hands gripping the wheel as you forced yourself to take a deep breath.

Bucky was in on it too. You were absolutely sure of it. Forcing both him and Steve from your mind, you went to start your car, only to frown when it sputtered. You twisted your key again, but again, it wouldn’t start.

“No, no, no,” you murmured, forcing yourself to remain calm.

You tried again, and sure enough, you got the same results. You bit your lip, swallowing down a scream. Something within you knew why your car wouldn’t start, knew who was responsible. You took out your phone, looking up the number for the auto repair shop with shaky hands.

30 minutes later, you were watching your car being hooked up to the tow truck. When the man was finished, he approached you. A smile was on his face, and he was clearly trying to ease your worries.

“It shouldn’t take long to determine the problem and have it back here,” he told you.

“About how long do you think it’ll take?”

He hummed, thinking.

“There are already two other cars at the shop. After getting done with them and finally fixing yours, I should be able to have it back here no later than…7:30? 7:45?”

It seemed like you didn’t have much choice but to accept that, so what else could you do besides nod? At least you’d be able to get out of here tonight at the latest. You wrapped your arms around yourself as you watched the man drive away. You felt like a sitting duck, but you had no other option but to go inside.

The first hour dragged by. You tried to distract yourself with cleaning and then some tv, but eventually you gave up and just sat on the couch. You couldn’t believe that you were running again, that you had somehow found yourself in a possibly worst situation than the one you’d left.

By the second hour, you were restless. You grabbed your purse and rose from the couch, swiftly locking the door on the way out. You had made sure that all of the lights were off, and everything was unplugged. You wouldn’t be going back inside.

Ever thankful that the diner was within walking distance from your house, you strode into the establishment with a sigh. Still rather early, it was pretty empty inside. Wanda was nowhere to be found, so you took a seat in the corner. You’d been scrolling through your phone for about 5 minutes when the bell above the door dinged.

You didn’t think anything of it. However, you looked up when the customer spoke. He was at the counter, back facing you as he talked to Wanda who’d finally come from the back. A black leather jacket adorned his large frame, the color contrasting with his fair hair. Swallowing, you looked away just as he turned around, eyes falling to your phone.

Your heart went crazy beneath your chest as you heard him approach. You wondered if he’d talked to Bucky, because if so, that would alter how you interacted with him in the next 30 seconds. When he got close enough, you looked up, seemingly just noticing him, and you threw him a small smile.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted, demeanor giving no indication of what had transpired yesterday.

“Officer Rogers,” you replied. “I’m glad you’re here…”

He hummed, placing a hand on the chair across from you, the other on his hip.

“Yeah, I came down to pick up something to go. The boss is still forcing me to stay home.”

You swallowed, nodding.

“I actually wanted to apologize to you, Officer Rogers,” you said.

You didn’t register any type of surprise in his eyes. He looked completely unfazed, demeanor remaining the same, and you knew that he’d already spoken with Bucky, confirming what you’d suspected. Still, you continued.

“With everything going on, I’m just so stressed and stretching myself far too thin. Not to mention, I haven’t even been divorced for 6 months. There’s a lot that I’m still dealing with, and I took that out on you in probably the worst way possible,” you explained. “You’ve only ever tried to help me.”

He smirked, and you wanted to wipe it from his face.

“There’s no hard feelings. I completely understand,” he said, pulling the chair out and taking a seat.

You forced yourself not to frown at that. He reached out, with his left hand you noted, to brush a finger along your clasped hands on the table, and you tensed.

“I told you before, if there’s ever anything that you need to talk about, I’m here to listen. I want you to feel as comfortable around me as everyone else in this town,” he quietly added.

You slowly pulled your hands back to rest them on your lap, watching the way his brow twitched ever so slightly. You’d dealt with men like him before. Your ex-husband did that, usually when in public, a tell-tale sign that he was unhappy. They seemed to be more alike than you originally thought.

Before you could respond to that, Wanda was calling for him, letting him know that his food was ready. He sent you one last smile before rising and leaving you alone once again. Wanda strode over as soon as he was gone, a grin on her face.

“You two looked cozy,” she said. “What brings you by so early in the morning?”

“My car is in the shop, so I’m just killing time,” you answered, ignoring her quip about you and Steve.

“Hope everything’s okay with it,” she earnestly replied, handing you a menu. “So, are you going to order anything? I’ll make it on the house.”

“Oh, Wanda, you don’t have to do that,” you said, waving her off.

“Don’t be silly, Y/N, it’s nothing! You’ve had such a horrible string of bad luck lately, the least I can do is try to cheer you up…”

Reluctantly, you accepted her offer, and roamed your eyes over the menu.

When you strode into your yard it was around 7. Sure enough, like the man had said earlier, around 7:45 in the evening, your car was being parked alongside your curb. He mentioned that something had been wrong with the battery and that it hadn’t taken long at all to fix. He didn’t say it outright, but the way he spoke made you believe he thought someone had tampered with it. You believed so too, but you didn’t tell him that.

15 minutes later, you were on the road and making your way out of town. You didn’t exactly have a plan. For now, you looked to stay at the first hotel you could find in another city, staying in a room there for a while to consider your next course of action.

Never in a million years did you think something like this could happen to you, and in your tiny hometown no less. You shook your head, thinking about how Officer Rogers had everyone fooled. You wondered what else he’d gotten away with? Surely, he didn’t just wake up one morning with a change of heart and decided to torment you. People usually do what they know they can get away with, right?

You’d only been driving for maybe 25 minutes when your car suddenly stalled. Your eyes widened, and you rushed to turn the key, hoping that maybe it was a minor problem that would solve itself. You moved to turn it back on, but it only spluttered. Again, you tried, but the engine wouldn’t start, and your heart sank.

You glanced around along the long stretch of road, noting that no cars were around, and you doubted any would be anytime soon. It was getting dark, now, and worry filled you. You weren’t completely out of town yet, hadn’t even crossed the city limits, but there was no way you could walk anywhere. You were too far out, and you’d be crazy to.

You wanted to cry, but you forced the tears back, telling yourself that you had to think smart about this. You tried the ignition again, but like before, the engine wouldn’t start. You considered getting out to look under the hood, but you weren’t very familiar with the inside of a car. You knew to check the oil and knew when to put more freon in the car, but that was about it. Besides, you’d seen enough horror films to know to sit your ass in your car.

However, your location was a problem. You were, quite literally, in the middle of the road. Granted, if someone came up from behind you, it wasn’t like they couldn’t see you, but still. You didn’t like just sitting here. You took out your phone, thankful for your carrier because you actually had a few bars surrounded by all of these trees.

You were in the process of looking up the number to the diner, preparing to call Wanda, when red and blue suddenly surrounded you. Fear gripped you as you jerked your head up, confirming that there were definitely lights flashing from behind you. You dropped your phone in your lap as you turned around. A police cruise was parked on the side of the road behind you, and you felt your body grow numb for several different reasons.

What if it was Steve? You were alone out here, no one around to witness anything that could happen. The thought made you want to vomit. On the other hand, what if it wasn’t Steve? The thought still made you want to be sick because, again, you were alone out here…

You turned back around just as the door opened, taking a deep breath. Forcing your eyes up, you looked into the rearview mirror, only to sigh in relief, the tension easing from your shoulders. The cop walked up to your door, and luckily, your window was already halfway down when your car stopped. His dark eyes met yours, a friendly smile on his lips.

“Officer Wilson,” you breathed, hoping the relief wasn’t too obvious in your voice.

You’d never known him to be anything but nice. Besides, he never came with Steve to your house, so you long guessed that he wasn’t in on it with Steve and Bucky. You would’ve been more relieved had it been Officer Romanoff, but he would do. You wondered how he’d react if he knew what his friends were up to.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted. “Car trouble?”

“Yes,” you told him. “It just…it just stopped. I’ve tried to start it a couple of times, but nothing.”

He hummed.

“Going somewhere?”

You contemplated on whether or not to be truthful, but eventually you nodded.

“Just out of town. I have some things to do,” you kept it vague.

He nodded with a frown, eyes trailing over your car.

“You want me to take a look under the hood for you?” he offered.

“Would you? I’d appreciate that so much,” you answered.

He chuckled.

“Sure thing! Just let me get my flashlight out of the car,” he told you.

You frantically nodded, and he walked away. You wrung your hands together as you waited for him. You absentmindedly glanced around, and your eyes flickered over your passenger side mirror. You froze, frowning a bit as you questioned what you saw. Slowly, you flickered your eyes back to the passenger mirror, and they widened.

There, in the passenger seat of the police cruiser, was none other than Officer Barnes. Your lips trembled, heart hammering within your chest as you watched him talk to Sam, eyes on you. You could tell that he couldn’t see you looking at him through the mirror. You brought your eyes up to the rearview mirror, watching as Sam animatedly said something to him. You looked back to see Bucky doing the same. They seemed to be arguing about something.

Adrenaline on high, it took everything in you to keep your movements slow. You turned the ignition, but you were met with the same results as last time. You swallowed, tears collecting in your eyes now as you tried again.

“Come on, come on,” you quietly pleaded.

You looked up and watched in horror as both doors of the cruiser opened. Shaking your head, you turned the key again, hard, and gasped when your car roared to life. You heard Sam yell your name, but your foot was already pressing on the gas.

It wasn’t long before you heard the cruiser behind you, closing the distance. You were terrified to press your foot all the way down. You wanted to escape them, but you also didn’t want to die in the process. You forced your tears back, already hard enough to see as it is in the darkness. Your brights were on, but with the cruiser’s lights directly behind you, they weren’t much help.

You screamed when their bumper tapped the back end of your car. They did it again, and your fingers tightened on the wheel. You could see them coming up beside you, and before they had a chance to get level with your car, you slammed on the breaks. They flew past you before eventually slamming on breaks too. By the time they moved to turn around, you had already hit a U-Turn and were in the process of driving away.

Unfortunately, there was one thing that you hadn’t counted on.

Your car swerved when a gunshot rang out, the sound of your tire exploding not far behind. You struggled to take control of the car, realizing with horror that you were swerving off of the road and into the trees. You missed the first couple, but you shrieked when the side of your car grazed another. Your ran over fallen limbs and even a fallen trunk, roughly turning your wheel as not to come in contact with one head on.

It seemed that you were destined to do just that though. Your eyes widened at the large tree up ahead, and, in a panic, you jerked your wheel to the left, wincing when the right side of your car hit the tree instead, glass shattering. You released a shaky breath, pressing your hand to your head. Through the haze, you noted that you didn’t hear the cruiser approaching, but that just meant they were on foot.

With shaky hands, you struggled to open your car door. You slid out and fell to the ground, slowly pushing yourself onto your hands and knees, telling yourself to move faster. One hand on the car, you pulled yourself to your feet. Your vision swam as you stumbled through the trees, tripping over limbs and holding onto trunks as you passed them.

Your vision was starting to spin, and you shook your head, trying clear it. You could hear some fallen branches loudly snapping from behind you, and fear struck you. They didn’t even care to be stealthy, confident that they’d get you either way.

“Y/N!”

Your stomach churned at the way Bucky sang your name, the sound echoing around you in the darkness. They were closer than you thought, because you heard Sam say something to him that you couldn’t make out, and Bucky chuckled in response, that too echoing around you.

Unable to see where you were going, your foot landed in a hole, and you gasped as your ankle bent. You crashed to the ground, hitting your head, and your chest heaved. The footsteps were closer now, and you rolled over to crawl away just as a foot landed on your injured ankle.

You cried out, and someone’s hand wrapped around your arm, turning you over onto your back. You could make them out in the darkness, and you kicked your uninjured leg, hands swinging as you fought them off. You heard Sam grunt as your foot connected with his knee, and he stumbled back. Fed up, Bucky’s hand found your throat, pinning you to the ground as he straddled you, and you spit in his face.

He tightened his grip at that, and you whimpered.

“He wants her unharmed, Buck,” Sam reminded him, and the blue-eyed man scoffed.

“Yeah, well, maybe he should’ve gone after a girl with a little less fire-.”

His words were cut off by his yelp, and you dug your nails deeper into his face. Your other hand swung towards his neck, but his free hand caught it before you could do any damage, slamming your wrist to the ground.

“Damnit, Sam! Her hand! Grab her hand,” he snarled, struggling to keep you pinned beneath him, the haze finally clearing from your mind.

Your other hand was ripped away from him and held to the ground. He let go of your throat, and you bucked against him as he reached for something in his jacket. You couldn’t see what it was, not just because it was dark, but because tears were blurring your vision. He pressed it to your face, and you cried harder when you realized that it was a rag. It smelled funny, and you could guess what was soaking it.

