#at least in florida people thought i was hot enough to match with me and have a conversation and i could actually get to know people

[the-fog-system]

.

[smiley-mcdoggington]

Uhhhh what if Stan called like a year before Bill and Ford broke up but Bill was the one that answered the phone. TW SUICIDAL TW STANCEST!!!!!!

Stan's stiff fingers could barely feel the quarters he dragged to slot into the payphone. Three, one after the other. 75 cents. Not enough for a hot meal, not enough for more than a few miles in his car. Enough to change what was in his wallet from a side to a meal but on their own the coins didn't matter enough. It was okay, he just wanted to hear Stanford, that was worth more than 75 cents.

He felt the bones in his fingers as they pressed into the cold metal numbers - it was supposed to be warm in Florida, why the hell was it so cold? He didn't have to pull out the scrap of paper he'd written Ford's number on years ago - he knew it by heart, even if he kept it in his pocket anyway.

The phone rang twice before it picked up. "Yellow?" Stanford's voice intoned chipperly. No 'Dr. Stanford Pines' residence', no 'What's the purpose of this call?'. It was friendly, familiar. Was he waiting for someone else to call? Had he been waiting at the phone for someone and got his hopes up when it was only Stan?

Stan almost took the receiver away from his ear, almost put it back and wasted another 75 cents when Stanford's voice said, in the most knowing way: "Stanley."

Stan didn't know how Ford knew it was him - was he breathing too loud? Had he muttered something? Was this habit of his catching up to him? Stan tried to force his throat to open enough to let a word slip free, but then Stanford spoke again.

"You want something, don't you?" His voice didn't match the accusation, but it still made Stan wanna hurl.

"No-- I didn't - that's not why I called, I ain't some--" He lied through his ill-fitting dentures until Stanford cut him off.

"But you do want something. You want everything. You want S-- my attention. You want money, you want luck, you want a boat and you want me to drop everything so that my life can become providing you those things, don't you?"

"Moses - No, Ford! That's - I don't." The phone booth around him felt very cramped, and the light inside with the dark outside made it impossible to see outside the tiny space. "I-I just called to talk, okay? Nothing else, I swear." He felt like a kid pleading his case while already laid out on the curb.

"Talk, yes, you're a real talker, Stanley. I always hated that when we were little, you know, it was like I couldn't even get my thoughts out before you were blabbering on, taking all the attention you could grasp for while not saying a single thing of importance. But you can't talk your way out of being a bum, can you, Stanley?"

Stan wanted to hang up but at this point he was sitting on the cold ground letting the cold crawl into his skin and the hook was just out of reach. Ford knew? Some feeble, tiny part of him had always thought - thought if Ford knew how he was actually doing then Ford might care. That he was doing a good thing by not saying anything to Ma so no one would worry. But Ford knew. At least he knew part of it. He knew Stan was huddled in a phone booth spending some of his last quarters on a phonecall before going to find a side road to park in to sleep. Ford just didn't care.

"How much do you know?" The anger tried to reach his tone but the lump in his throat made the question a strangled whisper.

"Oh, I know a lot of things, Stanley Pines." Stanford's voice crooned mockingly, so clear over the phone it made Stan sick. "I know you've been living in your car since the day you were kicked out. I know you've got some interesting people tailing you. I know you've used that trick you learned with your tongue when we were fifteen on more men than you can count for pocket change so you could listen to me breathe for a minute." He said, tone so unaffected it made Stan wonder if the conversation was even real. Then Stanford said something that had his gut rolling.

"I know you didn't mean to break my machine." He said, so casually, as if he'd never thought he did it on purpose. "Of course you didn't - a plan like that to get me to stay close enough you could leech off me? You couldn't even think of something like that, could you, Stanley? No, you didn't mean to, but when it happened it clicked in your little pea brain that you'd get everything you wanted if you just let it be for once. So you let it happen. So I simply repaid the favor - let Dad beat your greasy face in and then throw you to the wolves. Your eyes for an eye, as the saying goes--"

"Fuck you." Stan spat, voice raw, thoughts scattered like broken glass.

"I think you've done enough fucking for the both of us, bruiser." Ford said amusedly. "Don't call again, your existence is a distraction I don't care to feed."

Stan wanted to say something - anything. But then the phone buzzed. Ford had hung up.

Stan screamed, throwing the receiver against the wall of the phone booth before leaving it to dangle while he threaded his hands in his hair. Ford knew everything - he knew everything and he couldn't give less of a fuck. Like he wasn't his brother, once. A brother that apparently talked too much around him but a brother regardless.

Now he wasn't anything to Ford, just a nuiscence on his land-line. Stan could die without a home or a family and Ford wouldn't care. Ford might even appreciate not getting the phone calls.

He thought of the revolver in his glove box with only one bullet. But he couldn't, today, because today's a Wednesday and Ma used to say it was her favorite day of the week because her soap opera that'd been running for as long as he could remember always had new episodes on Wednesdays and Stan and Ford would stay up half an hour past their bedtime to sit and watch the new episode with her. He couldn't ruin Wednesdays.

Could he even ruin Wednesdays? Or would Ma never think about that? Would she be glad, too, to not have the distraction?

He got up, and walked to his car. He couldn't feel his legs, or his hands, but he didn't think the cold had anything to do with it.

He sat down on the driver's side, and looked at his glove box.

Somewhere, on the other side of the country, a man with yellow eyes giggled as he sunk a fork into his hand over and over and over again, watching through the eye of a one-dollar bill as Stanley opened his glove box.

[instantromannoodles]

Soulmates

Ships: Remus Sanders/Virgil Sanders background Roman Sanders/Patton Sanders

Tags: Soulmate AU, anxiety attack, trans Virgil Sanders, sexual innuendos & let me know if I forgot something

I wrote this for @dukexietyweek day 4- Soulmate

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

Everyone has a 'Soulmark' an almost birthmark that is the perfect match to someone else, and when you find the person with a matching mark then you find your soulmate, or at least that's what some people believe, Virgil's not so sure, a mark that tells you who your gonna love seems far fetched but it seems to have so far worked out for his best friend, Patton had found his soulmate, he started dating Roman almost immediately after they discovered their matching marks and he seems happy, so maybe there's something to the 'soulmates' thing.

It was the middle of summer which in Florida means Virgil's pretty sure it's as hot as the sun here and even though the air was running it was still hot and humid even indoors.

He doesn't really remember how he got dragged into hanging out with Patton and Roman tonight but he's here at Romans now and he does enjoy spending time with Patton so he's not gonna complain if he does have to spend time at Roman's.

"How are you not having a heatstroke?" Roman asked him sitting down on the couch next to Patton causally wrapping an arm around him

Virgil shrugged, in honesty he felt like he was dying in his hoodie but he'd rather sit here sweaty and uncomfortable then take it off, even if he'd feel so much better

"Virgil, no pressure but you should probably take off the hoodie" Patton says and Virgil appreciates that Patton is trying to be sensitive about this, since Patton knows why Virgil is so hesitant to take off the hoodie "No ones gonna care, kiddo" He says softly and Virgil notices Roman look a little confused but leaves it and Virgil is thankful.

Virgil just nods, it is so hot, and he trust Patton isn't gonna say anything and he maybe only recently has started hanging out with Roman more because of Patton but they've all known each other for awhile so he's pretty sure Roman won't say anything if he notices, plus the shirt he's wearing under the hoodie should be lose enough to hide his chest, just not as well as the hoodie does. he takes a breath the quickly unzips and removes his hoodie, already feeling a little cooler, he hates that Patton was right and he needed to remove his his hoodie, and for breath moment he thinks no ones gonna say anything about how he looks and what he was hiding until he looks at Roman, Roman eyes went wide and Virgil wants to hit the look of shock off his face, but all he can do is grab the hoodie again not putting it on but covering his chest quickly

"Virgil is this the first time I've seen you without your hoodie?" He asks and Virgil can't breath, he doesn't want to talk about this, Patton just sits there looking at both of them and Virgil really wishes he'd say something

"I don't know" He snaps

"It's just" Roman says pointing to Virgil's arm? "I've never seen your soulmark before" Oh? it's about his soulmark, Virgil lets out a sigh of relief and he notices Patton visibly relaxes

"My soulmark?" Is all he can ask his mind racing with confusion and adrenaline coming down

"I've seen it before" Roman says in thought

"But you've never seen Virgil's soulmark?" Patton says, tilting his head in confusion, before his eyes widen and he beams, excitement apparent on his face "Or do you mean you've seen it on someone else?"

Virgil's eyes widen in shock, he's not sure he believes in soulmates but also he has an opportunity to find out who the universe has planned for him to be with

"Who?" he asked his thoughts, feeling like their racing

Roman goes to reply but is interrupted when the front door is opened then closed.

"Perfect timing" Roman says under his breath, Virgil barely notices it. "Hey Remus" Roman calls to his brother "You mind coming in here for a moment" That's weird Virgil doesn't know Roman super well but you don't have to know the King twins hardly at all to know they don't get along, why would Roman ask Remus to come in here now? wait

"I wasn't gonna come in here incase something else was coming" Remus laughs as he walks into the room

"No" Virgil says as soon as his eyes land on Remus

Remus quickly looks take aback for a moment before smiling

"Well good to see you too, emo" He says

"You're fucking joking" Virgil says looking back at Roman "Him?"

"I mean" Roman says and at least he has the decency to look a little apologetic, Virgil knows it's not his fault but he wants to blame someone "Yeah"

"Why him?" Virgil puts his head in his hands

"I love being talked about like I'm not here" Remus says in a fake cheery tone "But seriously, did you guys just call me in here for this"

"Where is your soulmark?" Patton asked eyes going back and forth a moment between Virgil and Remus

"Why?" Remus grins "Feel like you got the wrong twin?" He jokes

"Uh no" Patton stutters out, Roman rolls his eyes

"Can you just answer a question normally?" Roman says annoyed

Remus rolls his eyes now "Fine" He says drawing out the 'i' but going to lift up his shirt

"What are you doing?" Virgil ask quickly

"I'm showing my mark, since for some reason you guys are interested" Remus says matter of fact like, he lifts up the lower part of his shirt, showing his mark

"Fuck me" Virgil breaths because, yes there on Remus ribs was the exact match to Virgil's soul mark

"Let me buy you dinner first" Remus laughs, letting his shirt fall.

"You know that's not what I meant" Virgil says annoyed, of course he finds his soulmate and it's Remus King, could have been anyone and with his luck it's of course Remus.

"Can I see yours" Remus asked and Virgil thinks this is the first time he's heard Remus' voice and it doesn't have a hint of sarcasm or him saying a weird joke, this is the first time he's sounded genuine "Can I see yours?" Remus ask again, Virgil didn't realized he had been sitting there in silence, or that he's been holding his arm so closely to himself, he nods and stands up then holds his arm out

Remus smiles softly and gently takes Virgil's arm looking at the mark, he runs his fingers across it and Virgil felt sparks, it felt like electricity shooting through him all starting with that spot

He looked at Remus and for a split second it felt as if time stood still, Remus King was infarct his soulmate, Virgil could feel his breath in his thought, it all of a sudden felt warmer then before, even warmer then when he still had his hoodie on in the florida heat, he feels himself start to shake and tries to breath but the room feels like it's spinning

Virgil panics and with a last look to Remus, he grabs his hoodie out of Remus grasp and bolts out of the room

It takes Virgil not long to realize he probably shouldn't have ran like that, he feels bad for running away, yes, this is a huge shock to him but it probably is to Remus too, what kind of soulmate is he, running away immediately, as much as he doesn't think he likes Remus, Remus still would deserve a better soulmate then him

Virgil considers turning around, going back, he can't spend all day walking around, and Patton drove them so he can't even really leave

But what would he say if he turns back?

"Hey, wait up" He hears someone yell, he ignores it and counties walking, trying not to pay too much attention to the others passing by on the street

"Virgil, would you stop for a minute" the voice calls closer and his fight or flight almost makes him run hearing someone call his name but his brain quickly catches up with his anxiety, he recognizes that voice

"Remus what are you doing?" He says as Remus catches up to him

"You just left" Remus states

"So you came after me?" Virgil softly laughs because this feel ridiculous, he panics and runs out and yet Remus comes after him, this sounds like one of those silly rom-coms that Patton has made him watch

"What the hell else was I supposed to do" Remus says and Virgil doesn't know how to reply

Remus sighs again taking a more serious tone

"Look, I'm sorry" Remus apologies

"Why are you sorry?" Virgil asks, he's the one who ran he should be the one apologizing "I should be apologizing to you, I ran, I started to panic so I just ran" He feels the words start falling before he can stop himself "And that was super shitty of me, some soulmate I am, leaving immediately, so I'm sorry, I'm sorry I ran because I didn't expect you to be my soulmate I'm sorry I ran because I, I don't know I was scared of having a soulmate" He wants to stop himself, to stop talking, and with every word he is fighting every urge in his body that was screaming run, he doesn't want to run again but after that, after just completely laying it all out without even meaning to, he doesn't want to wait for Remus reaction, but he does

Remus looks taken aback for a moment, but he regains composure quickly

"I'm not upset you ran" He says

"You're not?"