You renewed your struggle, but they simply tightened their grip, Bucky pressing down harder on you as he did the same with the rag. You found it hard to breathe, and your body started to feel light. Sam shushed you, and that was the last thing you heard, Bucky’s blue eyes the last thing you saw before everything went dark.

The next time you drifted back into the land of semi-consciousness, you could feel that you were sprawled out on the backseat of a car. Your head lolled to the side as the car curved, and you could feel that you were being driven up a hill. You must have gone back to sleep for a few minutes because the next thing you felt was hands sliding underneath you, lifting you out of the car.

Your arms hung limp in the air, as did your head, and you frowned as you heard some muffled commotion. A tv was on, turned to the highest setting it seemed because even outside, you could hear that a football game was being watched. There were a few loud cheers that reached your ears, and you groaned.

A door was opened, the commotion quieting down, and a shift in the air told you that you were no longer outside. Even in your state, you realized that this wasn’t good, and your heart raced, frustration coursing through you because you couldn’t move.

“Is that her?” you heard an unfamiliar voice quietly ask, the deep baritone reaching your ears.

You felt, rather than heard, someone stomp towards you, and you groaned when they grabbed your ankle.

“What did I say, Bucky?”

You felt bile rise in your throat at the familiar voice, lips trembling as this confirmed everything that you already knew.

“That wasn’t me. She stepped in a hole when she was running away…”

Steve heaved a sigh, and whatever happened next was wordless because you felt Bucky start to walk. You slipped back under again just as his first foot stepped up onto some stairs. Darkness greeted you, mind conjuring up images that had you frowning.

Your mind was plagued with thoughts of Killian, but he eventually morphed to Steve. Falsely warm smiles and eyes that hid true intentions. His silhouette stood in every corner, laughing as you spun with a gun in hand, always just missing him. His laughter grew louder until it was all you could hear, and you shot up with a gasp.

The room that you were in was bathed in low light from the lamp on the other side. It was a modest size, but not tiny by any means. Your head still felt fuzzy, and you blinked a few times, attempting to clear it as you shook your head to the side. Your fingers dug into the sheets beneath you, and you realized that you were sitting on a bed.

Laughter grabbed your attention, the same laughter you heard in your sleep, and you realized that must have been what woke you up. You slid off of the bed, careful to do so without making any noise, and you hesitantly walked to the door. You tried the knob, but it seemed to be locked from the outside. You pressed your ear to the door and frowned at what you heard.

“Touchdown,” that same deep voice from before yelled, and you heard a thud before a small crash followed.

You heard several cries of protest, and with wide eyes, you realized that the house was full of men.

“Really, brother. Must you always be such a brute,” a smooth voice said.

You swallowed, taking a step back as your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists. How could they be enjoying something like a football party downstairs as if you hadn’t just been kidnapped and carried through the room…minutes…hours before?

With a huff, you spun around, looking over the room. You still felt a bit out of it, but you were coherent enough to realize you needed to get the hell out of here. Fast. Your eyes fell onto the window on the other side of the bed, and you hurried towards it. You bit your lip as you confirmed that you were on the second floor. The room that you were in was on the backside of the house because your eyes landed on the lake, and you grimaced.

With difficulty, you opened the window and looked down. There was more than enough room to hit the ground without hitting the lake, and you looked around. With disappointment, you realized there was nothing for you to climb onto…until you looked up. You stared at the ledge of the roof for a while before making up your mind.

You pulled your head back inside and ran to the dresser across from the bed. Swiftly, but quietly, you pulled all of the drawers out, neatly stacking them on the bed. The dresser was much lighter and much easier to push in front of the door now. When you were done, you paused, listening for any indication that they heard you, but the television was blaring, and there was some yelling at the screen. You quickly slid the heavy drawers back inside.

Stepping onto the window sill was a struggle, and not just because of your bruised ankle. You held onto the house with one hand, the other reaching up to grip the ledge of the roof. Without hesitation, you swung and clasped your other hand onto the ledge too. Your upper body strength was severely lacking, but it was enough.

Somehow, you shuffled around the house, away from the back patio and living room. You could see a tree coming up on your left, the large trunk brushing against the house, limbs and branches sticking out over and against the side. You reached for one of the limbs with one hand just as you placed a foot on a limb beneath that one. You followed suit with the other hand and hissed in pain when your injured foot joined your other one.

With difficulty, and much slower than you would have liked, you climbed down, gently lowering yourself to the ground. Before you were nothing but trees. You could see the start of the driveway to your right, and the ominous lake called to you on your left.

Your best chance of escape was getting to the other side of the lake. If you could get to the other side without being noticed, you’d practically be home free. However, trying to swim across a lake that size with a drugged-out brain, injured ankle, and fatigue-ridden body was a suicide mission. You could easily drown.

With a grimace, you stepped into the thick trees before you. You needed to get back to the road, but eventually, when they caught onto your absence, the road and nearby areas is the first place they’d look. Part of you thought that there was no use in trying. Your body was weak, and you were currently limping through the forest. You were like an injured deer trying to outrun a pack of wolves as they slept.

Eventually…they’d wake up.

The night was cool, and you started to shiver. When you left, you’d only had on some jeans and a thin long-sleeved shirt. Your jacket had been next to you in the passenger seat. Had you known you were going to be kidnapped and then forced to escape your kidnappers, you would’ve put it on. You heard a howl far off in the distance, and with a start, you remembered that Steve wasn’t the only thing you had to hide from.

You didn’t know how long you had been walking, but when you reached a small clearing, moonlight shining down on you, you were forced to admit it to yourself. You were lost. It wasn’t like you had been walking in circles, so you weren’t concerned about accidentally making your way back to the house. In fact, you were proud to say that you’d made a lot of headway.

Just when you thought that your fatigue would get the best of you, spotted lights far off in the distance. They weren’t stars. You figured that the nearest neighbor had to be miles away, so it didn’t hit you how much you had walked until that moment. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, leaning against a tree. You pushed yourself off of it just as you heard a noise from behind you.

It was so faint, and you blinked, thinking that you had imagined it. You took a step forward, and you heard it again. Feeling like you’d been punched in the stomach, you realized that it was shouts. Several of them reaching your ears, yelling a name that was all too familiar to you: yours.

Paying no mind to your injured ankle, you took off into a sprint. Your fatigue was long forgotten, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You could hear the shouts getting closer, and you realized that they had begun running too. One of them was faster than the rest, footfalls pounding against the earth as they fought to catch up to you.

You wouldn’t make it. The realist in you knew this, and you bent over as you ran, swiping up a thick bat sized limb. You heard him just behind you, and you spun, swinging it across his face. His head snapped to the side, and he fell to his knees, clutching his face. You looked up, realizing that the rest had almost caught up to you now, and took off again.

The broken branch was heavy in your arms, slowing you down, and it wasn’t long before you were caught up to again. Only this time when you swung, it was caught in an iron grip. Bucky snatched it from you with one hand while the other swung at you. You brought your foot up in between his legs just as his palm connected with your face.

You both went down, but as you went to crawl away, his hand clasped around your injured ankle. You yelped, clawing at the dirt as he pulled you back. With your other foot, you kicked him in the face, and he let go with a grunt.

You pushed yourself to your feet, but you were knocked down again, this figure much stronger, and you knew that it was the first man you’d hit. You struggled beneath him, screaming as he pinned your wrists at the small of your back. He yanked you up with ease, and you kicked behind you, but he easily avoided your assault.

He jerked you upright, and the other hand fisted into your hair as he made you look straight ahead. Bucky was struggling to stand, blue eyes cold as they gazed at you, and you returned the look, chest heaving. Another unfamiliar man was slowly making his way over with Sam, his green eyes twinkling with mischief, a sly smirk on his pink lips. The man behind you chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through his chest and into your back.

“I like this one,” he finally said, out of breath. “She’s a fighter…”

He didn’t seem bothered by it though. In fact, you’d say he enjoyed the chase.

“Like this one all you want, but this one isn’t yours.”

You tensed at the sound of a familiar voice coming from the shadows. His footsteps grew louder, and you saw the white of his shirt through the trees first. You moved in the harsh hold you found yourself in, and the man behind you shook you, casing you to flinch and hold still. You licked your lips, tasting blood, and you threw a glare towards Bucky.

Steve took his time getting to you, blond hair in disarray as he approached. The tight short-sleeved tee clung to him, and you narrowed your eyes at the healing wound on his right arm. He caught your gaze, and a smirk fell over his lips.

“You did get me good, sweetheart,” he said once close enough, impressed. “You could’ve killed me. I wasn’t expecting that.”

You didn’t respond, simply glaring at him as he stopped to stand before you. He looked down his nose at you before his gaze flickered to that of the man holding you.

“Let her go, Thor,” Steve told him.

“But she’ll-.”

“She won’t run away. You guys go back to the house. You might still be able to catch the end of that last game,” he interrupted.

Reluctantly, the man behind you, Thor, let you go, and the blood rushed back to your hands. You almost wanted to beg them to stay. You didn’t know what Steve would do to you now that you were alone…in the middle of nowhere…

He reached for your face, and you jerked away. He reached for it again, quicker this time, and gripped your chin harshly in his hand. He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away the blood there, and he hummed.

You glanced down just before bringing your leg up, but seemingly anticipating that, Steve closed his own legs around your ankle. He twisted his body, causing you to fall on your side. He grabbed your ankle and pulled you back as he lowered to his knees. You pulled against his hold, but you felt him press his knees to the back of your legs, keeping you in place.

One arm grabbed the back of your shirt and yanked you up until you were on your own knees, back pressed against his front while one hand slid around you to lock your arms in place at your side. It all happened so quickly, and you struggled in his hold. His heart beat perfectly steady in his chest while yours threatened to jump out at any moment. He brushed his lips over your ear, and you closed your eyes.

“You’ve got two options...,” he started. “I can give you this…”

You opened your eyes just in time to see him bring a syringe before your eyes, and they widened in fear, heart skipping a beat.

“It’ll help you sleep,” he murmured. “…and we both know you need the rest after the day you’ve had.”

You jerked against him, but he tightened his hold, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“However…if I gave you this, I could do anything I wanted to you. I mean, I won’t because that’s not really my style, but all you have is my word on that,” he whispered, breath fanning over your skin.

You stared at the ground, tears spilling over now.

“Or…we could stand up, and we could walk back to the house like two civilized adults. Its entirely up to you…”

“Why are you doing this to me?” you finally asked him.

He tsk’d at that.

“Make a decision,” he demanded, voice dropping.

With trembling lips, you told him that you’d walk. He sharply inhaled, seemingly pleased with the answer as he put the syringe away. He loosened his grip, but your relief was short-lived as he quickly snapped handcuffs onto your wrists. He tightened them, and you winced, gasping when one hand dug into your arm, the other sliding over your breasts.

A new fear clung to your frame as he fondled you, hands sliding down your shirt, fingers dancing along the edge of your jeans.

“No,” you protested, trying, and failing, to lean away from him.

He slid his hands past the waistband and into your underwear, fingers grazing over you. The hand that was on your arm slid up to your throat, tightly wrapping around it to pull your head back. His lips pressed to the skin just below your jaw, and you trembled as he slowly slipped a finger inside of you.

“Steve, please-.”

“Say my name again,” he groaned, sliding a finger in and out of you before adding another.

“Stop,” you choked out, fighting to put as much space between you as possible.

He simply hummed, pushing his fingers into you past the knuckle, curling them inside of your now slick core. You gasped, and he turned your head to the side, pressing his lips against yours and forcing his tongue past your lips. He moaned into your mouth as he worked his hand in between your legs, the lewd sounds reaching your ears.

The palm of his hand kept brushing against your bundle of nerves, and you felt yourself clench around him. Steve chuckled into your mouth, a grin on his lips. You tried to move your head away, but he kept you in place, moving his mouth against yours again.

You shook in his arms as your walls fluttered around his fingers, and your vision went fuzzy, a choked moan being pulled out of you. Steve swallowed it down, and you didn’t even notice that he’d released your neck, eyes widening when you felt a pinch.

He held you still as he pulled the needle out of your neck, and your reaction was instantaneous. You collapsed in his arms, and he was more than happy to hold you, blue eyes boring into your own as you fought to keep them open. You watched as he brought his fingers up and wrapped his lips around them. He kissed you, and you tasted yourself. His lips brushed over yours as he spoke, reaching under you to undo the cuffs.