Remus shakes his head before replying

"Well obviously" He laughs and maybe this soulmate thing is playing too much with Virgil's head or maybe it's the fact that he's never heard Remus softly laugh but something about it feels different "If I was upset I wouldn't have chased after you"

He did chase after Virgil even though Virgil wouldn't have blamed him had Remus just let him leave and didn't want to see him again

"Yeah I guess you did" Virgil shrugged trying to still wrap his head around everything

"Yeah, because even though it'll take some getting used to you're my soulmate, so I guess if you run I'm gonna have to get used to chasing you" Remus tries to joke but something in those words, Virgil is known to run, fight or flight and he's body always picks flight

"You'll always chase after me?" He doesn't mean for the words to leave his lips

Remus smiles

"Yeah, I'll always chase after you, you're my soulmate"

[madi2112]

Madi's Meanderings vol. 21

Glamping it up

This year when it came time to choose my vacations dates I did something different.

Instead of two longer 10 or 12 day vacations I broke my time up into smaller peices but have them more often.

Now I have five days off in a row every other month.

Hopefully this shorter, but more frequent schedule will help my fragile mental health condition.

Keeping this in mind I booked something new (to me) for this first trip.

Glamping Day 1

Mitze and I packed up and headed out early en route to the Flotida Panhandle to Milton.

Today's listening choice was Melissa Brayden's "Exclusive" audio wlw romance book.

7+ hours later we arrived at our accommodations for the next three nights.

The glamping tents here at Coldwater Gardens are wonderful. Enough amenities to be nice, but rough enough to feel more like a participant in nature. A great balance.

My second favorite travel host and TV personality Samantha Brown (behind my friend Kinga, of course) once said she loved the great outdoors. Visiting it. Hiking in it. Just not sleeping in it! I couldn't agree more.

This glamping thing is a perfect combination!

After the long drive. Unpacking and organizing my room (err, tent) the first thing I did was plug in my electric blanket. It's cold here, especially for Florida.

It was also windy and began to rain heavily for most of the night.

The tent stayed dry. But did flap about in the frequent wind. The electric blanket kept me cozy warm!

Glamping Day 2

Today is the warmest of the three I'm here so I planned a day of hiking along Coldwater Creek.

Being here mid-week and in the off season in January means I never saw another person all day.

Every other tent in the small grouping of them was empty and the hiking trails were completely barren of people.

I had the place to myself.

I decided to push a little and take the longest hiking route I could find.

Which led me to some rougher terrain, that because of last night's rain, was sloppy at best. Often times even impassable.

Following the trail was fun as the path was layed out by badges along the way.

I followed those trail markers a couple of miles until no more walkable path was exsistant.

So I turned around to find another path to the creek and was well rewarded with a very nice sandbar along an actual running river. A rare thing in Florida as the lack of elevation means most rivers are extremely slow moving.

Made a great place to have a bottle of water and trail mix for lunch.

I continued my hike along the river a couple more miles before returning to my tent.

A quick trip into town to pick up some supplies for tonight's campfire dinner were needed and I got back just before sundown to get things going.

An entire box of matches and all my saved newspapers later I still had no campfire.

So plan B it was.

I brought a single element electronic stove top burner as a back up. Thank goodness I did. My outdoor skills are sorely lacking to say the least.

So Clam Chowder, oyster crackers and Mac-n-Cheese it was.

My All Trails app put my days hike at 5.2 miles! A lot further then I thought I had gone.

Another chilly night under the electric blanket was the perfect ending of the day.

Glamping Day 3

I woke up sore as hell for some reason. Which wasn't difficult to figure out why. 5.2 miles will do that when your old and out of shape.

So today was a day to relax. To take advantage of the bath house I had to myself. It was just down the road a short walk. A chance to have a long hot shower. Wash my hair and sooth my aching legs.

Which was nice.

I really wanted an actual campfire tonight so I swallowed a little bit of pride and headed to the check in office. To admit I needed help.

I had used up all my fire making supplies (except the wood I couldn't get to burn) and the person at the front desk was gracious enough to come help me get a fire going.

Which they did very quickly! Unlike me. They knew what they were doing.

So a classic campfire dinner it was! Hot dogs chips and smores.

Naturally after dinner. By the warm of the fire, my mental health crumbled.

Feelings of overwhelming loneliness and sorrow overtook me and sent me down that spiral of depression 😔

Those empty chairs around the 🔥 pit say it all.

No one to share the moment with. No one to talk to. No one to snuggle up with.

I cleaned up and headed for bed to the electric blanket and cried myself to sleep.

I'm pathetic at times.

Glamping Day 4

Time to say goodbye to Coldwater Gardens and head home. To work. To Shiloh and to the weight of bills I can barely pay.

At least I can finish the audio book I started on the drive here. Where an H.E.A. is guaranteed.

~Madison

[impossible-rat-babies]

tuesday, two in the afternoon

fallen hero / 2.1k words / chargestep (nb!sidestep + m!ortega) / cw: smoking

mostly below the cut!

--

“Why did you bring me down to the beach? It smells awful down here...”

Pollux kicks a rock across the barren sand, watching it roll into the lackadaisical waves lapping at the meager shoreline. The sand squishes beneath his shoes, water leaking through the crappy canvas.

It rained not long ago—almost caught the both of them in the downpour.

His head is still damp from the few fat drops that landed from between the slats in the boardwalk they used to take cover. He runs his hand across the fresh buzzcut, forgetting for a second there’s no curls to tuck behind his ears.

“I thought you liked the beach.” Ortega comes up beside him, keeping pace as they wander through sand and rock, passing by tiny tide pools refreshed by the rain. The sun will dry what the waves can reach soon, but for now they thrive under the cloudy grey sky.

“I don’t mind the beach, but it always stinks like garbage and wet dog down here after it rains.”

“At least it keeps the place private.”

“If you don’t count the seagulls.”

“They’re worse than the tourists.” 

Ortega smiles and Pollux turns to walk backwards, cocking a brow over his sunglasses. Of course Ortega is overdressed to be taking a walk on what passes for a beach these days—a fancy shirt and slacks and the watch he’s got on costs more than four months of rent on Pollux’s shitty apartment.

(Disregarding the sunglasses he’s toting around that are without a doubt the third most expensive thing he owns and even then they were a gift. From Ortega, obviously. He disregards the invading thought that the most expensive thing Ortega has won’t ever be his clothing or a watch, but his spine. Pollux thinks *if*—not *when*—he dies if they’ll pry it out and stick it inside someone else; a replacement for an accident of their own.)

Ortega is always dressed to impress, the silly man. Pollux it’s a habit, or he doesn’t have anything else to wear that isn’t something higher class or luxury, or if he genuinely enjoys silk shirts. The tailored slacks with fancy watches and Italian leather shoes. There’s no one to impress but Pollux and he hasn’t fallen for that trick in years.

“Worried about your shoes?”

“They’re...squishy.”

“You’re gonna ruin them.”

Ortega kicks another rock off towards the waves, stuffing his hands in his pocket as an answer. Pollux snorts, rolling his eyes, and he turns back around, falling into step beside him. He’s always been a fast walker--a faster runner.

Silence stretches out between them and apprehension feels like just another word for awkward, this gap between them. The few pointed inches—enough for static electricity to jump between them, for Pollux to anticipate Ortega’s touch and deftly pull away, leaving air beside his fingertips.

It’s still so hard to let him close.

“Why did you want to meet up here?” Pollux asks just to have something to say, anything to avoid Ortega looking like he’s going to throw his arm over his shoulder and pull him in to mumble something fond, or a terrible joke.

“Just to go on a walk?” Ortega tries and oh he tries so hard. More than he used to.

“Since when did you start walking for fun?”

“When you decide to come along with me. It’s fun, Lux.”

Pollux frowns—he knows this game. Ortega’s got this little tell of looking away just the right way.

“You just wanted to get me out of the house then.”

Ortega shrugs—he’s avoiding, nor is he saying no...

“Okay so I lied. I don’t have anything to talk about. But, if I just wanted to spend time with you then you would’ve said no.”

“True...” Pollux hates how he’s right more often than not. Asshole. “So you picked the beach?”

“I didn’t plan on it raining.”

Pollux sighs, tired of the sand and he wanders away--further out of reach--towards the rocks near the pillars holding up the promenade. 

It’s deserted right now, the rain and the fact that it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday keeping the crowds away. Give it a Saturday on a cool summer’s evening and it’d be packed to the gills; people screaming on the small roller coasters, the stink of fresh fried food and the lights--the dizzying array of red, blue and yellow. All the people and all the thoughts buzzing through his head; there were so many bombarding him--all of them, just as aggressive as the lights. He’s braved that terrible crowd--all because Ortega asked. 

He used to do that, do things because Ortega asked nicely. Because they were fun--he had fun. Does he still remember what that felt like? Being on that promenade, breathless and young, laughing like he knew how to laugh? 

They walked down to the very end once, away from the bright lights where it was just the ocean stretching out in front of them like a black abyss. All alone. Ortega asking him, pleading for one ride on the ferris wheel. “Come on Lux just one little ride.” Pollux calling his bluff, shoving his face away because it was all just a ploy for a kiss. Like this is some snapshot romance movie still.

It’s stupid to think about bygones.

There’s no temptation to jump into old times down here, just the water swelling against the rocks and the concrete walls. Trash hiding in the crevices, old green beer bottles that will break and turn to sea glass; left to wash up on the shores of Hawaii.

The beaches there are still nice--worthy of memories. Not this smog stained grey sand.It’s just a hop skip and a jump up onto the slick brown rocks smeared with algae and something that shines like oil. It stinks like it.

Pollux stops, shaking a cigarette out of the package and he cups his hand to protect the fragile flame, watching Ortega clamber up onto the rock beside him. He flops down on a relatively dry spot, free of the worst of the gross.

“What are you doing?” Pollux asks with a faint laugh and a cocked brow, letting his cigarette go unlit. It droops between his lips.

“What does it look like? I’m sitting down.” Ortega replies, smoothing a strand of hair back into the salt and pepper waves at his temples.

“Mr. Ralph Lauren is gonna be pissed you ruined your pants?” A raise of the brow and Ortega looks up at him with a look in those brown eyes.

“My shoes are wet, Lux.” Ortega whines and Pollux is *this close* to kicking him off their rock.

“I think you’re getting old.”

Pollux squats beside him, arms draping over top of his knees.

“Now you’re just being cruel...”

Ortega adjusts, grimacing when he inevitably puts his hand on a wet spot. He untucks his shirt, and he’s rather reminiscent of those “aged like fine wine” men on old magazine covers he found in shitty motel lobbies. He’d fit right on a sandy beach in Florida. These aren’t the right beaches for any of that anymore, still mostly rock. Their original glory immortalized in photographs on the fronts of travel brochures.

But they are healing—slowly. The sand creeps up the shoreline more and more each year.

“I’m not cruel. You just an oversized sun hat and a lounge chair. Maybe a nice hot beer.” Pollux teases and Ortega grimaces.

“It’s January.”

“That doesn’t stop people in Florida or Hawaii.”

“Have you even been to Florida?”

Ortega asks so harmlessly and Pollux pauses.

He’s been there half a dozen times before—fuzzy memories from over a decade ago. Rooftop gardens on top of high rise builds off the coast of Miami, galas with thousand dollar dresses and caked on makeup in the low light from crystal chandeliers. It was all for work, watching and scanning, nimble mental fingers coaxing and teasing truth from the mind’s eyes. He would watch, take in the sights and the sounds through other people’s minds. Take the truth and puzzle over the rest. Ask the dangerous questions: why and how?

He still believes the biggest mistake they made was allowing him to learn.

“I’ve watched movies.” He says instead of lying and he knows he isn’t getting away with it. “Besides, have you ever been to Florida? Or Hawaii even?”

“No, but I’ve watched movies before.”

Ortega grins and Pollux groans, resisting the urge to yet again so shove him off his rock and into one of the tide pools below.

“You’re an asshole.”

Pollux fishes around in his pocket and grabs out a matchbook, flipping it open and fuck he grabbed the wrong one. There’s nothing but the empty packaging in this one, uneven lines from tearing out matches without much grace. He flips it over onto the back and nothing--even the striker strip is shot to hell. Fuck. 

“Are you out?” Ortega peers over and he grumbles.

“Grabbed the wrong matchbook” Pollux huffs, about to grab his carton back out and stuff the poor cigarette back in.

“Wait, I still got--here.” Ortega pulls a small matchbox out of his shirt pocket, holding it out to him. It’s much nicer than his ten cent books he frequently gets for free from the gas station because the cashier thinks he’s cute. 

“You...still carry them around?”

His voice stalls in his chest: it’s meant to be more of questioning incredulity, but it comes out much softer. Forlorn and sticky at the front of his mouth.

Ortega sheepishly looks down at the matchbox, flipping it between his index and forefingers.

“Old habits die hard.”

He ran out of matches a lot, even the crappy little packages where the matches broke more often than actually struck. Ortega started carrying them around, little inch and a half boxes of matches tucked in his coat or shirt pocket. He doesn’t remember when the habit started. But it evolved into a habit of stealing them, seeing how easily he could sneak one away without him noticing.

Ortega protested whenever he caught him and the two of them scrambling for the box until Pollux tucked it away like magic, or Ortega tried tickling him enough times to get an elbow to the nose.

He got him back: a sufficient enough shock and Pollux complained about having a numb hand for the next week.

Pollux had a little stacked collection of them all lined up against the baseboard next to his mattress. He kept the fun ones, the brightly colored and eclectically designed ones--neon blue and mustard yellow. Held onto them until they were falling apart and he painstakingly cut them apart and glued or taped them in the pages of notebooks.

Even now, seven years later Ortega still carries them around and that tugs sharp in the back of his throat and deep in his belly—a sort of nausea that stings his eyes.

He blinks several times and fuck there’s the logo of the cigarette shop Ortega dragged him to once in a blue moon. The floor was some cheap old green motel carpeting--the windows covered in layers of advertisements and wood paneling everywhere else. But god it smelled fantastic--like a humidor stuffed to the brim with anything from cheap cigarettes to fancy and illegal cigars in glass cases. 

(Fuck, it was the best place to buy cigarettes--they still had the little machines with the tokens he’d pay five bucks for at the counter.)

“Yeah...” Pollux mumbles, tearing his eyes away. “Kinda literally, you know. Dying.” He chuckles bone dry and Ortega cringes.

“You still recognized the matchbox. I can’t call you a lost cause yet.” 

He looks over at him, salt and pepper black hair blowing in the breeze, the little white spots where the scars cut through his beard. The soft smile on chapped lips. Even with all the anger in the world rushing under his skin, he can’t be mad.

There’s just that wistful empty ache and he blinks, looking away. The distant shoreline etched on the horizon of a dark ocean and the patchy grey sky above. He lights the cigarette with a single match, the sharpness of the sulfur and the sweet menthol cloud of smoke the breeze dissolves into nothing. 

“Here...” Pollux offers the matchbox back to him.

“Keep it. You need it more than me.” Ortega says, pushing his hand back towards him and he pulls his hand away.

Pollux fixes him with a with a long look before he heaves a sigh and looks back out towards the coast and the ocean further beyond. Smoking the cigarette, filling his lungs on the menthol and tobacco until it burns out at the filter. Ortega sitting beside him, bouncing a leg but he’s quiet. And he doesn’t look over at Pollux.

The sun barely peeks in through the clouds and it looks like this is all the rain they’ll be getting.

[jasperswh0re]

Savior [Raylan Givens x reader]

aaand yes i went ahead and made a part two for this. will this be a series? no clue :) hope you all enjoy nonetheless

Summary: You see Raylan Givens again at a bar

Warnings: Physical fights, drinking, creepy guy

Word count: 1,702

part one

---

The cold countertop felt fresh against your burning cheek. You paid no mind to the clinking sound near you, along with the loud voices from the back of the bar. It had been a long day at work. You needed a drink.

"You doing alright there, hon?" The bartender asked. She was sweet. You always enjoyed her company. "Are you actually going to order something tonight?"

You lifted your heavy skull and sighed. "Long Island iced tea, please."

The drink was sat in front of you in a matter of seconds. You took your time sipping on it, watching the bustling bar crowd around you. Well, as bustling as a bar was in this state.

You found that people in Kentucky drank differently. They were quiet. Came for peace after a long shift, similar to you. Of course, there were always the assholes creeping on women or the loud young women who were celebrating their 21st. Every bar had them.

But for the most part, they were quiet. Calm. You preferred it over the bars in Oregon.

Cool glass now empty, you left the barstool behind to play some pool. You weren't terrible at the game, it was fun for a completionist like you. A part of you hoped you had someone to play with. Hell, even someone to spend time with outside of work. But moving down to Kentucky had you entirely cut off from your Oregon life. No friends.

Just a family you were not determined to see anytime soon. You were thankful they had no idea of your presence. You intended to keep it that way.

"Don't I know you?" Someone said behind you. You didn't recognize it immediately, assuming they were talking to someone else, but you rolled your eyes at the male that was attempting to hit on you.

"Probably not..." You said in an annoyed tone. You leaned on the cue and turned to see a very familiar man wearing an even more familiar cowboy hat.

"Oh that's a shame," Raylan said sarcastically, but a smile sat on his face. "I was trying to find the owner of this-" He held up your silver bracelet. The one stolen from you weeks ago.

"Marshall!" Your eyes widened. "What in the world... You were trying to find me?"

"Not inherently," Raylan placed the bracelet in your palm and leaned against the pool table. "I did get it back from that asshole after the whole... ordeal."

Raylan paused. A part of him wanted to admit that yes, he was trying to find you. Something about you had his mind running a mile a minute. Tim took notice of his distractedness during work, so he figured, why not find you? It took a while but he stumbled upon you on accident. The one time he wasn’t actively searching for you.

"I figured you wanted it back... for uh... sentimental value."

"That's too kind," You smiled down at the jewelry. "Thank you, Raylan."

You guys stared at each other happily. Somehow, the distance between you had nearly vanished. A sense of wanting washed over you both. You wanted more. He wanted more. Though, you guys weren’t sure what you wanted more of.

And more you each received.

The coming weeks were full of Raylan running into you (or meeting you, on purpose) at the same bar. Sometimes he would arrive all scuffed up from a day at work and others you could see regret in his eyes.

Raylan didn't bring up his days at the Marshall Service very often. You were the first person he knew outside of law enforcement and Harlan. You weren't a criminal, either. So he figured he would bring it up as little as possible. It made everything easier.

He found you mildly interesting to say at the least. You were a small-town person, he was too but his definition certainly didn't match yours, and you grew up a simple life. You didn't talk much of your family but rather ambitions, goals, and everything in between.

You're a calm person, he realized. Way more collected than any person he's met. You aren't wild. You go with the flow. You don't step out of line. You were no goody-two-shoes and definitely not a criminal, he could spot someone shady about a mile away.

You were just... laidback. Even when he showed up with a swelling face and a bloody nose, you wouldn't scold him or make a fuss. If he didn't want to talk about it, you would know.

Instead, you’d take care of him. He never had a say in, either. It didn't matter if you had to take him to the men's restroom to wipe away the blood and sweat. You were there for him that night, no questions asked.

Raylan found peace in this. Any night that he saw you, calm flooded his body. It was like you were an escape from his day-to-day life. It was like you knew exactly what he was thinking.

Slowly but surely, this was how he began to fall for you. More time passed and he was in deep. Your meetups at the bar became a consistent thing. Every Friday night. And every Friday he got to know you a little more.

"So you haven't told me this yet," Raylan set his whiskey on the counter. "Why did you move to Kentucky... of all places? You're from Oregon. I think it's neat... so why here?"

Your calm exterior faltered for a moment. Raylan was quick to pick up on it.

"Just..." You looked to the side, avoiding his eyes. A hard mask replaced your previous expression. "No reason in particular."

"That's a little hard to believe..." Raylan's eyebrows furrowed. 

“Trust me,” You flashed an unconvincing smile. “I’ve read up on you cowboy. I saw an article about your little-” You made a motion of a gun shooting with your fingers- “Down in Florida. Is that why I’ve never seen you ‘round here before?”

Raylan’s concerned face didn’t drop, but he slowly answered you, “Yeah. That’s why I’m down here. Why won’t you answer my question?”

You slammed your drink on the counter and snapped, “I never ask you questions, Raylan.”

He lifted his brows and held up his hands defensively. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a word out, a taller man blocked his vision of you. 

“Is he bothering you, cutie?” The man said. He was drunk as hell. “Let me take you out of here. No problem, no stress.”

Raylan glared at the figure in front of him. More than anything, he wanted to yank on the dusty flannel and shove him into the row of drinks behind the counter. He restrained himself. 

“No thanks, we’re okay,” You pursed your lips into a thin line.

“Come on...” He drawled and reached out a hand to touch your shoulder, but a hand yanked it away.

“Don’t touch,” Raylan warned. 

“Oh? What... are you their boyfriend?”

“Raylan,” You glared at him. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Yeah, Raylan,” The man teased. 

“Personal space is of the essence,” Raylan trained his eyes on the man. “Touch them again...” He breathed through his teeth. “You don’t want to find out.”

“Did you just threaten me?” The man leaned towards Raylan, their faces inches apart. Raylan didn’t answer him. “That’s what I thought...” The man turned around again, grazing his fingers across your bare knee. 

Raylan took that as an invitation to swing a fist into his head. He warned him. You leaned backward in surprise when the man stumbled, hitting his head on the counter. You could only watch, sipping on your whiskey, as the man tackled Raylan to the ground. You warned him.

The bartender forced the two men outside to fight and you didn’t follow right away. You finished your drink, eyeing the bartender who was staring back at you as if to say, “Aren’t you going to follow him?” 

Realizing that it wouldn’t go well, you dropped your head in defeat. Damn it Raylan, you thought. You gulped the rest of the alcohol and slowly walked out of the bar. You took your time, not exactly eager to see the rest of this fight. 

The cool breeze hit your skin. You loved the Kentucky breeze. Tobacco scent filled your lungs as you stared up at the golden sky. The only thing interrupting this peaceful moment was the sound of grunting and punches being thrown. 

You looked down to see Raylan getting his ass kicked. He shielded his face from the punches, his hat was a few feet away from his head. Your eyes flickered between him and the hat for a few seconds. Eventually, you walked past the fighting boys and grabbed the hat from the brim. How it managed to stay on while he was tackled... You hadn’t a clue. Every time you saw him this was glued to his scalp. 

Your fingers traced the tan object. You liked how it fit him. Somehow, he pulled it off well. But Raylan could pull anything off. Even getting the starlights beat out of him. You drew a sigh and placed the hat on a nearby bench, then approached the large man on top of your friend.

“Hey!” You yelled, kicking the side of the man. He groaned, barely pausing. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

The man didn’t answer. You glared daggers, which seemed to have done enough. “Go on home... Go on!”

He let out a huff of frustration and left. You stared down at Raylan’s beaten body. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“I was drinking,” he groaned, pressing his palm to his temple. 

You grabbed his hat and sat next to him on the pavement. Some blood from his forehead spilled onto his hair, so you squeezed a strand between your thumb and your index finger, ridding it of the hot blood. It was a gentle gesture. All Raylan could do was stare at you. 

“So dumb...” You muttered. “Do you ever think with that head of yours?”

He didn’t answer.

“Always trying to save me...” You stared at him disappointedly. 

“Anything... for you,” The words slipped out. He froze, wondering if his words would scare you away, but you laughed. 

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, Marshall.”

[jamielea81]

Conversations

Chapter 5

Description: You accompany your friends on a day trip to Animal Kingdom Theme Park where you meet Scott Evans by chance. This one afternoon leads to a year long friendship with both Chris and Scott over text messages and phone calls.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warning: Cursing and drinking.

Word Count: 5,200

A/N: See note at the end of the chapter. Italics are internal thoughts.

Catch up with Chapter 4

The Minneapolis-St. Paul International airport was packed for your five o’clock flight on the twenty seventh. Apparently, everyone else was also saying goodbye to the Christmas holiday besides yourself. Vacation time is always great, but you had a story due on December twenty ninth that really needed to be finished. Technically, the article could have been written while staying in the frozen tundra that you once called home. The assignment is a piece covering various places to celebrate New Year’s Eve. All the information for the story could be found online and any questions could easily be answered via phone call, but after a week with your family, you needed the peace and quiet. You had grown accustomed to living alone. Home centered you, even if it was just a rental. You also thrived in an office setting; the beat of the busy newsroom also matching the beat of your heart.

Y/N: Getting ready to board. Just wanted to say goodnight in case I crash when I get home.