“You don’t know how badly I want to take you, right now…”

You struggled in his arms now that yours were free, but your movements were sluggish, and you felt weighed down. He held you in his arms as he stood, your arms swinging limply.

“…but someone might think that I was killing you.”

Your head fell back as sleep claimed you.

~

tags:  @xoxabs88xox​ @darkficreposter   @mcudarklibrary @captainchrisstan​ @nickyl316h​ @buckybarnesplumwhore​ @harryspet​ @readermia​ @sebabestianstan101​ @villanellevi​ @opheliadawnwalker3​ @notyourtypicalrose​ @coconutqueen21​ @briannab1234​ @stargazingfangirl18​   @lou-la-lou​ @izzfizzh​ @thatgirly81​ @autty0314​ @hinata7346​

[seasonsofeverlark]

A Christmas Party (In Five Parts)

Author: @juxtaposie​

Prompt: Christmas party. secret santa. ginger bread house making. ugly christmas sweater contest. christmas song Karaoke. watching a christmas movie. [submitted by anonymous]

Rating: T for Katniss’ potty mouth

Summary: Six prompts, five snippets, two lovebirds, and one Christmas party

Author’s Note: 1832 words

______________

“Wow,” Peeta said when she came out of the bedroom. “That is a sweater.”

Katniss pulled at the hem self-consciously. The monstrosity was white, with candy cane striped sleeves, and featured a scene of teddy bears beneath a Christmas tree. “It was my dad’s.”

“Yeah?” he asked carefully, his eyes softening.

She nodded, reaching for her coat as an excuse to break eye contact. “My mom got him this sweater from Goodwill as a joke the first year they were married, but they were so poor it was the only gift she could really afford.”

“He must have liked the joke,” Peeta said as he shrugged into his own coat. “That’s the only reason I’d keep a sweater that ugly.”

“He loved it,” she replied quietly. “He loved everything about Christmas.”

***

“Shit,” Peeta swore, slamming on the brakes.

“Jesus,” Katniss responded when the seatbelt stopped strangling her. “What?”

He was already turning the car around. “I left the royal icing. We have to go back.”

“Peeta,” she sighed. “You’ve won every year since they started throwing this party.”

“Because I refuse to use that shitty icing that comes in the kit.”

“It’s twenty minutes back home,” she argued, “then twenty minutes back again. We’re already late.”

“It’s a giant party,” he said. “No one will notice if we’re late.”

“And no one is gonna beat your gingerbread house!”

“Fine,” he said begrudgingly, hitting the brakes just a little too hard again and throwing Katniss against the passenger door as he made a second u-turn. “You’re probably right.”

“And people ***will*** notice we’re late,” she insisted. “Remember when we were late to Finn’s first birthday?”

He laughed. “Yeah.”

“And now every time we’re late to anything they ask us if we were having sex.”

Still laughing, Peeta said, “I mean, they were right.”

Katniss swatted his leg when they parked on the street a few houses down from the Odair residence. “That’s not the point!”

He caught her hand, pulling her across the center console so he could kiss her. “Tell me more about how no one can beat my gingerbread house,” he said when they parted.

“Ugh!” Putting her hand on his face, Katniss pushed him away. “You’re so weird,” she said as she climbed out of the car.

***

“No,” she said firmly, after a long sip of her Moscow mule.

“Come on,” Finnick goaded.

“Please?” Annie asked sweetly.

“It’s Christmas,” Peeta reminded her.

“No,” she said again, draining her drink as they continued to plead. 

“Oh come on!” Johanna yelled. “Finnick got up there, and he’s basically tone deaf.”

“No,” Katniss said over her shoulder as she hauled herself off the couch and disappeared into the kitchen to mix another drink.

“Leave her alone, guys,” Gale said, loud enough to cut through all the chatter that followed her. “She hasn’t sung in front of anyone in years. She probably sucks.”

“I don’t suck,” she shouted back. A stronger drink was what she needed. At least half vodka.

But as she was pouring, Gale yelled, “Then you’re chicken shit,” and before she knew it she was back in the den, facing down Gale.

“I’m not chicken shit.”

He shrugged, shaking his head. “It’s fine. We’re all chicken shit about something.”

The room was so silent she could hear the ice clinking in Peeta’s glass as he shifted back and forth. Steeling herself, Katniss took a deep breath, gulped down all her vodka, and shoved the glass at Gale.

“Gimme the microphone.”

The room erupted into drunken cheers and Finnick handed over the bluetooth microphone.

“Put on Blue Christmas, Annie,” she ordered.

But when the first strain of “All I Want For Christmas is You” wafted from the speakers, it was clear everyone had been conspiring against her.

Fuck it, she thought. Move over Mariah Carey.

***

“Okay!” Finnick shouted, his face flushed from both alcohol and excitement. “You’ve got five minutes to find or make a gift from whatever you’ve got in your coat pockets or your car! Everyone got a name?”

The room thundered around her, the windows rattling as Finnick started counting them down. Peeta was pulling her out of the house and down the road to the car before he’d even reached zero, and with all the vodka in her stomach the cold felt far away.

“Who’d you get?” he asked, throwing open the driver’s seat.

“That’s cheating!” Katniss scolded as she started digging around in the glove box.

“Trade me?”

She laughed. “You got Johanna?”

He grimaced as he popped the trunk. “Worse - Gale.”

“Are you kidding?” She threw aside some napkins, and pocketed a half-finished pack of gum that had some potential. “Just grab the road flares.”

“You’re brilliant,” he said, slamming the trunk shut. “What about you?”

“I told you,” she huffed, her voice muffled as she leaned into the footwell, “that’s cheating.”

“You’re no fun.”

“And you’re too much fun.” Standing up, she held up a strip of gold foil squares. “Really?”

Peeta laughed, his cheeks flushing with more than the cold, and came around the car to wrap an arm around her waist. “I was sort of hoping I might get lucky later.”

“Well I hope you have more condoms,” she replied, “because I’m about to give these away.”

***

It was past three in the morning when Annie finally shooed the last guests out the front door. Stumbling tiredly back into the living room, she shook Finnick awake. “We’re going to bed,” she said through a yawn. “You sure you’re okay on the couch? The guest room is made up.”

“We’re comfy,” Peeta replied, his warm breath ghosting over Katniss’ cheek. 

Finnick dropped the remote on the coffee table. “Goodnight guys.”

“Goodnight,” Katniss responded sleepily. Peeta shifted beneath her as he reached for the remote and started clicking through the TV guide.

“White Christmas or It’s A Wonderful Life?” he asked.

Humming happily, she snuggled deeper into Peeta’s side, tightening her arm around his waist. “White Christmas. Blanket?”

“You got it,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head before pulling the faux-fur throw off the back of the couch and spreading it out over the both of them. On the TV, Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen began arguing about love.

“Good Christmas party?” she asked as Peeta’s breathing began to even out.

“Any party with you is a good party,” he said, voice already rough with oncoming sleep.

She sighed. “Sap.”

“Pretend all you want,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “I know you secretly love it.”

“I do,” she admitted. “Merry Christmas Peeta.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

[siouiwrites]

Apples of Discord

They’d always wanted a fixer upper.

Always dedicating time to watching many of HGTV’s homely couples who spend their rocky marriages building houses to keep things together—also dedicating their energy to saving enough to buy their very first dream home. Both of them had spent their twenties holed up in shoddy apartments, so moving to a house seemed like the best way to enter their thirties. And, on top of that, why not make it a 120-year-old house?

           She was built in 1902. Like most of the other houses on the block, her exterior was fading and looking a bit splintery. But she was just in need of some quality love and attention, as Jamie always said driving down Fir Street. Harley disagreed, insisting that it also would require some quality dollarinos. Perhaps a new front door that didn’t look shriveled and uneven, some fresh siding, a functioning fence, new turf, some sturdy window frames that didn’t slope in the middle, perhaps a new porch(plus a swing, if there’s money left over) and of course a fresh coat of paint. But what color? The house as is was a dreadful beige that looked like her ex’s many pairs of khaki shorts. Maybe a light blue? No, the house down the street was light blue.

           “Maybe it could be a white, something pure and fresh, right? Like, telling the world, ‘here’s our fresh start’.” Jamie was always a romantic.

Harley looked at her girlfriend. “Are you serious? That monster of a house across the yard is white! The last thing we need to do is twin with those bigots.” The house that shared a fence with them was a monster of a mansion with at least twelve bedrooms and huge presidential white columns lining the front of the home. However, from what the girls had seen the couple who lived there were practically ancient artifacts and Jamie and Harley always joked that they’d probably be sent to a nursing home within a few months, so their run ins should be few and far between.

           “Maybe a shade of off-yellow, like an ochre? Eggshell?”

“Eggshell isn’t yellow, you doof.” She chuckled back, eyes glued to the house from the car window. They’d spent the last four months in mover’s limbo, looking at homes, hating their current studio apartment, constantly touring house after house gaging floorplans and judging bathroom tiles. But this one, they decided, had good bones.

           The first time they looked at this one they had their doubts. Room after room there was something to complain about, ugly carpeting, cottage cheese ceilings. Someone had decided to gut out the vintage fireplace and make it some kind of awkward alcove for some bookshelves, filled with Tom Clancy and Daniel Steele to such a degree that the house started feeling like a Goodwill, with its plaid couches and tchotchke looking angel figurines along the mantle. But this was before they’d seen the kitchen.

           Despite the “antique” amenities clinging to the walls of the kitchen, there was something immensely charming about the space. The fridge and oven might have been older then sliced bread, but the subway tiles lining the floor and the glowing yellow light spilling through a delicate dining room chandelier felt so much like home that the two of them shuddered at the unprecedented warmth flowing from the house directly into their hearts.

And then they saw it.

Resting in the very corner of the backyard in an easy standing position was a massive outstretched apple tree, with knotted limbs protruding in every direction. The trunk was rather stunted and most of the tree’s immensity came from its width; the branches reached far into the August air as if desperately stretching out, trying to grab for something just a bit too out of reach. But what was most eye catching of all were the bright red orbs floating in suspense off of those outstretched limbs, beautifully streaked red and yellow apples big enough to pass at a grocery store.

           Harley’s breath hitched in her throat as she voicelessly ignored the droning of the property agent and pressed forward, prying open the screen door and traipsing over the unmowed grass toward this ancient presence.

“We used to have a tree just like this. When I was a little girl, the first house we lived in after we moved out of our shitty apartment had an apple tree just like this one. My mother, god rest her soul, made the best pies with apples like these.” She ruminated, pressing her palm into the uneven face of bark.

           And the rest was history. They signed away all the papers, dotting their I’s; crossing their T’s. Within a month of touring the house they had already begun the tenuous process of moving in, collecting all manners of boxes from undescriptive locations, spending all-nighters packing up their dining room, bedroom, bathroom, all of which required doting attention from Jamie who obsessively labelled each box with exactly what treasures lied within. Harley was just glad that one person in their relationship could actually organize, although getting doted on after haphazardly throwing some things into their ‘improper’ place made her wish her girlfriend was a little less type A and a little more ‘let it B’. You’d think teaching yoga for a living(hardly) would’ve taught her to chill the fuck out, but moving was bringing out the stress monsters in both of their personalities.

           On top of working full time jobs, both women had side hustles or occupations that demanded at least fifteen hours of work a week. Harley spent afternoons after school got out working for a grassroots Anti-ICE organization, headquartered downtown. She’d spend a few hours there, answering phones and mass-producing emails and posters. When Jamie got out of yoga it was usually already 7 PM, she’d spend her free time crafting bracelets and necklaces to sell on her Etsy. Around the holiday season she always saw a nice uptake in profits, and worked her hands until they bled to keep up with the order loads. But moving in to a new place was taking up both of their lives as the primary focus outside of their actual jobs. Whenever they had a chance to be home, they would spend it unpacking and organizing, desperately trying to speed up the process of getting settled. Being in a state of mover’s limbo had both of them emotionally fried and mentally occupied, meaning they were starting to forget to take care of themselves. When they ate it was short and almost always takeout. Their dining table was littered with things they ate wherever they could find a clear surface. Both of them had to remind each other to take showers, brush their teeth, call their parents.

           But what was causing them the newest form of grief had nothing to do with the two of them and everything to do with the Nielson’s. They shared the stretch of their back fence with an elderly couple, Leslie and Rodrick Nielson. Both of them couldn’t have been younger than 80, and together they lived in one of the most extravagant properties either women had the displeasure of gawking at every morning over their cups of coffee.