Grabbing your purse and duffle bag off the floor, you joined the massive crowd waiting to board the plane. This was the part of travel that gave you anxiety. The takeoff, landing, and overall length of a flight never bothered you. Nope, it was the crowd that stood directly in front of the gate. As if being on the plane longer than need be and stuffed next to two other people was enjoyable. But because everyone else stood around the gate, your anxiety made you join them.

After twenty minutes of waiting for boarding sections to be called, why they even had family boarding on a flight to Orlando was beyond you, you were seated somewhat comfortably in your window seat. The flight was full, so you did have two seat mates. Sisters from what you could tell with the bickering. The one in the middle seat explained they retired to Florida but made the trip home to see their brother for Christmas. So, you were right, sisters.

Chris didn’t send a text back, so you quickly typed one out before shutting it off for the flight.

Y/N: There are rumors that the flight has a wealthy oil baron on it. I’m pretty sure I am seated next to him. If you don’t hear from me, you know why.

You made it through the flight easy enough. All the seats were equipped with monitors loaded with various movies and television shows. Plugging in your earbuds, you settled on Toy Story 4 since you hadn’t seen it yet. After that finished, you mindlessly watched a couple of episodes of the Big Bang Theory.

As much fun as you had with your family, it was good to be home. Between the time spent at your mom’s house and then at your dad’s, plus your brother dragging you out nightly, to quote Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, you were “getting too old for this shit.”

Walking in your house around ten that night, you were a little disappointed to see Chris hadn’t texted back. Knowing that him and Scott where in Boston to spend time with family and friends, you tried not to let it bother you too much. You were exhausted anyway. A long hot shower and your bed sounded like the ultimate plan. Emptying your suitcase into the washer could wait until tomorrow.

 With a one load of clothes in the washer, a second in the dryer, and your article half done, you were feeling pretty proud of yourself. You even woke up before your alarm this morning. Maybe a trip back home was all you needed for a boost. Usually post vacation, you needed another vacation to cope with life.

Your phone vibrated on your desk indicating you had a message. Picking it up, you saw it was Chris, so you swiped the message open.

Chris: Oil barons are so overrated. You better be home in Orlando.

You smirked at his response.

Chris: I was out late last night. Hope you had a good trip home sweetheart.

Y/N: I’m sorry, me and Spencer (the oil baron) are picking out rings. Can I call you later?

Chris: OK smartass. Don’t make me fly out there.

Oh boy, did you wish he would deliver on that threat. In actuality, you had only spent five, maybe ten minutes at the most with Chris. And even though you’ve spent hours upon hours over the last couple of months talking to him on the phone and through text messaging, you were really hoping for some in person time.

Y/N: Oh no, the baron wouldn’t like that. I might though.

You bit your lip as soon as you hit send. While Chris flirted with you often, it was rare for you to come back with a comment of your own. When a few minutes had passed without a response, you got back to work on your article. Hours later and he still hadn’t responded, you worried that maybe you had taken the game to far. You knew your comment was totally innocent, but you couldn’t help but worry. You overthink everything, that’s just who you are.

Ugh! Why am I like this?

 It wasn’t until the next day when you received a response from Chris where he completely ignored what you said.

Chris: Can you tell Scott that purple pants is not a good look.

Yep, you were not going to attempt to flirt again. You would leave all the flirting to him.

Y/N: I need context here.

Chris: For New Years Eve. He’s wearing purple pants.

Y/N: I stan Scott Evans. You can’t change my mind.

Chris: 😂

Chris: You do you sweetheart

 The end of 2019 was here and it was a year you were happy with. You didn’t make any bad haircut decisions. All your potted plants were still alive. You had written a few articles you were very proud of. You spent time with family. You made some new friends. Overall, it was a year that you had no regrets in. You only hoped 2020 would be the same.

After finishing up at the office a little earlier than usual, you joined a group of your co-workers for a long dinner, opting not to join them bar hoping as the night went on. You were keeping your word on that whole not drinking for quite some time promise you made to yourself. Well, at least not hard alcohol. Wine doesn’t count.

By eight you were home and already in your pajamas. Brooks and Jana always went to Brooks’ brother’s house on New Year’s Eve. It was their tradition. The last few years they had invited you to come along, but you had always declined. It was their family thing and even though you loved Brooks like a brother, it felt like an intrusion to join them.

Even though Christmas was over last week, you had a pile of Hallmark Christmas movies you had stored on your DVR that you needed to get through. Write Before Christmas was the first on your list. The movie starred Chad Michael Murray who you had a crush on since his One Tree Hill days. DVR was really the way to go. Being able to fast forward through commercials meant you could get in almost three movies before midnight.

After you had thoroughly swooned over Chad, you moved on to Holiday Date. It was the whole fake dating plot with a predictable outcome, but it was cute so far nonetheless.

You hit pause because your phone was buzzing out of control. You could see from the preview screen that you had six messages from Scott.

Scott: Happy New Year!

Scott: Hope you’re out finding someone to kiss at midnight

Scott: You better be out

Followed by a picture of Scott and his boyfriend embracing. A picture of a few women standing on top of a bar pouring shots directly from bottles into the mouths of who you assumed were some of Scott’s friends. And a group shot of about ten that included Chris. The were all sitting in in chairs in front of a few tables, a few people crouched down in front and a pretty blonde sitting on Chris’ lap. So, there’s that.

“You can’t get jealous about someone who isn’t yours,” you said to yourself.

It was the truth. And you had no idea who she was. How many sisters did the boys have? You looked at the picture again, deciding for sure she wasn’t a sister. Not in the way she was sitting nor the way he was holding her.

Sighing out loud, you set the phone down on the cushion next to you. You moved from your comfy place on the couch, stomping your feet until you noticed you were doing so. You steady yourself and then walked calmly into the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of rosé from your refrigerator, you uncorked it and filled your large wine glass to the rim.

It’s New Year’s, I’m allowed a glass of wine. A large glass of wine.

You made your way back to your couch, inhaling a couple of large gulps before hitting the play button on the remote. Deciding you needed to formulate an appropriate response to Scott rather than saying something stupid, you delved back into the romance on the screen. Or at least you tried to.

When a half hour had passed, you picked up your phone, typing out a normal response to Scott. Normal meaning how a person who was not in any sort of relationship with Chris Evans should respond. Because you weren’t. In fact, you hoped he got laid. Well, maybe not that.

Y/N: Happy New Year!

Y/N: You and Zach look so cute! Have a great night.

There. That’s how a normal person who wasn’t living in a fantasy land would respond.

Your second movie ended but you honestly weren’t paying all that much attention. Rather than starting up a third movie, you switched it to cable, finding Ryan Seacrest hosting the annual countdown show.

Finishing your wine shortly before midnight, you washed out the glass and set it in the rack to dry. You found your way back to your couch, laying down to watch the ball drop. You fired off a text to Jana to tell her you loved her as that was your traditional greeting to each other. She sent one back almost right away asking for the two of you to get lunch on Friday. The ball dropped to a chorus of cheers followed by a rendition of Auld Lang Syne by the New York City crowd. The after show played on and you fell asleep while a band you hadn’t heard of played in the background.

In the too early hours of the morning, you woke from your place on the couch, neck aching from the odd angle you slept in. Deciding to leave your phone where it was, you crawled in to bed with no plans of waking any time soon.

Of course, you couldn’t sleep forever. You had to eat at some point as evident from your stomach loudly growling around eleven in the morning.

After eating, then showering, and getting dressed for the day, you finally took a peek at your phone. Nothing from Chris. Which is whatever because you didn’t reach out to him either. But of course, there was a message from Scott from around three in the morning.

Scott: How you doin’?

You could totally hear him saying it in a Joey Tribbiani accent.

Scott: Earth to Sassy

You typed out a reply, but you doubted he was out of bed if he was texting you so late.

Y/N: Sassy was sleeping, you late night partier you

Deciding that you didn’t want to be rude, you sent Chris a text. It was New Years after all, so it was only polite. Hopefully he was awake. And alone. No. That was none of your business. Keeping it simple was the way to go.

Y/N: Happy New Year

Almost immediately, Chris responded back.

Chris: Happy New Year

And that was it. He was probably hungover...or occupied.

 Friday found you at Champs for lunch with Jana. The two of you chatting about New Year’s Eve. Brooks’ brother and wife had a little boy almost a year ago, so the party was a little different than it had been in previous years. This apparently ignited a fatherhood desire for Brooks over the last couple of days.

“And I want to have a little one too, but I’m so close to making partner. It’s just not the right time,” Jana sighed out.

You reached across the table grabbing her hand, rubbing it soothingly. “When it’s right, it’s right,” you replied.

She nodded her head, giving your hand a squeeze before pulling it away. “The thing is, I don’t know if I’ll be any less busy after I make partner. I kind of wish we would have started a family right after we got married. Coulda, shoulda, I guess.”

“Is there ever a right time though?” you asked. “Then there’s me who hasn’t dated in how long?” You let out a chuckle, quickly sticking a chicken finger in your mouth. You really didn’t want the sympathy, you’re not even sure why you said it.

“Whose fault is that? I don’t see you putting yourself out there. Oh! Maybe you should ask Chris out,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Dude. No,” you replied. “Number one, we don’t live in the same state. The same region even. Number two, he’s so not interested. If he were, he probably would have made something happen. Number three, he barely knows me. Number four, he’s him and I’m me.”

Jana put her hand over your mouth, giving you a warning glare. When she didn’t immediately remove it, you licked it, causing her to cringe and grab a napkin to wipe the spot you licked. You chuckled quietly to yourself.

“You’re a brat. Do you know that?” she questioned. “But you’re also amazing and I don’t want to hear anything different. If not Chris, just put yourself out there. It’s a start of a brand new year. Make some changes.”

Numbly, you nodded your head. Maybe you had been hiding away, in a way. It wasn’t like you were staying home all the time. You went out. Sometimes. Okay fine. When you weren’t working or out with your married couple friends, you mostly kept to the office and your house. You’d think about adding something more social to your schedule.

 January dragged on as it usually did. You definitely were enjoying the cooler and sometimes cold temperatures, making use of the new sweaters you purchased around Christmas. Your relationship with Chris had started to fizzle. It was subtle at first. Texts not being responded to for hours. Phone calls not being answered from time to time. Okay, that one wasn’t a big deal. But most of those phone calls weren’t being returned. A lot less sweethearts being tossed your way. It was different. And because you had developed feelings or the at the very least, a crush on Chris, you were feeling down about it. Scott was still in your life and it felt like he would always be. Maybe it was safer that way. Maybe being close with both of the brothers would ruin the other friendship in the end. Especially if feelings weren’t returned.

It was near the end of January when you brought it up to Scott. You weren’t looking for drama or attention, so you just casually mentioned over the phone when he brought up Chris that you hadn’t been hearing from Chris quite as often.

“Did Chris tell you what he bought Shanna?” Scott chuckles out.

“No, he didn’t,” you said and then took a breath. “Actually, I haven’t really been hearing from Chris a whole lot lately.”

You hear Scott blow out a breath and then you hear him groan. “He does that sometimes. I’m sorry,” Scott sighs.

“Why are you sorry? Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. It’s totally fine. As long as we’re good,” you stifled out.

“Of course, you and I are good. Not even a question Sassy.”

The nickname instantly putting you at ease.

“Good.” You bit at your lip, wondering if you should push further. Why not, might as well make this a one and done conversation. “What did you mean by, he does this sometimes?” you asked.

“When he’s with someone, he kind of just gets wrapped up in that person. He’ll eventually gets better at talking to the outside world, it just takes him awhile.”

Welp. There it is. So, at least you can give up on this little crush. Definitely not feelings. Just a crush and you would be over it by tomorrow.

“Oh!” you exclaimed.

Get. It. Together.

“I didn’t know he was seeing anyone,” you said in a much calmer voice.

“Yeah…It’s with Courtney. And you have no idea who Courtney is, sorry. They’ve dated a bunch of times of the years. Just can never seem to make it work. She’s great and everyone loves her, they just never seem to work. And you better not tell him I told you that,” he warned.

“Geez, calm down Grumpy. Like I said, we aren’t exactly talking these days and I’m not exactly going to bring up a girlfriend I don’t know,” you replied.

Scott chuckled. “There’s the Sassy I know. Anyway, it’s still new again. They started to hangout right around Christmas.”

“Oh, is she that girl on his lap from the pictures you sent me on New Year’s?” you asked.

“Yeah, she was there that night. Long blonde hair?”

“Yep,” you replied.

“That would be Courtney. I wouldn’t worry, it won’t last. I mean, I want the best for him and if it’s her, the more power to them.”

Now you were confused.

“Wh-why would I worry?” you said and then promptly cleared your throat.

“Come on Y/N, it’s not hard to tell that you maybe have teeny-tiny crush on my brother. A little bit. Come on. Tell me I’m wrong,” he teased.