317 Spruce Street was the largest house on that block, perhaps even the whole neighborhood. To accompany the hideous political signposts in their front yard, the home had a stark white exterior with colonial colonnades framing the front and connecting back patio which overlooked the biggest, gaudiest fountain in the whole county. Including the White house.

           “Do you think she imported it from Versailles?” Jamie giggled one early morning, dangling her teabag over steaming water.

“Why, Marie Antoinette herself would’ve found that miniature water park to be a bit much, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s about time to unpack our handy guillotine.”

Every time they looked out onto that expanse of disgusting wealth they found something more to hate about the Nielson’s. For one thing, every morning the couple would have a crew of young migrant workers come trim their hedges and deadhead their rosebushes. One morning Harley overheard Mrs. Nielson bickering with one of the men to turn down his “god-awful spic music”, and Harley spent the rest of the day turning beet red every time she thought about it. She decided that the next time she heard that woman use that word, she was going to do something about it. That woman, that woman she called her in her head, walking down hallways glowing pink with anger on her cheeks. What was so great about her was how easy she was to despise without having any actual experience with the beastly woman, but she knew plenty through casual neighborly surveillance. She wore different variations of the same Juicy Couture track suit every day, rotating between hot pink, cheetah print and a more business-like all black. That woman was built like a grandfather clock but she dressed herself like she still shopped in the junior’s section of a Kohl’s. She kept her white hair pulled back tight into a ballerina’s bun, and she wore enough makeup to look like she was on stage performing Cats or something. And then there was her dog….her little, yippy, bastard shitzu….typically Harley would feel pity for an animal under the loving care of that block of ice of a woman but that dog was a pretty good match for Mrs. Neilson. Caesar was an old half dead and very blind scruffy little Satan who spent his free time barking at and biting little children who reached through the iron rod fence to give him a pat. This little tiny dog was the subject of a big, menacing yellow sign on the gate that read “Beware of Dog”.

           One day Mrs. Neilson approached Jamie by her side of the fence as she was picking weeds out of their backyard, which was essentially like using ducktape to fix the Titanic. The house had taken up whatever time they’d had to spare and the yard suffered from a neglectful negligence, but it’s stark difference in comparison to the Nielson’s impeccable green lawn felt like an act of resistance.

“Hello there! I’m Nancy Nielson. I live across from you.” She chimed, pushing her Gucci sunglasses to the bridge of her nose. Jamie looked back in the house to see Harley looking back at her with wide, anticipating eyes as she scrubbed at last night’s dishes from their unsuccessful attempt at making baked ziti only to forget it in the oven for two hours and order more takeout. As soon as their eyes met she tilted her head back down, Harley didn’t want to be pulled in to whatever was about to happen.

“Ah! Yes. Beautiful house you’ve got there. The people who work to maintain it do a wonderful job.”

           “Why, thank you! If you’d like, I could give you a referral…” she gazed at the land beyond her immense iron fence. Jamie gently chewed the inside of her cheek.

“I don’t think we’ve got the spare funds to pay for someone else to do the work, we’re both stretched pretty thin at our jobs so we don’t get much a chance to take care of it ourselves…” Jamie could tell that Mrs. Nielson was no longer interested in small talk. She came over here for a reason.

           “Yes, being your age you have little time to do anything yourself. By the time you’re my age you simply aren’t able to do anything yourself anymore.” She cackled like some kind of evil witchy step-queen straight out of some Disney movie. “But I’m afraid I need to talk to you about something rather serious. This apple tree here….” She pointed, eyes looking up at it’s immensity. “Is such a massive hassle for us.”

Jamie didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit. “I was hoping I could convince you to let my husband and I pay for its removal, you see it drops it’s fruits all into our backyard and leaves such a nasty decaying smell that radiates through our whole property. I’m surprised you guys don’t seem affected by it at all! It’s positively nauseating.” She plugged her nose, for effect.

           “I’m sorry, but the apple tree was what drew us to this property in the first place. My girlfriend and I simply adore it.” Jamie brushed her hands affectionately against the bark, if there was a way to do that.

And then the shift happened. Mrs. Nielson’s pupils became slitted, her shoulders rounded out and her back became straight, her arms curling around her chest like Medusa’s snakes sporting tracksuits. She was waiting for the old woman to get close to the fence and pounce at her, spitting venom.

           “I see. Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to bring this up with the city. Not only do the fruits of this tree wreak havoc on our property, but it’s roots are bringing up our fence posts. The structural integrity is in jeopardy. Perhaps they can come up with some kind of resolution for us.”

“That’s such a shame, Mrs. Nielson. My honey and I were planning on baking apple pies for the whole neighborhood when November came around. If we did what you wanted, that just wouldn’t be possible.”

           “Well, I guess it’s a good thing anyway. Apple pie is a bit tacky, don’t you think? And it’s so, so hard to prepare just right.”

Jamie heard the water stop running in the kitchen. She bit her lip.

           “It’s a good thing we’re good cooks, right hun? My mom’s probably got a recipe tucked away somewhere.” Harley came up behind her, hugging her at her hip, letting her wet fingertips seep into Jamie’s thin pajama pants. “I’m sorry Mrs. Nielson, but there’s no way we’ll be giving up this tree any time soon. Not without a fight, that is.”

And a fight they got.

The next morning, a contractor working with the city came to the Nielson’s and began examining the land, chatting casually with another person in a crisp looking business suit, presumably their legal advisor. They loomed there, on the other side of the fence, gawking at the poor couple’s shabby yardwork. Harley and Jamie spent the morning watching back from closed blinds, carefully moving curtains aside to stare back, always meeting Mrs. Nielson’s reptilian gaze. When they returned home from their respective shifts, they were both too exhausted to do anything about dinner so they settled for crummy big-chain pizza delivery. They ate while glumly staring at an episode of House Hunters, both of them disengaged from everything besides the tree in their backyard.

           Harley was on her laptop, searching for legal explanations in terms she might understand.

“You know, my cousin’s a tree guy, he works for the city. He could tell us the what’s what of tree law in these parts.” Jamie said between smacking chews.

Two days later Jamie’s hunter-gatherer-esque cousin came around bringing tidings of vegan homemade granola. Both Jamie and Harley tried it politely only to come to a mutual consensus behind his back that he had tried to feed them gravel. His name was Jasper and he was an aspiring dendrologist who was sleeping on a salvaged mattress in the back of his truck. Sure he could’ve found himself a nice place to hole up in, he said, but why spend money on being rooted down to one place? He liked the freedom of living in a car.

“So here she is.” He pronounced, gesturing wide armed at the ginormous apple tree protruding out of the grasses like a great arborous signpost: the people who live here are living the lives of people with a great big apple tree. For that, bow down to their fulfilled American Dream.  But Jasper seemed less impressed.

“Oh no, oh no no no.” He said, cupping the belly of the tree, anchoring it’s bark in the palm of his hand like a tumor. “this is no good.”

           He brought out a big toolbox full of tree-tools, he then took a long spindly device and twisted it into the body of the tree. Both Jamie and Harley winced, as if the tree’s pain was their own. As he worked on getting what was essentially a giant corkscrew out of the splinters. Jamie and Harley sniffled in the cold, arms crossed.

“What is it?” Jamie spoke up, approaching to stand beside her confounded cousin.

           He let out a heavy sigh. “It’s the soil. The tree’s got phytophthora rot. It happens when a tree’s planted on bad soil. I’ll have to take a better look at different sections of the tree to see how badly she’s got it, but from the core sample I just took it looks like the rot goes deep. This tree, I hate to say it, might be on it’s way out.”

Jamie and Harley looked back at him, stunned. “What and you could just tell it was sick from jabbing it? What are you, tree Gandalf?” Harley stuttered.

He chuckled. “I’d concider myself more a Radaghast, but Tree Gandalf has a ring to it. Or rings, one could say.”

“I don’t have time for tree puns, Jasper. Are you serious? This tree’s gonna die?” Jamie looked up at the sprawling branches, reaching out towards the cloud-filled sky. She knew he was serious. “What can we do?”

“Well, the only thing to do for bad soil is to physically move the tree, and at this rate judging from how humongous it is, that would be quite a costly and time consuming endevour. If I were you, I’d give this tree a few last good years and let it pass peacefully. Maybe buy a peach tree instead or something. You’ve never been big on apples, if I remember right.” Jasper wiped the dirt off his hands after incessantly shoving his fingers into the wet topsoil. His fingernail beds were crusted with a black line of dirt.

“a few last good years…” Harley muttered, running a hand over the body of the tree. “That’s what she deserves.”

           “You know as soon as our neighbors find out it’s dying they’re gonna send the cavalry to come carve it up.” Jamie replied, eyes watching the curtains flutter in their neighbor’s wide French windows. “She’s probably already got em on the phone. She’s got eyes on us at all hours. Yesterday, I swear I saw her peeping over here with a pair of binoculars.”

           “She doesn’t know shit. I’d chain myself to this tree before letting it go down by her hands.” Harley’s eyes looked as if she’d awakened a deep-seated passion. “People like that aren’t going to ruin every good thing on this planet. I’m going to fight for this tree.”

Two weeks later, while the couple lazily drank first cups of coffee and read eachother tidbits from news sources they scrolled through on their devices, they heard the horses coming. Like a death knell, the slow and steady beeping of a bulldozer backing up came in through their window. They looked to their backyard and gasped.

           “She’s gonna try and take it down from her side.”

Both of them shot up from their seats, the old house rumbling like an earthquake as they scattered to put their shoes and coats on. Harley dodged into the garage and grabbed hold of some tow chain the last owner had left behind, rusting away in the corner. She met Jamie outside, the cold damp air alive with clouds of steam coming from humans and engines alike. Across the fence, Mrs. Nielson and her husband and their barking dog were engaged with some men in hardhats and orange vests. She’d brought out the whole brigade. It’s a wonder what money will do these days.

           “Ah! We were just coming to get you. You see, the city has served you some unfortunate papers. Because this tree is a hindrance on our land, we have the right to get it pulled from the ground. Ofcourse, only when the owners of the tree show neglect in it’s matinence.” That woman had a devil’s air about her, like she breathed fire. Her husband, a dull looking bald man with a face that looked as if it were simultaneously that of both a newborn baby and the oldest living human on the face of the planet.

“Sorry, not a chance. You’re not fucking with this tree.” Harley announced, hanging onto the chains as she tried to ahnd them to her girlfriend. “Babe, you gotta do this for me. Wrap this around me and the tree.”

           Jamie’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god.” She knew it wasn’t a good move, but she learned not to make Harley wait when she had made up her mind. “oh, my god.” She reached around, turning in circles as she cycled the chain around Harley’s waist. “Is it too tight?”

The chain was limp against Harley as they tried to tie up the end. “Nah you gotta do it tighter!”

           Mrs. Nielson gasped. “Are you serious? What are you, eco-terrorists?” She looked to her demolition goons. “Well what are you gonna do, just watch?”

“what’re we supposed to do?”

           “No, its alright, honey. The more they act out the easier our lawsuit will be.” Mr. Nielson cackled like a storybook villain. Harley gave him a glare she’d been saving for some real asshole, maybe the first boss she’d ever had who’d taken out of the register and stuck the blame on her “sticky brown fingers”. She felt the chains, taut against her chest, cold bleeding through her layers of winterwear and pajamas.

           “Baby, I don’t think this is worth it.” Jamie whispered into her ear, watching Mr. Nielson gleefully conversate with the police dispatch. “It’s gonna die anyway, why not just let them take care of it for us?”

           Harley turned red, and not because of the chill. “Like hell am I letting that woman think she’s won. It’s not about the tree anymore. It’s bigger than that.”

When the police came, they acted like this was just another Tuesday in the Suburbs. Petty land disputes between neighbors popped up like daisies in Spring here. If there was one thing an American cared about, it was the fences that differentiated between ‘us’ and ‘them’. However, there wasn’t much anyone could do except wait Harley out. Sooner or later she’d realize how little she could actually do, wrapped up and chained to a dying tree leaking sticky sap like bloody syrup into her clothes and hair and skin. The sensation of sticking to everything she touched in the slightest was beginning to make her feel like she’d never needed a shower more in her life. Jamie came to feed her and slip some warm coffee into her mouth in steady gulps. Both of them didn’t have much to say to each other.

           “I’m sorry.” Harley muttered. Jamie nodded, and proceeded to push cheeze-its into her lover’s grimacing mouth.

When the sun went down she folded. She was seconds away from pissing herself and she didn’t want Mrs. Nielson to enjoy the sight of watching a grown woman make a waterpark in her pants from within the comfort of the decrepit halls of her evil lair. She could feel that old woman’s eyes, all the way here across the metal fence. When she could spot her in between the interference of the fence posts, Harley starred her down until the old lady would walk away, moseying away from her watchpost. But seeing as Harley was stuck facing their humungously gross property, she was losing the willpower to see a purpose. These people with their fancy house, she was starting to buy that money could achieve anything. Maybe Jamie was right, the tree was dying anyway.

           The next morning the men came again, and the tree fell down in a series of terrifying chopping sessions straight out of an unrated horror film. Jamie stayed behind to make sure they wouldn’t be getting up to any funny business, maybe they’d try to mow the lawn or plant some rosebushes in her yard while they were at it. Harley went to work early that morning, before they came. She left in the dark of the morning and arrived at the early dusk of the evening.

           By the time November came they were alright again. They still despised the Nielsons, but so far they’d done nothing else to earn any extra disgust.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen either of them slithering around in a long time. I wonder if they’re on some fancy European river cruise or something.” Jamie ruminated, overlooking the immense fortress from the empty kitchen sink.

           “No one’s been by to take care of the yard in a week or so, too. Very strange…” Harley was spacing over the morning newspaper when she caught sight of something that made her stomach drop. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

           Harley brought up the newspaper, holding her forehead in her hand as if she’d been deeply disturbed. “Another famine or something?” Jamie reached to take it from her.

“Not…not quite.”

           “Oh, dear.” Jamie immediately understood. There, in a big segment blocked out just for him, was a picture of Mr. Nielson. He was smiling, at his golf course. His obituary described him and a jovial man, describing his love of work and wife and home and life. But it ended a week ago.

           “She must be boarded up in there, all alone.” Harley muttered, looking back at the property. Those closed curtains began to take on the form of solid walls of lonely grief.

The rest of their Saturday went by, they watched television and went about their homely chores. They just finished renovating the master bath and were due to start on the kitchen here any week. Despite the disaster that their home felt like in this in-between period of renovation, the air was sweet with domestic joy. Harley couldn’t stop thinking about the stuffy room Mrs. Nielson was holed up in. She couldn’t help but ponder wether that woman had been feeding herself, all alone there.

           Chicken bake casserole was easy to make. Her mother taught her when they were living off of boxed food and cans from the food pantry at the church down the street. Cream of mushroom. Peas, carrots, and pieces of whatever kind of chicken you could get your hands on. She tore at a leftover rotisserie chicken from the night before, layering pasta and vegetables and meat, delicately smothering it in the thick, creamy base. Jamie stood next to her, watching her work diligently. “Your mom would be proud, you know. If she were here to see you. Seeing you cook again, after she passed.” She sipped a glass of wine. “She might wonder why you’re making a casserole for a racist, but that’s beside the point.”

“I know, I know. But I just got to thinking….the tree was dying, right, cuz of the soil. It was planted in bad soil. What if….what if Mrs. Nielson was just planted in ‘bad soil’ too?” Harley felt vulnerable talking about the softness she was starting to feel toward her. She will always be angry with that woman, but she’d never let her go hungry. “I hope that old lady doesn’t toss it.” Harley voiced her concern, but she really couldn’t care less. “When I’m done with hers, I’ll make one for us to eat tonight. We’ve been eating takeout like, 4 times a week.”

           Jamie reached over and gently pressed her lips to the side of her head. “Wow, someday I’m gonna have to wife you, miss chef.”

They left the casserole on her doorstep. Harley scrawled out ingredients on a sticky note, wrote a brief message that partially made her cringe to herself after she read it through. They rang the door bell and only kind of sprinted out of there, worried the old woman was sitting by the door in anticipation. They didn’t watch to see what happened. They didn’t look at the sad broken stump that sat on the edge of their yard. They sat at their dining table and ate a meal together instead.

Dear Mrs. Nielson,

           We’re very, very sorry for your loss. Fences might separate our houses, but our hearts will always be open to you. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate.

H&J.

[swaps55]

Winter Asks Caught in a Snowstorm because Sam and weather.

The snow is festive, at least.

Too often there isn’t much snow in December, especially in Vancouver, and all the holiday decorations just end up looking drab and…damp under the grey winter skies. Not so today. The flakes of snow outside are coming down even thicker than they had been back in the mountains of the BC Interior. Snow this hard isn’t that uncommon out at the orchard, but Vancouver usually doesn’t see it.

Outside the train station, wreaths hanging on the lampposts wear a fresh blanket of white. Too early in the day for various holiday lights to be on, but Kaidan vividly remembers the massive display the city puts on down by the bay every year. Adding snow to the mix will make it nothing short of magic. Been a long time since he’s been on Earth for Christmas, and this year will be Shepard’s first experience with Christmas period.

It’s…not going well.

Outside may look like a pleasant winter wonderland, but inside the train station the collective mood of the thickening crowd waiting for loved ones gets farther and farther from goodwill to all, despite the plethora of Santa hats and garish holiday sweaters.

Shepard in particular has the look in his eyes that usually precedes solving a problem with a shotgun, which contrasts rather spectacularly with the evergreen sweater and gold jingle bell on a bright red cord Kaidan strung around his neck. The farther away they get from wearing combat armor, the more fascinating it is to see the soldier emerge.

If Kaidan had any idea how stressful the prospect of celebrating a holiday was going to become, he wouldn’t have pushed for it. For the past two weeks Shepard has approached Christmas like he’s coordinating a full-scale assault on an enemy stronghold. Like it’s something he has to win. The poor tree they’d decorated in the living room practically salutes every time he walks through the door.

Kaidan hasn’t dared introduce the ugly sweater concept. The levels Sam could take it to don’t bear thinking about, so he’ll leave that one for his mother.

If she ever gets here.  

Shepard paces the train platform, bell jangling with each step, occasionally glaring up at the arrival screen, where the 13:00 train from Kamloops still shows Delayed in red letters.

Kaidan eyes him cautiously. Despite the temptation to say ‘I told you so,’ a peace-on-Earth approach is probably the better choice right now. If Shepard were particularly open to peaceful negotiation.

“Fucking weather,” Shepard mutters under his breath, peering out a window with a scowl. “I hate planets.”

He’s not open to peaceful negotiation.

They’d spent four hours in a skycar to get here, in spite of all of Kaidan’s arguments for why it was a bad idea. Shepard hasn’t learned yet that when Kaidan’s mother makes a plan, you don’t alter the plan. And the plan had been she would take the high-speed rail from Toronto to Vancouver and find her own way to the orchard. It was her plan. Sam’s idea to surprise her at the station was doomed to failure, no matter how noble his intentions.

Of course, the fact he wanted to do it so badly is more than Kaidan’s heart can stand, but that doesn’t change the laws of the universe. Or his mother.  

“You can’t surprise my mother,” Kaidan tried to tell him. “It doesn’t work. Trust me.”

“It’ll work,” Sam insisted, back when he was naïve and optimistic.

Shepard, so accustomed to the galaxy getting out of his way whenever he it wanted to, doesn’t understand the opposing force that is Lora Alenko. Or blizzards.

“I flew a Mako through a mass relay and we really can’t figure out how to keep the trains running in snow?” Shepard demands.

“Apparently,” Kaidan says, suppressing a sigh. The sigh would not help matters.

The red lights on the arrival sign flicker, then change. Sam straightens, hopeful, until the word Cancelled appears.

“Son of a bitch,” he swears, throwing an arm in the air. “Fuck this holiday bullshit.” A few people look in his direction, including a kid wearing a red and green knit cap who can’t be more than ten. He grips his mother’s hand, eyes widening with recognition.

Chagrin creeps over Shepard’s face. He clears his throat and offers the kid a salute, before dragging Kaidan further away from the crowd.

“First,” he says, before Kaidan can open his mouth. “Don’t say it. Second, now what do we do?”

“We go home,” Kaidan says gently. “She’ll get here when she gets here. It’s fine.”

“No it isn’t.” Shepard runs a hand over his scalp and continues pacing. More people start looking their way, so Kaidan takes him by the hand and leads him outside, where the snow continues falling even thicker than before. At this point, just getting themselves home is going to be interesting.

Sam continues muttering under his breath as they walk, jingle bell tinkling merrily. Kaidan puts a hand on his arm, tightening until he stops.

“Hey,” Kaidan says.

Shepard turns his glare skyward, as though he has half a mind to out-temper the storm. Wouldn’t be the first time. He’d ground Noveria’s snow right under his heel. Of course, that time he’d had an armored tank with an eezo core. Surely he can’t do the same with a skycar.

…surely.

“This was supposed to go right,” Sam says in defeat.

Kaidan brushes away the snow collecting on Shepard’s shoulder, hiding a smile at the sight of flakes melting on his head. He’d spent so much time joking about making them both wear Santa hats he hadn’t thought to grab real hats.

“First lesson about holidays,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. “Nothing ever goes according to plan. Kind of like you.”

Sam exhales, warm breath dissipating into steam. He runs a gloved finger down Kaidan’s cheek, channeling some of his intensity into one of those looks that never fails to make him weak at the knees.

“Sam,” Kaidan says, meeting his gaze. “Talk to me. What’s going on? You’ve been a man on a mission for weeks. It’s supposed to be something you – something we – enjoy.”

His expression twists in a way that makes Kaidan’s heart ache. “You’re…my family. Your mom…is now my family. Holidays are important to you.” He hesitates. “And I kind of wanted it to be important to me.”

Kaidan gazes at him, too many thoughts swirling in his head to give voice to any of them. So he leans in and kisses him, softly at first, then more insistently as Sam wraps an arm around his neck and pulls him flush. For the thousandth time, Kaidan wonders how two people fit so perfectly together.

When Kaidan finally pulls away Sam sighs, blinking away flakes of snow.

“Then let’s go home,” Kaidan says. “And I promise, when she gets here? We’ll make it important to all of us.”

Kaidan takes his hand as they walk back towards the skycar. Just for the hell of it, he sticks his tongue out to catch a snowflake, persisting until Sam laughs and tugs him close.

It’s late by the time they make it back to the orchard. The strings of Christmas lights Sam had hung meticulously over the front bushes twinkle merrily, but to their surprise the house itself blazes with light.

Sam’s hand reaches for a sidearm he no longer carries, suspicion in his eyes. “Did you leave the lights on?”

“Nope,” Kaidan says, hiding a smile as he gets out of the skycar.

“Then what the—”

Kaidan chuckles. “You are not the only person who can bully the universe, Sam.”

When they walk in the house Kaidan’s mother sits on the couch with a glass of wine, feet up and adorned with a pair of candy cane slippers, fire roaring merrily in the fireplace. When she gets to her feet, she wears a knit red sweater emblazoned with a green Christmas tree that lights up with omnitool powered lights.

“There you are!” she exclaims as they stamp snow off their boots. “Where the hell have you been?”

Kaidan grins and crosses the room to sweep her up in a hug.

“We…went to get you,” Sam says, giving her a baffled look. “How did you get here? Your train was cancelled.”

“Aunt Li had some last-minute things she needed to take care of, and I saw the weather, so I took an earlier train.”

“I told you,” Kaidan says. “You can’t surprise her.”  

“You tried to surprise me?” she asks, genuinely touched.

Kaidan steps aside and she opens her arms expectantly, waggling her fingers until Sam steps sheepishly into them. She leans in and murmurs in his ear, “Good luck with that.”

Sam narrows his eyes, but holds her tight. “Challenge accepted.”

Oh boy. This is not what Kaidan had in mind when he vowed to make new Christmas traditions.

“I missed my boys,” she says, taking Sam’s cheeks in both hands. “And I wasn’t going to miss our first Christmas.”

Sam nods, speechless for once when she lets him go.

“Sam went all out,” Kaidan says with a smile. “You should see the meal he’s got planned for tomorrow.”  

She raises an eyebrow.

“Catered,” Sam says swiftly.

She grins. “I can’t wait.”

She goes into the kitchen to dig up two more wine glasses. When she returns, she hands one to each of them and grabs the bottle she’d already opened to fill them.

She picks up her own glass and raises it. “To our new family.”

Sam and Kaidan echo the toast, though Sam’s voice wavers.

They drink. Sam shuffles his feet. Kaidan knows the look on his face. The soldier’s been put away again, but the part of him who believes he has to earn his place – even with his own family – still hasn’t been laid to rest yet.

Kaidan’s working on that.    

“So,” Sam says slowly. “I’m, um. Not sure what happens now. I’m not…good at this.”