He couldn’t see you, but you were giving him the best bitch face you could muster. “Shuddup.”

 It was a week a way from Valentines Day. Even though you were single for it again this year, you were never one of those people who hated the holiday. If you were with someone and the two of you decided to make the day special, great. If not, that was fine too. When your co-workers got flowers delivered to their desk, you always thought it was sweet. Brooks always went over the top for all holidays and you loved hearing about the special thing he did for Jana. What you didn’t love was your father calling you to wish you a happy Valentines Day that was really just a phone call prying into your relationship status. You loved your dad, you really did, you just wished he wouldn’t get on your case as much as he did.

You were up earlier than normal. Being the great friend that you were, you were bringing Jana breakfast since she was apparently going into the office earlier and earlier, surviving only on coffee. You stopped at your favorite coffee house, picking up two coffees, two apple cinnamon muffins, and a small bowl of oatmeal for Jana. You figured she could have the oatmeal now and snack on the muffin later.

Because she wasn’t pissed at you for any reason, she was already in the lobby, ready to sign you in.

“Good morning princess. I come baring gifts of a nutritional breakfast,” you greeted her after saying hello to Phil at the security desk.

“Why, thank you, bestie. Where would I be without you?” She puts her hand over her heart. The two of you were both smartasses and you often felt bad for Brooks.

You pass her the tray of coffees and wave your goodbye to Phil with your now free hand.

Jana’s apparently hungry as she scarfs down the oatmeal, only stopping to thank you for adding cinnamon for her. You’re still picking at your muffin because you ate a bowl of cereal before leaving your house. If you’re up early, your body wants to eat right away. Waiting was not an option.

“So, what does Brooks have planned for next week?” you asked.

“You know he doesn’t tell me. I’d bet money that you know and are just messing with me.” She smirks at you before picking up her own muffin, peeling back the wrapper.

Honestly, you don’t know. Brooks knows you well enough to know that you will squeal, especially if it’s something good.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” you tease.

She sits up straight in her seat. “You know?! Tell me!”

You start to chuckle and shake your head. “I swear on your Chanel bag I don’t know. Just messing with you.”

After your short chat, Jana kicks you out of her office. The firm’s decision on who was making partner was going to be announced in a matter of days, so everyone was putting more time in. You checked your phone for any e-mails from the paper while you waited for the elevator. There were only two so far, just a couple of assignments for the week.

“Good morning, Y/N. What brings you here so early?” Ethan asks, bumping your shoulder slightly as he comes to stand next to you at the elevator. He’s dressed in another impeccable suit. Hair styled perfectly.

“Brought Jana a little breakfast. How are you Ethan?” you asked.

The elevator opens and a few people shuffle out. Ethan holds the elevator door for you to enter, and surprisingly he gets in. You press the button for the lobby, but he doesn’t push a button for any floor.

“I’m great. It’s going to be going to be a great week.”

He’s so sure of himself, but you can’t even fault him because he’s always so nice with a smile always present on his face. Jana’s said that he’s a bit of a know it all, but he’s a hard worker too.  

The elevator doors open, the two of you walking out with Ethan walking next to you. He walks a little ahead, grabbing the door for you.

“Thank you,” you muttered as the two of you start to make your way across the parking lot.

“So, Y/N, are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

You stop in your tracks, right in the path of cars circling the lot. Deciding that’s not safe, you walk to an empty parking spot, Ethan trailing behind. The fact that he’d ask such a question surprises, but at the same time, it’s Ethan, you’re surprised he hasn’t asked sooner.

“I put the siiiiing in single,” you kind of speak and sing at the same time. Ethan in turn stares at you blankly. Apparently, he’s not a fan of Lizzo. “Ethan, we need to get you listening to popular music. I’m single.”

He gets the biggest grin on his face. Your cross your arms across your chest and lean on one leg, slightly amused. You know what’s coming, but you don’t want him to be so sure of your answer.

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asks, forest green eyes looking directly into yours.

You let him wait for your answer. Ethan is nice enough, he’s also easy on the eyes, and your dating life has also been lacking for quite some time. You’re actually slightly surprised it’s taken him this long to ask. Chewing on your bottom lip to really sell your indecision, he finally starts to squirm. He starts to brush his fingers through his perfectly jelled hair and you almost feel bad. A smile starts to form on your face and he instantly drops his hand, realizing what he was doing.

“I’d like that. Just not on Valentines Day. Not for a first date,” you tell him.

“Okay. Not on Valentines Day. Great. Okay,” he replies.

He’s such a dork, but it’s sweet. Ethan just stands there grinning at you and you’re really itching to get in your car rather than standing in a parking lot of a law firm.

“Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in it so you can call me,” you tell him.

Ethan passes you his phone, smile still bright on his face. You shake your head slightly but smile back, entering your number and passing him back the phone.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“I look forward to it,” you reply, instantly cringing at your words.

I look forward to it? Who’s the dork now?

You offer him a slight wave before turning around and walking to your car. You’re kind of excited for the first time in a while. Getting in your car, you fire off a text to Jana.

Y/N: Ethan finally asked me out.

Jana: Oh, great. I’m going to have to see him even more now?

You chuckle at her response. You know she’s half teasing, but what a brat.

Y/N: You assume I said yes?

Y/N: OK, I said yes. But calm down, it’s one date. No one said anything about double dating.

 Ethan waited two days before texting you.  He asked to take you to dinner on Wednesday, which was two days before Valentines Day, so you said yes. The restaurant he chose was on the higher end, so wearing jeans was out of the question. Jana called you before you had the chance to call her. She was screaming in your ear and you could barely make out what she was saying.

“What? But say it slower with less yelling,” you said to her screeching.

“She made partner,” you hear Brooks shouting from the background.

“I made partner!” she yells, in a much lower tone than before.

“Oh my god, this is amazing! I knew you’d get it!”

“I can finally get some sleep,” she sighs out.

You know she’s exhausted, but all you want to do is go out and celebrate.

“Drinks tomorrow then?” you ask.

“Yeah. Yeah. But like, let’s go early,” she replied.

You chuckle at her response. “Early it is. I have news for your too. Ethan’s taking me to The Capital Grille on Wednesday.”

“Oh, fancy. Makes sense though since the two of us made partner,” she said.

“What?! I didn’t know that was even a thing.”

“Yeah, it happens. Rarely though. They couldn’t decide, so we both got it,” she said.

“Well, you get some rest, and call me tomorrow, love.”

“I will. Bye Y/N.”

 You texted Scott a day later to tell him about your date. He told you he was excited for you and glad you had said yes. You laughed at the excited part because while you had been in a dry spell, it hadn’t been that long. Maybe six months. Maybe you should be more excited. Once you assigned a number to it, it sounded bad.

Scott asked if you’d heard from Chris. You had, but it was four days earlier. It was just a text saying hi, asking how I’ve been, but then the conversation fizzled out. That seemed to be the new norm in your relationship. A text every four days or five days. He had a girlfriend; he probably shouldn’t be talking to another girl daily and calling her sweetheart. You wouldn’t like that if it were the other way around.

Two days before your date, you sent Scott three pictures of dresses you were deciding between for your date with Ethan. He called you a few minutes later, wanting to go over your options.

“So, what kind of place is this?”

“It’s an expensive steakhouse in Orlando,” you replied.

“Okay, then option two is out. That’s way too casual. You should probably just throw it away. I don’t want to see that dress again.”

“Scott! Jerk. Leave my dress alone. It’s not that bad,” you complain.

“Want my help or not?”

“Fine. But I’m not throwing it out. I wear that to work a lot,” you replied.

“My point exactly. You don’t wear a work dress on a date Sassy.” Scott said.

“You takin’ to Sassy?” Chris says in the background.

Shit. He’s with Chris?

You’re not sure why you don’t want Chris to know about your date. You feel weird about him being there while this conversation is taking place.

“What about the first dress. The black one?”

It’s your attempt to move the conversation along. The sooner you get off the phone, the better.

“How slutty do you want to be on this date?” Scott asks.

Instantly you cringe, slapping your free hand against your forehead.

“Scoooott,” you whine.

“Slutty?” you hear Chris ask.

Jesus.

“It’s an honest question. Like a little slutty or a lot slutty?” Scott asked.

“Give me the phone,” Chris said. You hear Scott object in the background, but it’s too late, Chris has the phone. “What is Scott goin’ on about? You got a date or somethin’ sweetheart?”

There’s that nickname again and damnit if you stomach doesn’t flip. You really hoped you were over that.

“Yeah. Yeah, I have a date,” you practically whisper out.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked.

A part of you thinks he’s joking or teasing, but his tone isn’t coming off that way and it’s rubbing you the wrong way.

“Tell you?” you question.

“Well, yeah. You tell Scott all about it, but don’t mention it to me,” he replied.

“Chris, you and I haven’t been exactly talking a whole lot lately. When would I have told you?”

He scoffs at your response. “We talk.”

You’re shaking your head but he can’t see you which is annoying.

“Besides, you didn’t tell me you were seeing someone, let a lone had a girlfriend,” you replied.

There. You said it. It was none of your business, but you didn’t like this whole conversation and the attitude that was coming with it.

You hear breathing from his end but apparently the cat had caught his tongue because he wasn’t responding.

“I gotta go,” you said.

“Y/N, wait,” you hear him say, but your pushing the end call button before you can even stop yourself.

This was not a conversation you wanted to have. You were simply seeking a guy’s opinion on what to wear for a date. Your first in six freaking months and Chris who barely speaks to you needs to complain about not knowing about said date. You groaned out loud, picking up the work dress and sticking it back in your closest. Sending pictures of the two remaining dresses to Jana to make the final decision, you walked into your kitchen, opting for tea rather than wine.

You phone buzzed while the water simmered in the pot.

Scott: Hey, it’s Scott. I’ll call you later.

Scott was your friend. You just hoped that if your friendship with Chris was over, it wouldn’t cause any drama or stress for Scott.

Chapter 6

A/N: If you’ve read any of my past stories, you will know that I love a happy ending. Please don’t worry. I will fix this. I want this to be as realistic as it can be, so I don’t believe that Chris would put his life on hold for someone he has a phone relationship with. But have faith and know I love you all.

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[dategetmy802]

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Why the f*ck did I decide this was a good idea?

Well, to be fair, I didn’t.

When Sheena suggested going speed dating, it’s not like I leaped at the idea. I thought of the whole thing as very old-school and riddled with horny old men.

Besides, I already had Tinder for awkward one-liners and terrible pickup lines. I was starting to think the night would have been better curled up in bed with my dog, tea and 'Game of Thrones.'

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Several men had already gathered outside the bar where we were supposed to meet, an unremarkable Irish pub in the Financial District. A couple of Russian women were talking about their plans to get green cards out of the night.

That's a starter, I thought. At least the women will be just as sad as the men.

Before the official speed dating began, we began chatting with two men wearing business casual. They introduced themselves as Samuel* and Camden*.

Camden, who was Australian, made a beeline for Sheena. I talked to Samuel, but his gaze kept flitting around the rest of the bar, as if he were scanning for other prospects.

I couldn't believe he was rude enough to make his boredom known. I also can’t remember the last time I finished an entire glass of wine that quickly.

Speed dating is either a fantastic idea or a terrible one. If you don’t have the balls to approach men at a bar (or if you don’t have the patience to wait it out until they do), this is a sure-fire way to buy five minutes with any man in the room.

On the flip side, there’s nothing quite like speed dating to make you realize just how long five minutes can be.

When seven o'clock struck, we began settling in booths and tables that had been set aside for us. Women stayed in the same seats throughout the night, and the men moved counter-clockwise. It felt a little like musical chairs, and I was betting that most of us would strike out.

My first real “date” was a man named Reggie*. He was obviously the oldest man in the room and clearly way over the 30-something age cap. In fact, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t in his 50s. Sir, why are you still here? Why can't you follow instructions? This is why you're single, Reggie.

Every exchange felt like an interview, so I started using an interview format with the men I didn't particularly like. I found myself asking different men the same questions:

“Is this your first time?'

“What do you do?'

“Do you have any hobbies?'

“Are you originally from New York?'

After a few forgettable dates, I met Tom*, who handed me a rose and shook my hand. There was just something so try-hard about this that it was hard not burst out laughing.

Seriously -- this guy bought an entire bouquet of roses so that he could sweeten up his predictably mundane dates. He also took notes, like an overeager kid sitting in the front row in class.

No one likes a teacher’s pet, Tom.

Vishnu* followed. Poor Vishnu. He was short, and he spoke in such a soft, thick accent that I had to ask him to repeat himself after almost every sentence. His palms were visibly sweaty. I felt so bad for him that I almost wanted us to be a match.

Mitch* was the only one who truly irritated me. He could have been attractive -- with his dark complexion and his broody eyes -- if only he didn’t tell me to “be calm in (his) presence” after I mentioned that I was tired from work.

People like this exist, ladies, and they’re hiding in plain sight, waiting to pounce on your unsuspecting, single ass.

Ricky* gave me his phone number after our conversation (illegal in speed dating). “I don’t care about the rules,” he said.

The fact that I have dogs was more than enough to get his engine revved. He had a farm -- a f*cking farm -- and was looking for someone to help run it. I mean, there's a great pickup line on its own: 'Hey, girl, want to run my farm with me?'

Let's be honest -- I probably would have said yes.

I can’t remember the next guy’s name — Paul? David? Ellis? — but our exchange was memorable enough to make my night.

I asked him a simple enough question: 'So, what are your hobbies? What do you like to do for fun?'

He responded with a typical list: hanging out with friends, the gym. Oh, and traveling. He loved to travel. Emphasis on travel.

The most rational follow-up question to this declaration was where his favorite places were to jet off to. He responded back, in total seriousness: “Florida. I love Florida. I’ve been to all the theme parks.'

I was waiting for a follow-up, a “just kidding. I’ve been to Timbuktu, and it changed my life,” but none came. He really f*cking loved Florida.

“Have you been anywhere else besides Florida?” I asked, hoping for a way to salvage this conversation.

He looked back at me meekly. “No. Just Florida. Well, I’ve been to Jersey, if that counts.'

By the time Sheena and I left (with Ricky and Samuel hot on our trail), I was horrified.

This was dating these days? Had we come to this -- to treating matchmaking like job interviews, with the same asinine questions and even more asinine answers?

I used to make fun of the girls who turned their noses up at everyone and thought they were too good for dating. But I slowly felt myself becoming one of them.

It took a few hours for the guilt to hit me.

In making fun of the try-hard Vishnu or old-fashioned Reggie, I realized I was acting like a majorly stuck-up bitch. Many of the men I met that night were simply too busy to meet women organically, like at work or a party.

Who am I to judge? I thought. I basically live my life on dating apps, and who’s to say those are any better?

Ricky texted me the next day, all smiles and excitement. I still haven’t responded. I mean, I'm not sure I want to run off and start my farm family with him.

I think I’ll still try my luck on Tinder.

*Name has been changed.

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[nothingeverlost]

Fic: Bored (Lenny/Midge)

This was supposed to be a short little comment flash fic but Lenny and Midge are chatty people and so it turned into actual fic. My first attempt at this fandom and Lenny/Midge.

Smut under the cut.

For @phoenixwrites because. 

II

“You know what bothers me about this?  I mean really bothers me more than anything?” Midge sat on the bench and leaned against the bars, her back to the second cell.  She knew Lenny was listening, though. It wasn’t like he could go anywhere.

“The violation of your first amendment rights?”  Lenny was using his own bench as a cot, sounding half asleep.  “The over-reaching of government control?”

“It’s boring.  I’m bored,  You’re bored.  The walls are a boring color and there’s nothing to read except the wanted posters on the wall and those pictures are not flattering.  Would it kill them to have some magazines in here?  There has to be a prison digest magazine doesn’t there?  Prison guard weekly?”  Even though she knew he wasn’t looking Midge gestured at the empty area on the floor in front of her.  “They could have a nice coffee table right here.”

“I’m pretty sure the goal isn’t to make you comfortable.”  His voice was a little closer, nearer to her ear.  He wasn’t laying down anymore.

“They should do something.  The people might riot if they don’t have something to keep them entertained.”

“’The people’ is you and me, and I’m not much in a rioting mood tonight.  I might be able to help with the entertainment, though.”  Midge was about to ask what he meant when she felt the lightest touch of his finger down her back, along the path of her spine.  It made her shiver.  “We always said ‘someday.’ Any reason that day can’t be now?”

“We’re in a jail cell.  Not just a jail cell but two separate ones.”  It was a weekday, and late enough that no one else was around and likely wouldn’t show up, but it still didn’t make sense.

“I didn’t say it was the best idea, but it certainly would make things interesting.  Stand up, Midge.  Come to me.”  She could swear he put just the slightest emphasis on ‘come.’  When she looked over her shoulder he was standing against the bars, close to the far wall.  From where he was they wouldn’t be able to see the door.  Anyone coming through the door wouldn’t be able to see them, not right away.

“Are we going to dance?” she joked.  It had been almost a year since they had, that night in Florida.  She’d been home, after the disaster of the tour ending.  By the time he’d come up north she’d been playing clubs on the west coast.  They’d met up in Los Angeles for a few days, but there hadn’t been time for dancing, or even dinner alone with him.  

“You could say it’s a sort of dancing.  They call it the horizontal tango, though for obvious reasons the horizontal part is out of the question.”  He leaned against the bars with his whole body, one hand on her side from the wrist up.

“You can’t really mean…” But he did, clearly, because she’d lost track of one of his hands and suddenly found it caressing the inside of her thigh, just an inch or two under her dress.  “Lenny.”

“You don’t sound bored anymore.”  The tips of his fingers were stroking her, and gentle wasn’t a word she applied to Lenny but he was being very gentle with her.  At least he was until he tugged her hand through the bars and bit the inside of her wrist just above her wrist, scraping his teeth along her skin.  She’d never thought of her wrist as being an erogenous zone before.

“Someone could come in.”  She glanced in the direction of the door.

“Let them find their own girl.”  His fingers moved higher and she squirmed, but it had more to do with what he said than anything.  His girl?  Did he mean for just this moment, or… “Tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“Will you still respect me in the morning?” she joked, taking a half step to the right so her legs were spread a little wider.

“Who said I respect you now?” he fired back.  He kissed her arm before tugging it to rest on his shoulder.  Her dress was cut just low enough that he could slip a finger between her breasts and caress bare skin.  She wished there was time to turn around and let him undo the zipper and unlatch her bra.  She had a feeling he wouldn’t need half of the latches undone for him.  It was funny to think that a room full of strangers - and Suzie - had seen more of her breasts than he had.  She couldn’t risk being that naked if the guards came back; profanity was hard enough to explain to her parents without adding a second count of public indecency.  Did jail cells count as public?

“This is only my third arrest.  Is this one of those things you pick up when you spend more time here?”  She wasn’t sure how he’d gotten his hand inside her underwear but there he was, cupping her, palm grinding lightly against her clit.

“I can honestly say I’ve never thought about fucking anyone in here before.  Fucking someone up, maybe, but ‘to fuck’ and ‘to fuck up’ are completely different things, as you well know.”

“I’ve thought of this.  Not here, though I’m not complaining because you really know what to do with your fingers.  But doing this, with you.  Someday.”  That someday had been haunting her for a year.  There were nights she’d picked up the phone to call him.  Nights she’d contemplated just showing up at his hotel.  Nights, too, where she’d convinced herself that it was never meant to be and they’d missed a chance before it had even happened.

“I would have been happy to have you right against that doorframe, if you had asked.”  His fingers curled inside of her, rubbing, probing, stretching.  When was the last time she’d had anything inside of her other than her own hand or one of her special toys?  Had it been a year?  Had it been since before Florida?

“Door open or closed?” She shifted her hand from his shoulder to his neck, pulling them a little closer.  Was it too soon to kiss him?  Would it weird him out?  Would it weird her out?  Considering the fingers in her pussy was it strange that she was second-guessing a kiss?

“Closed, but us on the outside.  You liked the look of the pool.  Maybe after we finished, all hot and sticky, we could have jumped in to cool down.”

“I liked the look of you.”  She tugged on his tie and decided that she was done thinking and over-analyzing.  She’d thought too much that night and nothing had happened.  The steel of the bars was cool against her forehead when she tilted her head enough to line up their mouths.  Thankfully he didn’t seem to object.  Or maybe he was distracted but he seemed to be matching her tongue stroke for tongue stroke.  When his fingers started moving quicker she was glad for the kiss to muffle the moans she couldn’t quite silence.  Her legs were starting to tremble as he found that overly sensitive spot inside that most guys didn’t take the time to seek out, or denied completely.  

“Fuck me,” she moaned against his mouth when his thumb made tight circles against her clit.  She shifted her hand to the bars to support herself better, and was amused to look down and see Lenny’s whole arm was under her skirt.

“Careful, someone might have you arrested for profanity.  Or prostitution.”

“You know, I think my mother would prefer prostitution to comedy.  It would be a relief.”  the only relief she cared about right now, though, was the one from the building tension between her legs.  

“Why not do both?  You could be a pioneer for a whole new form of entertainment, a two for one kind of deal.”  He was smirking at her, and she might have laughed except that his fingers moved faster and his fingers worked their way just far enough that he was able to pinch her nipple.  

“Oh fuck,” she shouted, not at all mindful of where she was.  It was like when she was standing on stage and everything was just flying.  The pot she’d smoked a few times didn’t give her nearly the same high as performing - or having Lenny Bruce’s fingers in her cunt.  What would it be like to have all of him?  And none of the clothes?

“Better than a magazine?”  He was coky and gave her a grin.  If not for the very obvious tenting of his pants she might think that he was completely in control.

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”  She didn’t want to think about what might have happened on this jail floor as she slid down to her knees and nimbly undid the fly of his trousers.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me either.  It’s not about tit for tat.  I have great tits, by the way, but unfortunately you’re going to have to wait to see them.”  She didn’t push his pants down, not when someone could come into the room.  It made things a little trickier, but this wasn’t her first rodeo and she was confident in her skills to make him come. “Tell me, Lenny.  Tell me what it means to come.”

“To is a preposition; come is a verb.”  She let his words flow over her as she sucked his cock into her mouth and felt him hit the back of her throat.  She wasn’t bored anymore.  Clearly she just needed to make sure she only got arrested if Lenny was around to join her.

[sabraeal]

Meet Cute

Part of The Wide Florida Bay, written for @notesintheflyleaf for winning4th place in my 500 Followers Raffle! She has no specific request, so I thought I should start at the beginning: this should be the official first chapter of Nothing Was My Own (Before I Loved You)!

Exhaustion is almost an asset at this point; the figure in front of her blurs, and suddenly the progression from gill arches to jaws seems plausible. Shirayuki rubs her eyes, crusty sleep seeds skittering onto her keyboard, and tries to focus. She’s only had a week worth of classes with Garrack, but she knows she’ll have to be able to draw this on the test. From memory.

“Well.” Shirayuki startles, back protesting as she twists, nearly curving it around her chair to get a glance at the door. “You’re up at an ungodly hour.”

She lets out a sigh, shoulders collapsing over her ribs. It’s-- it’s just Kihal, impossibly fluffy robe wrapped tight around her, eyebrow lifted in an elegant arch. Her roommate.

It’s hard to get used to this, to having someone around, sleeping less than a full Mitsuhide away. Someone who comes and goes from the room like any normal person would, because this is a normal college experience, having a roommate, not one that should send her scrabbling for the nearest exit.

She’d had one before, back in Freshman year. It’s just...different now.

The scent of vanilla clings to the air, along with that pleasant ozone-y scent water gets from a spray, and it’s all just-- distracting. Shirayuki’s not sure when she forgot how to live with someone, but it certainly doesn’t help that the curtain over Kihal’s cubby is gauzy, so when she slips back there she’s backlit like a cell straight out of Chicago.

She’s not shy-- she spent half her summers skinny dipping in the local pond -- but still, it’s weird to know someone is just...casually naked six feet away.

Isn’t it? Shirayuki grips her desk, the edge biting into the pads of her knuckles. It would be nice if she felt like she knew how to people anymore.

“It’s only seven.” She winces as the words come out. Too terse. Too defensive. “I just-- I feel like I have so much to catch up on.”

Kihal barks out a laugh. “That’s fair. If I showed up almost a month into the semester, I’d probably burst into flames with all the catch up.”

That’s an understatement, to say the least. It’d be bad enough being two weeks behind, but with-- with Raj, and her bus ride north, and the whirlwind transfer to Clarines, and then Mihaya, it’s just--

A lot. But it’s the sort of a lot that doesn’t just fall into someone’s lap like this, the sort of a lot that you have to grab with both hands before it fades away, and--

She rubs her head. That’s not helping.

Kihal pokes her head out from behind the curtain, hair falling in a solid sheet. Her scalp tingles looking at it, remembering the weight of her own hair, like some sort of phantom limb. It’s still weird to comb her hair and feel it just end, but-- well, she’d miss it more if it behaved like Kihal’s. As it is, she’s just glad it isn’t here to frizz in the humidity of the dorms.

“How late were you up last night?”

Shirayuki blinks. It was two when she woke up, drool pooling on her keyboard, and rolled herself into bed. She doesn’t remember much before that. “Not...very?”