Kaidan’s mother loops Sam’s arm around her shoulder and walks him over to the couch, where a pile of blankets wait. “Now we cuddle up in front of the fire and get warm, because it’s freezing outside and someone I know hates being cold.”

A smile creeps across Sam’s face. “It’s not so bad. When you’ve got the right company.”

Outside, the snow keeps falling. Inside, the fire flickers and pops.    

“So is this what it’s like?” Sam murmurs, tugging a blanket across the three of them as they settle on the couch and finding Kaidan’s hand underneath it. As soon as he’s situated, Kaidan’s mother drops a Santa hat on his head.

“Yeah,” Kaidan says, kissing his temple. “This is what it’s like.”

[zippiestdraws]

Choking Curiosity ch 11

ftm reader x Michael Myers

Read on ao3

This weekend you were ready to splurge at the goodwill. You desperately needed to get some furniture, not having a couch, kitchen table, or even a bed frame is starting to get old.

You almost considered enlisting Michael’s help to lift the couch inside until Quentin came through for the price of pizza delivery.

Sweat drying, the two of you sit at the table after disassembling and assembling it to fit through the front door with two pies to reward the effort. You have finally declared all the structural repairs done.

“So what are you going to do with this place, now that it’s not falling apart?,” Quentin asks around a mouthful.

“Try to make it less ugly, for the most part.” You look around at the severely outdated kitchen that definitely won’t be getting an upgrade. “Just gonna slap some paint on it until I get a better job, really.”

“I think you should turn it into a party house.” he laughs at the idea, “or you could get some roommates. Are you going back to school here?”

Your stomach turns a little bit. You’ve only been living day by day so far, not knowing what the future held or what you wanted. 

“I don’t know yet.” a noncommittal answer, but he nods. The roommate comment nearly makes you choke on your food, you don’t acknowledge it and hope he hasn’t seen the extra toothbrush in the bathroom.

It’s silent as you eat until you both sit back and stretch, exhaustion settling in while you digest.

“You should get a TV, or at least a radio, it must be so boring in an empty house.”

He’s right, even with a library card it can be hard to pass the time, especially alone. 

Well, almost alone.

When Quentin leaves, you lock the door behind him and head back to clean up the leftovers. Unexpectedly, Michael is there standing over the table eating pizza like he hasn’t eaten in days. You don’t know where he was hiding while you had company, but he sure came quick for food.

This is the first time you’ve seen anything underneath the mask, the tip of his nose peeking out from underneath the lifted latex, but you can’t help but laugh a little because there’s pizza sauce smeared all over his face like a child trying to eat ice cream.

Realizing you’re present, he stiffens for a moment, but slowly relaxes before sitting and continuing to eat under your gaze. You see his blue eye watching you back intensely. 

You try not to let him know you’re staring, but now that your curiosity is piqued, your eyes are starting to wander.You want to know what his hair looks like, after spending so long knowing him as his mask, it’s a bit of a disconnect. 

You’ve been denying yourself, but you’re going to have to accept that you find him attractive, now that you find your eyes tracing his jawline and down to admire his chest. You look back up, and Michael’s still watching you. 

His face gives away nothing as he finishes the last slice.

***

You don’t know if it’s the presence of furniture that makes the difference, but Michael has begun to hang out around the house more often than before. You’d never admit it outloud, but you’ve come to enjoy his company in a domestic sense, even if he’s not a big talker.

It’s been a while since he’s come home with... evidence on him and for that you’re grateful. You may be screwed up enough to let a serial killer live in your house, but you’re not so far gone that you can ignore what he’s done. Every day with him your excuses get thinner.

Quentin’s comment on boredom nags at you again. You look at Michael sitting in the bare bones living room with his book.

“Hey, Michael.” you enter gingerly, his head turns towards you. “Do you like to read?”

The question hangs in the air as soon as you say it, so you elaborate.

“I was thinking, since you were interested in the sign language book, I can pick some more up for you when I return it.”

You really hope he’ll let you return it on time.

His shoulders rise and then fall slowly, surprising you with a shrug before he returns to the page.

You also wanted to ask what he thought about movies but it looks like the conversation is over.

He’s still in the same spot when you leave for work and something within you begs for a reaction. You pause just in view of the couch he’s on and turn slightly back.

“Michael, will you ever show me your face one day?”

The way he returns your look is almost like you’ve taken him off-guard.

You take your leave, waving to Abtin on your way to work, hoping you didn’t impulsively step over the line.

***

Work started out bad and it seemed to just get worse. When you arrived you were immediately put on cleanup duty in aisle number five where somebody lost their lunch, afterwards for the next seven hours it seemed that every customer came to relieve their anger issues on you over expired coupons, and to top it all off, a group of kids decided to play football with an egg carton and fumbled it into you as soon as you turned the corner.

Eggs and shell dripped from your shirt for the rest of your shift and the walk home, leaving you already tacky and frustrated before opening the door.

The acrid smell of smoke curls your nostrils when you step inside.

“Michael?”

The door shuts behind you and you hurry to the kitchen on tired legs. A pan sits on the stovetop in disarray and what looks like burnt bread litters the ground. Michael is nowhere to be found.

I guess a cookbook for dummies from the library is next. 

You throw the pan in the sink. On closer inspection, of course it would be eggs blackened to the metal. You guess that makes the scorched bread everywhere toast, which strikes you as weird considering you don’t have a toaster.

You can’t be bothered with the mess and head upstairs to take a shower.

***

Pulling pajamas over your wet skin, you jump when you see Michael standing in your peripheral, almost like a child both trying to hide and get someone’s attention at the same time.

“I would appreciate it if you would at least clean up after yourself in the kitchen next time.” the day’s annoyances resurface in your tone. 

It slowly registers when you look at him that his jumpsuit is spattered with blood. He hardly gives you a chance to react, taking wide steps and breaching the gap between you and holding his hand up to your face.

You look to his face, confused, and then back to his hand, furrowing your brows before you see what he’s trying to show you. Decent sized burns litter his fingers, a few blisters already bubbling to the surface. 

You think back and presume it’s from holding bread over the gas stove.

Sighing, you lead him tiredly to the bathroom and have him sit on the toilet while you dig in the cabinet for the first aid kit.

All too fast, but also excruciatingly slow, you take out the burn cream and gently rub it over his fingers, looking to his eyes multiple times to see if you’re causing pain.

His hand holds inhumanely still while you wrap the gauze, how large it is compared to yours dawning as you apply the medical tape.

“You really should have cleaned up before wrapping it, but don’t pop the blisters or they can get infected.” you lecture while piling everything back into the white box it came from.

You stash it away and find him still staring at his injured hand, unmoving. You stand in front of the sink awkwardly eyeing him.

“What do you want me to do? Kiss it better?” you snort, trying to ease the tension.

Michael turns at the statement to look at you, blinking before his hands slowly move up to the neck of his mask.

You watch in awe as he timidly peels his mask off.

[codeinecupsss]

Red Room chp 1 - British stranger- It was a dark and stormy night, in Vegas. The wind howled loudly and the lights flickered in the streets as Heather walked. In her right hand, she held heels and her purse. Work was time consuming and she only made eight hundred dollars in nine hours, due to her bosses actions. Having nice clothing was for the wealthy and Heather was nowhere near wealthy. She barely paid her rent and fed herself. Heather's outfit, consisted of red dresses, she'd buy from goodwill and it wasn't exactly revealing enough for her job. The flash of the lighting, the roar of the thunder, and the pelting shower of torrential rain, scared Heather making her hug the coat that covered her small body, tightly.   "Crap" She says, increasing her speed towards the direction of her apartment. Heather hated it when it rained, by reason of her hair being curly. She tested pulling her coat over her head, yet failed to keep herself warm. Her teeth chattered and her hair soaked of rain, the warmth now leaving her body. She continued to walk in the freezing cold, clouds of smoke leaving her mouth as she breathed.  Taking a sharp turn, she then arrived at her destination. Exhaling, she unlocked her rusty door, pushing it open afterwards. " Crispy!" she squealed as her fury cat came running to her in excitement. She bent down and pet her, enjoying the warmth of her fury pet. Heather's body warmth came back and she now removed her jacket, hanging it up on the rack as well.  " Look what i brought!?" she then said, pouring the treats in Crispy's bowl. Crispy happily ate her treats as Heather walked to her bedroom.   Her bedroom was very small and tight but she she knew she couldn't do anything about it, sadly. Removing the red dress off her body she hummed a melody, sauntering to the bathroom. Water poured down the drain once she turned on the shower and a small grin formed on her lips.   The shower wasn't very long, only having hot water for ten minutes. She stepped out onto her fluffy rug, and wrapped a towel around her body. Curly hair fell to her sides, completely soaked in water. Heather never thought of herself as ugly. She may have been a blonde with blue eyes but she also had features of her father.  Freckles splattered her nose and her cheeks were lightly tinted pink. She had a gap in between her front teeth, which she hated. Her lips were very pink, very plump.  Water dripped down to her arms and back as she studied her reflection in the mirror.  Reaching underneath the sink, she pulled her blow dryer out and connected it to the outlet. air, forces her hair back and she continued, through until it was completely dry - then ties it into a bun. A strand of her curliness fell down to her nose, and she huffed, tucking it behind her ear. Heather hasn't decided whether she wanted to the bar till morning, or continue her book. If it were the bar, she could wear the black dress, she bought recently. Red was the strip - leaving Heather the reality.   She grabbed the warm fabric and tossed it onto her bed, along with a matching underwear set. A night to herself was all she needed. Lifting one leg up, she slipped on her pink lace underwear and tied her matching bra on as well. The storm had finally stopped by the time she got dressed. Quickly, she grabbed her cardigan that hung beside her closet and put it on. Her curls left the messy bun and fell to her shoulders. No, Heather wasn't planning on walking to the bar silly. Why would she ruin her brand new boots in the rain? Having Uber was useful when she had the amount of money. The driver tried to charge her seventy five dollars, from the strip to home. Lucky for Heather, the bar wasn't far. She paid the driver online and waited patiently for his/hers arrival.  Not only does the bartender love Heather, but he also gives her free drinks all night. Hopefully, he'll be working today or she'd be screwed.  A loud ring, echoed in the silence and she looked down at her phone. The driver had arrived and was parked by her mailbox. Her boots clicked on the floor as Heather ran down her hallway and down the stairs.  Once Heather got comfortable in her seat, the driver drove off down the street, passing a few house along the way.  Jazz music filled her ears as the man continued to drive around the beautiful city. Now that the storm stopped, people began to come out and party like it wasn't 4 AM. Heather secretly admired that about Vegas. Even though it was late, nobody ever stopped partying. life was great for them and life for her, was garbage. The man finally parked behind the building and she grabbed her purse beside her, exiting the car after. Hugging the cardigan tighter around her body, she slowly walked passed a few intoxicated people and inside the building. Every seat in the bar was taken except the ones in the front. Heather normally didn't sit in front, due to the creepy men that flirted with her all night.  " The usual." she then spoke, slamming the one hundred dollar bill on the table. " well, hello to you too. Miss, i'm on a mission."  The bartender mocked her as he poured her favorite drink. sliding the glass her way, she smiled, finally looking up from her lap.  " It's busy tonight, don't you think?" " very." He replies. She shrugged, picking up her glass.  " Keep these coming till i'm too drunk to ask for more." She then says, drowning the shot quickly. The vodka burned her throat and she winced at the feeling. Heather's nights at the bar, consisted, getting wasted and possibly taking someone home. The men she fucked, never knew she was a stripper and she wanted to keep it that way. After her second shot, it began to taste like sprite and she couldn't be happier.  " So.  she pushed her empty glass towards him and smiled. " Is there anyone good looking tonight?"  Raising an eyebrow, he poured her another glass.  " Just him, but he's way too old for you darling." She followed his eyes and turned around in her seat.  A man, probably in his early thirties, sat alone in the back of the bar, holding a half empty bottle of whisky.  Black ink is the first thing she saw.  He looked scary to be honest, but all the scary ones were good in bed.  His brown hair, combed nicely to the side giving her a good view of his green eyes. His face was perfectly sculpted - almost as if he was a statue.  He may have been drunk but he looked absolutely stunning.  She bit down on her lip, fascinated by the man. Turning back around in her seat, she faced the bartender. " Do you have anymore whisky bottles?"  Again, he raised an eyebrow and she huffed in annoyance.  " I'll pay you back, i promise. Please?" She batted her eye lashes, begging him to buy her the bottle.  He sighed, reaching underneath, grabbing a bottle of whisky.  " Don't let anyone see you, I can get fired."  She giggled loudly, jumping out of her seat.  " Wish me luck?"  Rolling his eyes, he whispered a " Good luck." And she smiled in return. " Ooops, sorry!" She squealed, apologizing to the two people she bumped into. They yelled a " Watch where you're going." And she blushed in embarrassment. Keeping her head low, she continued to walk through the crowd, saying a few sorry's on the way. Finally, she was face the face with the attractive man.  " Care for another drink?" She then said, smiling widely.   The man looked up from his hands and raised an eyebrow.  " Excuse me?"  From the way he spoke, he definitely was British and it only made Heather want him more.  She smiled again, placing the bottle in front of him.  " I said.  She then took a seat beside him and poured herself a drink.  " Do you want another drink?" He stared at the bottle, then at her.  " How old are you?"  That was the question, she often got from the men she flirted with and it was pestering to hear.  She bit her lip, stopping herself from giving the man a snarky response, then poured another glass.  " I'm old enough too talk to you."  Sliding the glass towards him, she grinned.   A small smile formed on his lips making her grin widen in satisfaction.  " Oh come on, I'm not that bad."  She brought her glass up, convincing him to take the shot with her.  He held a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted. The frown, the roughness of him set her at ease. " I'm having a bad night. Do it for me?"  He looked at her when she said this and stopped, ran his eye over her dress and in two minutes, rose from the couch.  " I don't speak to children."  Her mouth fell open, surprised by his rude comment.  All she wanted was a night with him but obviously he wasn't interested.  "Fine.   She snatched the bottle from the table and pushed passed him.  " Ass hole."   When she reached the bar, she slammed the bottle down and huffed, taking a seat.   " He thinks i'm a child." She told the bartender, taking a chug from the bottle. He laughed in response, earning a eye roll from Heather. " Not funny."  He shut his mouth at that and pushed a tall margarita glass in front of her.  " I made you an apology drink?"  She smiled, putting the straw in her mouth. Of course, the drink tasted amazing! It was made by the best bartender here. She continued to drink till the glass was empty.   Her body felt more relaxed once all the alcohol kicked in and she smiled at the feeling. " You got a smoke?" She then asked. He nods, digging in his back pocket. Pulling out a Newport, he passed it to her, along with a lighter.   Thanking him, she grabbed her bottle and stumbled out of the bar. She pushed passed a couple of people and finally made it to the patio. Thousands of people, surrounded the patio and she found it difficult to find a seat to smoke.   Her eyes scanned the entire area till they fell on the attractive man from earlier.  He sat alone, just like before but that didn't stop her from walking towards him.   Slamming the bottle down, she took a seat in front of him. He looked up, quite surprised at her presence.  " I thought I told you, I don't speak to children."  He says staring at her hard.   " It's a free country.. If you don't like it, go back to London."  She response, roughly sticking the cigarette between her lips.  She lights it and inhales deeply afterwards.   Blowing out the smoke, she faced him.  His eyes bored into her and she couldn't help but feel, threatened.  Clearing her throat, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Setting the cigarette down, she picked up her bottle, taking a chug from it after.   " You know, it's not nice to stare." She looks up and faces him. His stare hardened and a small giggle escaped her.   " Sorry, i'm a bit drunk at the moment."  Sticking the cigarette back in her mouth, she took a huge drag.  " I'm Heather by the way."  She held her hand out for him to shake, but he didn't move. Only stared.  She was beginning to get frustrated by his staring but she refused to let him affect her.  This was part of her job at the gentlemen's club so she held the same expression and stuck to it.  Finally, she finished her cigarette and flicked it to the dirt. " Just trying to make conversation."  She was half way done with the bottle and she felt so drunk, she could sleep.  Her body was heavy and her eyes struggled to stay open.  He reached over, grabbing the bottle from her hand.  " You've had enough love."   " H-he speaks!"  She slurred, holding onto the table tightly.  She knew she'd fall if she let go, so she kept herself seated.  A small hiccup escaped her but she laughed it off after.  Looking at the table, she noticed a pack of cigarettes  where his arm rested.   " May I?" She reached over and grabbed a cigarette from the box, quickly lighting it after.  No matter how cute he was, Heather never said anything, not unless he approached her first.   She's not sure where she got the idea that it was a man's job to do the approaching. Her mother, a staunch feminist in practice if not in name, would tell her. " if you see something, say something."  But the messages she got from everywhere else is that only a desperate women made the first move. She blew out the smoke, staring into his green eyes as he stared into her blue ones. How could someone be so damn hot? She thought.  He watched her carefully and she found it strangely hot. She imagined him push her onto her knees to suck his dick midway, and then command her to get on her knees face down, ass up, and then fuck her senselessly. Heather's heat began to get wet and she bit her lip at the thought.  She then heard the man suck in his breath.  " Heather, fuck."  His green eyes darken and she gasp at the scene.  He stared at her like she was a meal on a plate! Not only was he hungrily gazing, he held his hands tightly on the table. She was afraid he's snap but she was to drunk to do anything.  " Are you upset with me?" She then questioned. Her face held complete innocents but she wasn't innocent at all. She was a dirty dancer, when on the pole. Another hiccup escaped her and that's when the man got up. " Your drunk, let me take you home."   His green eyes came back and she huffed in frustration.  " What if i don't wanna?"  He laughed at that then stopped, reaching his hand out for her to take.   " Heather, it's late."  She loved the way he said her name and each time he'd say it, she got wetter.  After biting her lip once more, she gently placed her hand in his.  When he pulled her up, she slammed into his chest, accidentally dropping her cigarette.  His hands held her waist tightly as she giggled to herself. " I'm very drunk, sorry."  Again, she bit her lip and it drove him wild.  " Please, stop doing that."  She looked up and suddenly, dizziness took over her body.  " I think i'm going to faint."  She whispered - but before he could respond, everything went black.

Should i continue??? lmk 

[lovelylogans]

curious and beautiful (to seekers after it)

“The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to seekers after it.” ―agatha christie, the murder of roger ackroyd 

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, kissing/making out

pairings: logince

words: 1,923

notes: this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at @sanderssidescelebrations​! today’s prompt is couples costumes! 

Roman is painfully aware that his fiancé doesn’t put much stock into Halloween. 

He’ll drink the apple cider that Roman buys on his grocery trips, and he tolerates the decorations that Roman strews throughout their living room with reckless abandonment, and he partakes in candy, if anyone offers him a piece, though that’s mostly because Logan has a secretly raging sweet tooth that Roman hadn’t even known about until they moved together and he’d discovered the massive stash of suckers and jolly ranchers that Logan almost always has in his mouth, while they’re at home—now Roman’s so used to him tasting like artificial cherry (which is Roman’s favorite) or blue raspberry (which is Logan’s favorite) or strawberry or grape or green apple or any other number of flavors now that sometimes it’s a shock when he kisses Logan in the morning or at night and he tastes like coffee or minty toothpaste and not something sweet.

But Halloween itself? Logan will sit with Roman as he passes out candy, but most of the time he’ll read a book as Roman entertains the kids. He’ll go to parties with Roman. He listens to Roman’s pitches for costume ideas (and, later, couples costume ideas) but he refutes most of them and he wears regular clothes or the least effective costume he can—most of the time, he just keeps on the white lab coat he has from work and deadpans that he’s a scientist whenever someone asks, even though he is literally a scientist in his day-to-day life so it’s not like he’s dressing up at all.

When Roman walks into the house, dropping his bag at the door and kicking off his shoes and flopping onto the couch, letting his head land on Logan’s thigh with a theatrical groan, there’s a white paper stick sitting out of his mouth. Logan’s lips are red from the flavor of it, redder than usual, a shade of red that reminds Roman of long, heated afternoons on the couch or in the bed, but he is too tired to think of such pleasant things right now (that’s a lie he’s thinking of it right now) and Logan removes the lollipop from his mouth to look at Roman in an unspoken question.

"I’m exhausted,” Roman says, drawing the last word into five syllables.

Logan makes a noise of recognition pets Roman’s hair, scratching at his scalp in the way Roman has (frequently) told him he liked. It’s a default move, for him—Logan’s told him (in vague terms, but still) that he has certain social scripts in mind, like lines of computer code, or some kind of logic puzzle: 

Virgil is talking about internet things I don’t understand again ⟶ discreetly note unfamiliar terms to research later.  Roman is ranting about unfamiliar Broadway musical ⟶ nod and ask questions to promote image of attentive partnership. Patton is sad ⟶ offer a movie night. Roman is tired and/or upset ⟶ pet his hair. 

Still, Roman takes the familiar sense of comfort, sighing softly at the sensation before he squints at the small collection of candy on the table, and grabs for one at random, crowing in success when he sees it’s cherry.

“Stop stealing,” Logan tells him.

“What’s yours is mine, right?” Roman says, casting aside the wrapper and popping the sucker into his mouth, grinning at Logan around the stick.

“Not until April,” Logan informs him, and Roman grins even wider at the thought of their wedding (THEIR!!!!! WEDDING!!!!!!!!!!) and at the thought of being a husband and having a husband (HUSBANDS!!!!!!!!!!) and just—the idea of marrying Logan makes him really happy, okay.

He realizes, as he smiles giddily up at Logan and Logan’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, in that way he does that always makes Roman melt, that that was probably his goal with bringing it up.

And when he realizes that, well, he can’t just not kiss him, can he?

Roman crunches down on his sucker, smashing it into shards, and chews frantically, before he swallows and tosses stick into the trash. Logan glances at him in askance.

“Kissing now,” Roman demands.

“Hm?”

“Kissing now,” Roman repeats, and Logan sighs, before he crunches reluctantly at his lollipop—Logan is one of those infuriating people who will almost never bite a lollipop, sucks it until it disintegrates in his mouth—and meticulously wraps the stick in the wrapper as he chomps, setting it aside, and as soon as he swallows, Roman’s arching up.

He’s sure it’s an awkward contortion for Logan—it isn’t very comfortable for him, either, as he’s wrapped both his arms around Logan’s shoulders and is mostly hanging onto him to meet him halfway, as Logan hunches over Roman to press their lips together.

Roman shivers happily—the red on Logan’s lips is cherry—and he feels Logan’s arms tighten around him as Roman nips gently at his bottom lip, and Logan lets out a pleased, soft sigh. 

Roman’s abs are starting to ache, and he’s sure that Logan’s neck probably isn’t feeling much better, but he doesn’t care because Logan’s sugar-slicked, mouth open for him, and he chases after that cherry taste, kissing long and slow and wet, Logan’s lush lips moving against his all slow and wet and irresistible, Logan’s back warm and broad and muscular under his hands, so—

They part to breathe, and Logan says, in a growl, “This is absurd.”

“I agree,” Roman practically purrs, and tightens his legs around his fiancé’s waist before he flips them on the couch, so that they’re both lying down, Roman on top of Logan, and Logan’s hands slide down his sides and they’re kissing again.

This isn’t fully what Roman had expected, when he’d flopped down in his fiancé’s lap—he’d had a game plan—but this is perfectly good, too, their mouths moving together, with hints of Logan’s tongue like the tide washing to shore, and Roman wanted to drown in him.

When they break, briefly, to breathe, Roman sucks in a breath before he grazes his teeth along Logan’s jaw, and he hears Logan’s shaky, almost-inaudible sigh, and Roman presses his smile into his cheek before resuming his path.

“You know,” he murmurs, into the curve of his jaw, “I was thinking, today.”

“Were you?” Logan asks breathlessly, and Roman feels Logan’s grip tighten on his shirt as Roman mouths his way down Logan’s neck.

“Mm-hm,” Roman hums, and flicks a finger at Logan’s collar. “Can I unbutton this and undo your tie? Not to get you shirtless, but—“

Logan’s fingers fumble for his tie, and Roman laughs, leaning back to help—he undoes the tie, loosening it, as Logan unbuttons his polo as far down as it’ll go. Roman can see how his flush is starting to spread down his throat, and how amazing it is that Roman knows exactly how low it goes.

“What were you thinking about?” Logan pushes.

“Well, you,” Roman says, and bites lightly at Logan’s neck—not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that it’s just about the way that Logan likes, and since he’s so close to Logan’s throat he can hear the stifled noise that Logan makes.

“Yeah?”

“Us,” Roman murmurs, and bites again, deliberate, frowning just a little when Logan still doesn’t make a noisy kind of noise.

“Roman,” Logan says, and Roman’s gratified when it comes out slightly strangled, “if it’s about adopting a dog again—”

“No, not a dog,” Roman says, and draws back enough to add, “though I do really think that you should rethink that, because—“

“Roman.”