Kihal’s brows collapse beneath the weight of her skepticism. “Uh-huh. Come on, let’s go.”

Shirayuki stares, frozen, helplessly watching as Kihal slides into a pair of flats, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Go?”

“Yeah.” She turns her chin over her shoulder, flashing her a sly smile. “This is the sort of situation that calls for coffee.”

Shirayuki isn’t sure exactly what Kihal’s situation is; she’s friends with Zen, after all-- or the closest you can come while still calling each other by your last names-- and from what she’s been able to piece together, she’d been living in that double like it was a single since the beginning of the semester, not a hint of another roommate in sight.

On top of that, she walks with the same sort of confidence as Kiki, the kind that has Shirayuki taking two steps to her one, like she’s a corgi keeping pace with a greyhound and, well-- Shirayuki’s never thought about her friends’ net worth before, not when she’d lived so far out from town it took an hour bus ride to get her to school, but-- there’s few people on this planet with the sort of money the Seirans have.

She shakes her head. It doesn’t matter, not when they don’t use it like some people do.

“So this is, um--” she fumbles for words, breathless-- “a coffee shop?”

“A cafe, yeah.” Kihal barely glances back, but her gait slows, letting her keep pace. “It’s student run place. Super cute. You’ll love it.”

Shirayuki practically has to bite her tongue. “Is it...just coffee?”

“Nah. There’s tea too. And maybe some juice?” She lifts her shoulder, the strap of her tank top slipping to the cusp of it. “There’s food too. The bagels are amazing.”

Her stomach gurgles at the though at the same time her bank account aches. Food sounds great right now, but--

“You have flex points, right?”

She blinks. “I...don’t know? Is that with your student ID, or..?”

“It’s with your meal plan.” Kihal explains it’s like it’s old hat, like it’s something everyone knows, and Shirayuki can only think about how she’d spent her last two lunches trying to get a card that worked in the reader, let alone thinking about any of this. “You can use one of your meal swipes and buy something under ten bucks.”

“Oh, um.” She’d hardly looked at the options past ‘three meals a day,’ and even that had cut deep. “I don’t think--”

Kihal waves a hand. “Whatever, don’t worry. I have you.”

It’s stupid how her eyes sting, just at that. I have you. “Are you sure? I can pay you back--”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.” Kihal turns to her with a wink. “If anyone deserves to be treated, it’s you.”

“No, that’s--”

Could be fun, keeping you for a while. Even now, just thinking of that grin sends chills down her spine. Right, Red?

Shirayuki lets her mouth shut with a click. “Yeah,” she decides, finally, “I guess I really do.”

Freshman year, Shirayuki had made this mistake of taking a philosophy course as a gen ed, spending a whole semester trying not to nod off as a man expounded upon the thoughts of other men, most of whom had been financially solvent enough to have servants take care of them while they entertained their lofty theories. It had been almost as much of a disaster as her art history class, but she’d persevered, eking out an A- by the end of the course.

Still, when her professor had spouted off truisms like freedom is the burden of choice, it had taken all of her compassion for humanity as a whole to keep from rolling her eyes.

But right now, staring at the eight chalkboards covered in cramped cursive, she almost wants to email him an apology. This amount of choice is oppressive.

“Do you know what you want?”

There’s so many options, she can hardly remember her own name. “Ah, it’s only...there’s so much to choose from.”

Kihal raises a brow, mouth curving to match. “What? You don’t know how you take your coffee?”

“Oh, well, you see--” her feet shuffle under her, toes scuffing at the tile-- “I don’t really, ah...drink coffee.”

Shirayuki braces herself for the blank stare, for the dismayed frown that comes right before, what sort of person doesn’t drink coffee? She’d heard it enough last year, floormates peeling away in the morning before she could get a word in edgewise.

But Kihal only laughs, shaking her head. “And you, what? Just let me take you to a coffee place?”

It’s infectious; as soon as she starts to giggle, Shirayuki does too, and soon she’s covering her face, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Well,” she manages, breathless, “they usually have hot cocoa.”

“They do,” Kihal agrees, nodding her head at the counter. “And once it rolls around to October, they start selling hot cider too. The local stuff.”

“Ohhh.” Her mouth waters just thinking about it. “That sounds good.”

“We’ll come back,” Kihal promises, elbowing into line. “But I promise the cocoa will tide you over for now.”

We’ll come back. Shirayuki’s hands tighten around her satchel. “Right. Sounds good.”

“Large Iced Mocha?” the barista calls out from behind the counter. “For--” he squints, tilting the cup-- “Kyle?”

Kihal rolls her eyes, plucking off a cinnamon chip from her muffin. “I think that’s me.”

His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to suss out whether she’s really Kyle enough, and then shrugs. “Enjoy.”

She takes a sip and nods. “Mm, yes, definitely me.” She holds up a hand, keeping him right at the bar. “Do you know when my friend’s hot cocoa will be out?”

He blinks, giving her a careless shrug. “I dunno. A few minutes? We didn’t really have the machine set up.”

Kihal stares, mouth pulling long. “It’s just some hot milk. You’re making lattes already.”

“I don’t make the rules, lady,” he tells her, and Shirayuki practically trips trying to catch Kihal’s arm before she can really make a scene.

“It’s fine,” she tells her, bagel gripped so tight in her hands the cream cheese oozes out. Ah, she should ask for some napkins. “This happens a lot. I can wait.”

Kihal hesitates, throwing one last glare over her shoulder at the barista, and backs down. “All right. I’ll go grab us some seats, okay?”

Shirayuki nods. “Sure. I’ll be over when, ah...”

The barista has stopped making drinks, instead holding out his phone to a coworker with a laugh. Kihal lets out a long sigh. “You’ll be over when you’re over.”

Shirayuki watches as he pulls the phone back, as he mouths, wait you gotta see this too, and grimaces. “Yeah, something like that.”

It’s not the first time she’s had to wait for a cocoa-- she’s not precisely sure what the mechanics are behind running a coffee shop, but it seems cocoa and coffee are two streams that can never cross-- but it still feels like forever as she’s standing there, wondering whether they’ve even started to work on it. At this rate, Kihal will be finished before she even gets a sip in, and she’ll have to just...wait there, watching her as she eats.

“--Sharon?” A barista calls out, holding out a small cup . “With a y?”

“Oh!” She squeezes up to the counter. “I think that’s me?”

She looks down at her, impassive, and puts the cup in her hands. “Okay, cool.”

It burns her fingertips, and it takes her a full second, staring dumbly at her hand, to realize there were nice cardboard holders on the bar, just for that reason.

“Wait!” she yelps, fumbling to open one around the bottom of her cup. “Do you have, um, napkins?”

The barista blinks slowly, pointing over her shoulder. “Uh. Drink station.”

“Oh!” Shirayuki whips around, catching the small table of straws and stirrers, flanked by a row of dispensers. “Thank--”

She’s already gone. “--you?”

Shirayuki heaves a sigh. Mrs Kino always said New Englanders were a little cold.

Turning on her heel, she bee-lines for the drink station, napkins on her mind--

Only to run smack dab into a wall.

A very warm wall. A very warm wall that laughs, hands banding around her arms to steady her.

“Careful there, Miss,” it says, “don’t want to have an accident, now do we?”

She settles back on her heels, gaze dragging up-- and up-- until it catches on a hooked grin, canines peeking out from behind a crooked lip. “N-no, of course not. Sorry, I wasn’t--” her eyes pulse wide as she realizes she’s still holding the cup, that it could have spilled-- “did I get any on you? Are you all right? Where are you burned?”

He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling, rucking up the scar that winks over one eye. “Don’t worry. No harm done.” His smile curves into a smirk. “Though you’re welcome to check if you like.”

Shirayuki nearly reaches out, nearly takes the invitation, but he takes a step back, hands dropping from her shoulders.

“That’s me,” he says, and it takes her a minute to realize the barista is holding another small cup over the bar, waiting. “Watch yourself, Miss.”

She stands, brows furrowed, watching him wade through the crowd. Watch yourself. It’s a normal thing to say, but still--

She can’t shake how much it sounds like a warning.

“Sorry!” Shirayuki slaps down a fistful of napkins, licking cream cheese off the webbing between her thumb and finger. “There were so many people over there.”

It’s a bit of a jump to get up on the stools-- she can’t wait for this high table trend to end-- and her foot nearly misses the rung with Kihal asks, “Did you get his number?”

She blinks, hoisting herself onto the seat. It swivels threateningly beneath her. “Whose number?”

Kihal raises both eyebrows, incredulous. “Uh, the gorgeous guy you were talking to?”

“Who?”

She sighs. “Tall, tanned, had biceps made for putting your mouth on?”

Shirayuki stares. She wasn’t aware that’s what one did with biceps. It seems like a bad time to ask if it’s hyperbole.

“You nearly ran him over?” Kihal ventures, jerking her head toward the counter.

“Oh!” Tall seemed fair, and tan, but she hadn’t, um, speculated about the mouthfeel of his muscles.“No. I just-- I asked if I’d hurt him, he said no, and then he got his drink.”

Kihal tips back her head, casting a helpless glance at the ceiling. “Shirayuki.”

“There wasn’t anything else to it.” She casts a curious glance over her shoulder, but it’s no good, it looks like Mysterious Man has come and gone. “Was he really--?”

“Hot? Extremely.” Kihal’s mouth curves slyly. “I know you and Wisteria have something going on, but you can look at other guys, you know.”

Her cheeks flush, which is-- it’s stupid, because there isn’t any reason to it. “We don’t have anything, we’re just...friends.”

Kihal gives her a dubious look. “Mm-hm. Well, all the more reason to look, then. Especially when tall, dark and handsome seems to be chummy with the barista. Maybe you can score us some free coffee.”

Shirayuki frowns. “I don’t really think talking to someone to get free stuff is--”

“Also, he looks like a good kisser.”

Ethical gets stuck in in her throat, and she blindly grasps for her cup, taking a sip to wash it out--

And nearly spits it out.

Kihal stares. “Are you okay?”

She grimaces, edging the cup away. “This is not cocoa.”

Kihal’s brows furrow, and she scoops it up, taking a sip. “Ugh, this isn’t even mocha. It’s like, half-cocoa, half-espresso.”

Whatever it is, the taste lingers bitterly in her mouth. “Do people drink that?”

“No.” Kihal’s mouth tilts, coy. “Too bad Hot Guy isn’t around to talk to his friend for you.”

“It’s fine,” she wheezes, sliding off the chair, “I can just--”

“No, no.” Kihal snags the drink from her. “I’ll deal with it.”

“No, I couldn’t--”

“Hey.” She holds up a hand, mouth spread in a grin. “I paid for it, I deal with it. you enjoy your food. Besides,” she waggles her eyebrows, “now I can go find out more about your boyfriend.”

[eimagines]

old friend // jimmy darling

pairing: jimmy darling x reader genre: fluffy and smutty! summary: your family visit the freakshow to greet some old friends. jimmy and you can’t keep your eyes or your hands off of each other. warnings: spicy stuff, you already know. unprotected car bonnet sex lol x word count: 3800

a/n: prompt ‘the skirt is supposed to be this short’ requested by  @gooberthemanatee ! hope you like it lovely, apologies for how long this took and my disappearance! this one is for you! also, I am working through all requests at the moment!

“Remember to be on our best behaviour today everybody,” Elsa announced over breakfast as she delicately wiped away food from off of peppers chin, “An old friend is coming to visit and I would very much appreciate making her and her children’s stay with us as pleasant as possible.” 

“Who’s this old friend?” Bette asked quietly to Jimmy who sat facing her and Dot on one of the wooden breakfast benches.

“An old-timer,” Jimmy explained as he bit into an apple, “Her and her kids used to tour with the show back in the 30’s.”

“She was an absolute star, used t’ bring in hundreds in ‘er prime. It’s a real shame she’s taken ill.” Ethel spoke.

“A shame it is indeed, and we should feel privileged her one wish was to visit her old family.” Elsa finished.

“Why did she leave the show?” Dot asked, suspiciousness in her tone.

“Her eldest son went to college, got himself a great job and bought the family a home. And a giant home in the city is better than this dump, so they moved.” Jimmy explained glumly.

“Now don’t ya be ac’in’ all glum Jimmy. We ain’t got no bitterness towards ‘em. They the loyalist bunch we known. Never been a birthday or holiday we ain’t got a card off ‘em. Those kids always kept in touch on behalf of their mother, even when she got sick, precious [Y/N] must always ‘ave ‘er hands full without always writin’ to our lot.” Ethel scolded.

“Why couldn’t she ever write herself?” Dot asked.

“Well my dear, you see, some freaks are born with missing limbs, some, too many and some, like our old friend, aren’t born with any whatsoever,” Elsa explained.