There’s a hint of a whine in the name, and Roman grins, pursuing it, pressing his lips up against Logan’s again, in an unspoken apology for teasing.

Well. Verbally teasing. This kind of teasing is just fun.

“Anyway,” he says when they part, “Just—I had an idea.”

“An idea?” Logan asks, and now Roman’s stifling the noise as Logan’s fingers twine in the hair near the base of his neck—not tugging, not quite, but there’s a definite pressure there.

“Hear me out,” Roman says, and then he spreads a hand, as if imagining his words on a marquee. “Couples costume idea.”

The look Logan gives him is so exasperated and almost pouty that Roman almost says “you know what, forget it,” and goes back to kissing him, but he stands firm.

“It’s a really good idea this year,” Roman promises, and Logan sighs, which Roman takes to mean go on, then.

“You,” Roman says, leaning to press a not-quite-quick kiss to Logan’s lips, “will be Hercule Poirot.”

Roman can practically see Logan’s ears perk up.

“All right,” he says, attempting to modulate his voice so that it doesn’t sound too excited.

“And I will be Dr. Sheppard,” Roman continues. “Now, I know you don’t like to dress up—“

“—that is correct—“

“But if you think about it, all you really need to do is wear some slightly old-fashioned clothes. His description’s kept pretty vague, so you can just use most of what you got, and I found this really great, kind of old-timey waistcoat at Goodwill—“

“How long have you been planning this?”

“—and, I mean, I could be Ackroyd, if you want, but I was worried that would be a bit too on the nose—“

“Why are you so attached to the idea of a couples costume, anyway?” Logan says, and Roman hesitates—long enough that Logan has definitely noticed—and Logan continues, “You’ve been posing the idea since we got together, but you’ve continually dropped the idea at a more elevated rate this year than years past—“

Roman’s lips twitch. “You track how often I ask you to do a couples costume with me?”

Logan flushes—well, he flushes a bit more than before—and grumbles, strangely embarrassed, “Not scientifically, but it—”

“I love you,” Roman says, and pecks him on the cheek.

Logan pokes him back. “You’re evading the question.”

“I—“ Roman hesitates, before he reaches down, twines their fingers, and lifts his left hand, so the ring on his finger is directly in Logan’s line of sight. Something seems to click.

“Ah,” Logan says. 

“It’s just—“ and now Roman’s the one who’s flushed, “well, we’re engaged, now, it’s our first Halloween as fiancés, and—“

“You’d like to present a united front?”

“Well, yeah,” Roman says. “Plus, I dunno. It’s cute.”

Logan’s nose, predictably, wrinkles. Roman kisses the tip of his nose, because that’s just so cute. His fiancé is adorable and the fact that he gets all squirmy whenever Roman brings it up means that Roman is on a life-long mission to tell him he’s cute that much more.

“So?” Roman asks, voice a bit too soft and too hopeful. 

Logan hesitates, before he says, at last, “You’d better be Ackroyd, not Sheppard. That might be a bit more familiar to those who haven’t read the—”

He’s cut off by the enthusiasm of Roman’s kiss, and Logan laughs into the kiss, and suddenly Roman is the one on his back, breathless as Logan looms over him.

“Oh, detective,” Roman says, purposefully breathy. “You’ve caught me so unaware, and look at us now—you on top, me on bottom, why, you’re so strong—”

“Stop,” Logan says, voice edged in a laugh.

“I bet you’re about to start searching for clues, aren’t you?” Roman says, and wiggles his hips pointedly. “I’ve got a clue that’s just for you—”

Logan cuts him off with a kiss, and Roman laughs into it, and wraps his arms tighter around his fiancé’s (his fiancé’s, his fiancé’s!) neck, trying to sample the last of the lingering cherry taste in his mouth.

[snowbellewells]

“Saved From What Might Have Been”

(A bit of birthday whump for @hollyethecurious​)

By: @snowbellewells​   

I’m honestly not sure if this is much good, or really worth giving as a gift, but I’ve tried something new here, and I’m hoping you may like it, Hollye.  You’ve provided the fandom (and our pirate!) a lot of painfully delicious whump over the last few years. Particularly with “What Lies Beneath the Mask” - my personal favorite!  You also wrote one of my favorite examples of KnightRook fic in your recent MC “We Make Our Own Fate”.  I’m attempting to incorporate those things in this little drabble for you. I don’t really know where this came from otherwise; I had something else in mind, but then this is what I ended up with instead. Contains Season 7’s Wish!Hook/Old Hook and Rogers, KnightRook, and of course some whumpage, if those are things people aren’t interested in. Most of those are new things for me to try writing as well.

Enough of my rambling - here goes:

“Saved From What Might Have Been”

Rough hands grasp him harshly, grappling at him from all angles and lifting him bodily from his seat at the gaming tables. He brays out in displeasure, swatting at those forcing him to the tavern door, at first thinking it is a ill-timed and less-than-humorous jest. However, as raucous voices laugh and jeer in approval, hooting and hollering and stamping feet accompanying shouts of “Good riddance!” and “Bout time ye boys were takin’ out the trash!”, Jones begins to struggle in earnest. He jerks within the hold of many, bucking and swinging wildly, though his punches go wide, made effectual with too much drink and the number of opponents holding him back. His attempts to dig in his heels only lead to him tripping over the raised board at the tavern entrance when the group pauses to open the door. Their combined grip lessens slightly, but before Hook can gather himself to whirl and fight, he is tossed forward unceremoniously, hurled into the street face first.

Once he would have been on his feet in an instant, charging forward to take all comers, but the air is knocked from his aging lungs, and he feels the ache and disorientation throughout his aching joints as he pushes himself to scruffed hands and knees, glaring at those who mock him from the doorway, barring re-entry to the one place able to temporarily silence his demons.

A shaking, unsteady hand wipes away mud from the rain drenched streets and the coarse and unkempt gray hair hanging in his eyes as well. His voice is a hoarse growl when he warns, “You lot should know better than to cross a pirate!” He attempts to stand imposingly to his full height, hand tucked in his belt and hook in plain view, to inspire the sort of respect and fear he had once done and ignore the shooting pain in his knees and hip.

The mob of half a dozen or more look unimpressed, but still Jones moves forward, meaning to shoulder his way through them and back to his table indoors. However, upon nearing the group, he is shoved back harshly, sending his still unbalanced form staggering back again.  Rage blinds him along with the dizziness of a half-drunken haze. Brandishing the hook, he makes to charge into the fray once more, when he is stopped cold by their leader’s words. 

“Think carefully, ye doddering old fool,” the man’s deep tone orders. “Ye’ve cheated yer last at my tables, and used up the last of me goodwill. Payin’ customers’ve complained long enough. You’re no captain. Where’s yer ship? No sailor nor pirate; no more, at any rate.  Yer a has been, a worthless old drunk. And this be yer warnin’  - stay out of my tavern or face the consequences!”

The words sink in just as deep, and perhaps even more painfully than the hard landing had moments before. The grizzled man seems to shrink, his shoulders slumping as he faces the small mob barring his way. Though his bravado does not leave him, he sees that it will not serve him victory and there is no swaying the men standing against him. There’s nothing for him here - no longer can he seek refuge, drown his sorrows and try to forget. He wants to wipe that hateful sneer from the taven keeper’s face; to carve his mark in the skin of all their thick hides with the sharp point of his hook and prove their insults wrong. And yet… defeated he knows those words have long since turned into ugly truth.

“I’m not sure he’s gotten the message yet, Ed,” one of the burly louts adds gruffly, stepping from the collective shadow of the pack and circling around behind the old sailor, hands balled into fists.

“Ye may be right, Connors,” another chortles cruelly. “Seems he might be half witted as well as one handed!”

Outmanned he might be, but Jones still isn’t one to take such abuse in silence, and is about to tell them so when a sharp kick to his legs from behind buckles both his knees and sends him to the ground once more. Before he can begin to get up or even roll away from the unseen onslaught, another heavy booted foot hurries forward to step down on the arm that had hit the ground hardest, causing a garbled yelp to escape his chapped lips. The thug’s full weight on the joint makes an audible crunch of bone and sinew and it is all the aging Jones can do to bite back the sting of tears at the pain.  

Floodgates now open, the group falls on him completely. A broom handle cracks along his spine, ale is poured over his head, rocks pelt him over and over, and kicks rain across his abdomen until he feels one connect with his ribs. His breath is stolen by the blazing white hot agony, and for a second his consciousness wavers. All thought of fighting back ceases, and instead Hook merely curls in upon himself, trying desperately to shield his head and vital organs until their attack is over.

After what seems an eternity, the beating slows, the miscreants back away as they spit on him and issue final warnings not to enter the establishment again. One even mutters that he might as well curl up there in the gutter where he belongs and wait to meet his Maker.  In that moment, Jones wonders if he may be about to do so as his breath comes in harsh, ragged pants around the fragments of at least one broken rib scraping torment against his lung.

The sky opens in a frigid downpour again as the other men leave him in a crumpled heap. They go back inside, flush with victory and high spirited in his defeat. The greying man shivers from the cold and shock, the agony of his wounds and the decimation of his pride almost pulling him under. 

However, he cannot give in yet, there is something he must still do.  He cannot die here in this alleyway, even if he does deserve just such an inauspicious end. No, there is someone who would miss him, who needs the few pilfered coins and the crust of bread he had managed to hide before they discovered his game. ‘Alice,’ he wheezes, the name barely more than a whisper in the rainy deluge and the crash of thunder.

Half limping and half dragging his sorry carcass from the outskirts of the village, through the storm to the foot of her tower, the old buccaneer collapses at the base of the high, impenetrable edifice holding his darling girl prisoner.  Tugging on the rope attached to the basket where he has placed his hard-won treasures, he hopes that his Alice will hear the bell at the other end, letting her know he has something for her, over the tumult. Squinting against the pelting drops, the wavering of his vision and encroaching unconsciousness, he waits for even a glimpse of her at the window far above. He can no longer climb to her; his old bones and poisoned heart having separated them physically years ago. 

Minutes flow by, lengthening and playing tricks. Has she turned away from him too?  “Alice!” he cries, his voice as broken as his body dying out on the howling wind. “Alice, my Lass! Are you there?”  No answer comes, and her honeyed curls and beguiling smile never appear over the ledge. Even she has gone… he failed her too… just as he had feared…

~~~~***~~~~

Two delicate hands shake Rogers into wakefulness, his Alice’s concerned voice ending his nightmare anxiously.  “Papa, wake up!” she pleads. “I’m here! You’re dreaming! Wake up!”

Blinking against the strangely wavering bluish light from the television still playing in the living room before him, he turns to see his grown daughter, restored to him just before they came here to Storybrooke in the United Realms, seated on the edge of the couch at his hip. Alice leans over him, where he had fallen asleep watching the nightly news, her hand still clutching his shoulder where she shook him awake. Her eyes are wide as she studies his face, sure that something real has disturbed her stoic and strong father. 

He still feels a bit blearily fuzzy-headed, the dream having muddled him with the anguish and shame slow to fade from his brain.  “Alice? Did I wake you? ‘M sorry, Love. You can go back to sleep.”  He runs a hand haphazardly back through his dark hair, just beginning to show a few strands of silver, in an attempt to clear the cobwebs and offer her a tentative smile. Shaking his head, Rogers hopes the thin excuse will appease his grown child enough to drop her queries into what troubled him.

“You were calling my name, Papa,” Alice offers hesitantly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He sighs, reaching out to cover her hand on his shoulder and twining her fingers with his to squeeze tightly in affection. “No, Lass, no need. It’s nothing to worry about. We’re both here safe and sound. All’s as it should be.”

Not one to be easily dissuaded, she leans forward, pressing her forehead to her father’s playfully but holding his gaze with her curious eyes. “Are you sure?” she presses.

“Aye,” he nods with certainty, a bit more of the usual twinkle returning to his eyes as he stands to meet the day and pulls Alice up beside him. “No use worrying your pretty little head about me. Let’s have some breakfast, shall we?”

A matching sparkle of mischief lights her eyes as well. “Is there marmalade for the toast?” she returns cheerily.

“Of course there is, what do you take me for?”

“Then, let’s do it!” she exclaims, looping her arm through her papa’s as they troop into the kitchen. He follows easily, a full-throated laugh bubbling from his chest, only too happy to let the last shadows of the dream fade with the light of day.

Tagging a few others who (may?) enjoy -  not sure this will be all of my usual readers’ cup of tea?

@kmomof4​ @jennjenn615​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @killian-whump​ @artistic-writer​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​