Bette looked concerned. 

“She’s not been in the best of health for years,” Jimmy explained upon seeing Bette’s concerned look, quieting his voice as not to cause any upset, “I think she’s on her way out. She’s been wanting to come back for years but never had a good enough excuse to do the journey.”

Almost as if on cue, a rickety old 1948 sky blue Austin 8 came clanging down the dirt road and into the front entrance of the freak show, it’s wheels coated in dust and it’s paint job chipped and slightly rusted. As soon as the wheels came to a holt the back two doors came flying open and two young boys - one no older than eleven, the other fifteen - charged out onto the dusty path with sticks in hand as they chased each other wildly. Pepper stood quickly, ready for playtime. 

“Boys! Come here, if you’re gunna run wild and not help at least put sunscreen on. I’m not nursing you if you burn!” You called after them as you stepped out into the hot Florida air. 

“Darling! Look at how much you have grown!” Elsa called as she hurried over to you, enveloping you into a big hug, “The boys too. Come come now I’ll help fetch your mother.” 

The opposite car door was opened next and the specific old friend in question helped into a shabby old wheelchair. She was frail, weak, hard to hear as she spoke with a grave voice, but gave lots of love to her reunited friends as much as she could. Elsa helped with getting your mother out of the scorching sun, making your day seem a little less hard; Elsa looked as though she had appointed herself as the nurse for the day much to your relief. You had looked after your mother ever since you could remember, and cared for your younger brothers the best you could too. You almost never had a moment for yourself. To come back to the place you had grown up, be showered with love and given time to do what you wanted was a holiday you had prayed for.

The boys were occupied playing with Pepper as both familiar and new faces greeted and welcomed you. You had been born into the freak show, grew up around it. You hadn’t been back for ten years but somehow felt as though you’d been gone merely a week. You felt at home here. As much as you were thankful your elder brother had gotten you out of performing circus acts for a living and sleeping in a cramped little camper every day until you were 16, you’d missed the atmosphere of show life. You’d missed the laughs, the parties, hell, you’d even missed the fights and the hecklers. But honestly, you’d missed a certain Jimmy Darling more than any of that.

You could recognise his charming smile from miles away. His cocky stance, his slight smirk and his ashy blonde hair that shaped his face so perfectly. He’d bulked up since his teenage years, his build bigger and stronger looking. You caught his eye, standing at the back of the greeting crowd of people, his hands tucked away in his pockets shyly. 

You approached him, thankfully, as Jimmy had worried you wouldn’t even remember him, too embarrassed by the thought he’d talked himself out of greeting you first. 

“Jimmy, Darling,” you spoke his name fondly, the way his name rolled off your tongue spreading the feel of nostalgia coursing throughout your body. “What kind of half-assed welcome was that?” You laughed, as did he.

“Still got a mouth on you I see.” He smiles fondly, remembering how much trouble you’d get in for having absolutely no filter. Not to be expected of a “lady”. “I didn’t think you would remember me.”

“How could I forget my Jimmy?” You smirked. “I mean you sure have changed, but not that much.”

“Ahh yeah,” Jimmy held up his hands on display, “Still got these fellas, you saw them right?”

“No you dingbat, I’d recognise that smile of yours anywhere.” You giggled giving him a giant hug which he returned tightly with a laugh.

“We’re having a big dinner tonight to welcome you all back so wear something nice!” Elsa shouted as she scuttled into her tent.

“You guys gonna be okay stayin’ in this old thing?” Jimmy asked as you finished tying the last lace on your brother's shoes, sending him bouncing up and out of the open camping van door. 

The old camping van you used to live in still sat old and rusted, collecting dust and homing spiders. It didn't look all that different from when you left. Everyone had tried their best to sweep and clean it up before you’d arrived, yet the heaters were broken and the sides of the van were worn down and gritty; you prayed that tonight wouldn't be too cold and harsh for you all.

“Course we will,” You responded confidently, “As long as the spiders stay at a regular distance away from me, I think we’ll be good to go.” You smiled. Jimmy, as gentlemanly as ever, had helped you carry your bags back home and even stayed help you with the boys.

“Y’know you don’t have to stay and help me with everything Jimmy, although I do appreciate your company,” You said with a smile as you got up from your seating position on the weathering couches in the rear end of the van and popped on the stove to brew some coffee.

“Yeah, well, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t,” Jimmy asked, getting two mugs down from the shelf above your head causing him to lean into the back of you slightly. You felt your face heat up at the closeness of him behind you.

He washed out the mugs and set them down as you poured them full off coffee, the strong aroma filling the air quickly and masking the musky smell of dust that seemed to have seeped into every crevis of the place. 

You sat facing Jimmy, chatting about where you had both been, what you had been up to. You couldn’t help but eye Jimmy up as he laughed with you. The way his cheeks lifted up so high when he smiled that his eyes crinkled and deep dimples showed.

“Does the Ferris Wheel still work?” You asked with a laugh, trying to distract yourself from drooling over your old friend.

Jimmy was thankful you’d brought up the wheel, he was wondering if his oogling of you was becoming noticeable. He couldn’t help being increasingly interested in you. He always had been, but seeing how strong of a woman you had become, how beautiful and confident you were, had sent his mind into overdrive. He noticed the way you shyly looked away when he made you laugh, the way your hair fell over your glowing skin and your smile seemed to light up the dark room you both sat in. He felt overly infatuated with you already.

“Barely, it’s still as rickety as it always has been.” Jimmy laughed along with you, a thought entering his head as he sipped at his hot coffee, “Remember that old car? The yellow convertible one we used to take out at night when we thought everyone was sleeping?”

“Oh my god!” You laughed upon realisation of your earlier teenage memories, “We used to steal the keys from Elsa and drive into town! And then one night we got super drunk and it rained and we left the roof down and Elsa had a breakdown cause her leather seats got wet!”

“We still have it y’know? It's not been runnin’ for a while, far too old for it now I think, but it's parked up past the Lake. After dinner, we could walk up to there if you want?” Jimmy offered.

You’d never said yes to a plan so fast in your life.

You’d been slightly embarrassed to leave the van for dinner that evening. You’d not brought a huge array of clothing for the trip, but you had brought along your favourite pencil skirt and blouse. 

The pencil skirt accented your womanly figure, a glorious blend of both practicality and glamour. The bold red colour matched your soft white feminine blouse perfectly. The hemline normally skated just below your knees, but now hugged your body tighter than usual, the hemline resting on your thighs. 

You’d thought about switching your skirt out for the pleated one you wore earlier, but Elsa’s instance on dressing nicely replayed in your head, and you didn't want to underdress and possibly offend.

You’d walked with the boys towards the main tent, food freshly prepared and filling your stomach with growls. No-one had really paid attention to your slight wardrobe malfunction; no-one but Jimmy.

As you sat and chatted to the new members of the Freakshow, sharing old stories and new, you watched him up as he stood leaning against one of the heavy wooden pillars. Jimmy had become a proud man, a man that you simply couldn’t take your eyes off. You noticed the way in which his redshirt hugged his broad shoulders and his dark eyes glanced over in your direction every once in a while. If you caught him staring he wouldn't look away; his confident glare both bold and endearing.

Once the boys were fed and easily distracted amongst all of the interesting people they had not been acquainted with and the hundreds of activities Salt and Pepper bestowed upon them, you snuck off behind the layers of curtains that separated the back of the stage to the front. Music and laughter got quieter and more drawn out as you carefully tip-toed amongst the darkness.

Everything was laid out exactly like you remembered it; the assortment of props, costumes, missing lighting rig pieces, ropes and chairs. You fumbled with a set of Jimmy’s juggling balls, remembering fondly how he’d nervously shake before going on stage, how he’d whisper his lines to himself under his breath, how his eyes shone under the bright lights of the red and white tent.

“You lookin’ for something?” Jimmy’s voice seemed to appear out of nowhere, startling you as your fingers grip on the balls diminished and they bounced onto the cold floor below. “Sorry princess didn't mean to scare you,” Jimmy said with a laugh.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” you said fondly as you bent down to pick the props up off of the floor, the dusty air filling your lungs and pink tones rising to the apples of your cheeks, forever flustered by Jimmy’s name calling. “How long is the walk to the car?” 

“Not far at all,” Jimmy said, holding his arm out for you to take, “If you get tired I can always carry you there.” He said with a wink. 

You gave him a playful smack as you laughed, taking his arm in yours, “Forever the flirt arent you, Jimmy?”

“I try darlin’.” He smiled down at you fondly. 

“You look beautiful by the way.” Jimmy said, the heat from your cheeks brightening up your face, “Never seen a skirt so short in Jupiter before, and I mean that in a good way. You look great.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.” You smiled, maybe the skirt had shrunken for good reason. If Jimmy liked it, then so did you, and you’d wear it confidently, “Trying something new. The skirt is supposed to be this short.” If you spoke it into existence then you’d feel better about the machine back home having shrunken it.

The night air was cool, a slight breeze delicately blowing at your hair, the flags that lined the Freakshow waving back and forth. The stars were beginning to dot the dark night sky and the moon was full and round. You and Jimmy walked silently for a while, both of you not really knowing what to say but embracing the company of one another. The only sounds were the slight ripples of the lake's water lapping at its banks, the faded out music of the Freakshow and the crunch of dried grass as you both walked across the grounds.

The rusted bonnet of a yellow car brought you to a holt as you excitedly ran forward.

“Oh my god!” You laughed childishly, immediately grazing your fingers over the exterior of the car. The paint was chipped and rusted, the leather seats worn and outdated, the glass screen dusty and covered with a few fallen leaves.

“Told ya it was still here.” Jimmy laughed, his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the bonnet, “It knocked out when we got here. Shame we couldn’t get it runnin’ again.”

“This is so cool, I didn’t think I’d ever see this again.” Your eyes flickered to Jimmy, his skin catching the light of the moon making him look as though he was glowing. Jimmy was staring at you too, wondering how a little moonlight could make someone look like an angel.

“I’ve missed it here.” You say fondly as you join Jimmy at the front of the car, looking over the Lake to the red and white tents, the fluorescent lights of the entrance making the place glow in warm hues.

Jimmy sighed, following your eyeline to the Freakshow, “You deserved better than this place.” 

You gave him a confused look, “I’m grateful for the life I have, don’t get me wrong, but not a day goes by when I don’t think of this place, these people. I miss you all.”

“A place like this isn’t a place for a woman like you, [Y/N],” Jimmy started, “You don’t wanna be my mama’s age and still livin’ this life. You had a chance to escape and you took it, and I’m glad you did.”

“You talk like you don’t have a chance to do the same.” 

“Not with my flippers I don’t.” Jimmy spoke glumly.

“Oh Jimmy,” You sighed placing your hand on his own, knowing of his anxieties but never fully being able to understand his struggles, “This world will be kinder one day, more accepting. There will always be people willing to bring you down to bring themselves up, you just gotta know in your heart you’re the better person. Not everyone is so cruel out there, so you can stop talkin’ like I’m above this place cause I don’t look like any of you. We are all people. All equal. The world will realise it soon enough.”

Jimmy listened to the words passionately pour out your mouth, “Plus, how can anyone resist a man as handsome as my Jimmy Darling.” You both laughed fondly and you playfully shoved him. The way in which your hand had rested on his own and the way you called him ‘yours’ made Jimmy’s heart beat a little faster than before.

You watched the way his lips opened slightly like words were on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't get them out, his dark eyes drank you in against the moonlight, the way his curls fell in front of his face. The air felt a lot hotter now.

He watched the way your smile graced your face, the way your skirt hugged your waist and exposed your thighs as you leaned against the car. Jimmy couldn’t help his embrace of you. He took your chin in his hand, your eyes meeting his.

“Jimmy,” You barely managed to whisper out his name as his lips met yours with a surprise. His lips were delicate and soft on your own, it was sweet and passionate, not rushed or desperate. Your body relaxed into the kiss as your hands came up to cup his face, your lips moving against his own as his hands wrapped protectively around your waist. 

You both smiled into the kiss, breaking away from each other for a moment, your foreheads pressed to one another, Jimmy’s arms still wrapped around you tightly.

“I’ve waited so long to do that.” Jimmy smiled down at you, scanning your face with a look of pure adoration causing fireworks to go off in your chest.

“You should have done it sooner.” You replied, kissing him again with a laugh, awkward teenage memories floating back through both your heads, neither of you confident enough to act on your feelings back then. 

You were still leaning against the car bonnet, now making out deeply like you’d wished you had done years before. Jimmy had you trapped between the car and his body, kissing his way from your neck to your collar bones. You let out little breathy moans as his lips sucked against the tender parts of your skin, his hands teasingly grazing across your exposed legs.

Every so often he would look at you and check you were okay. He kissed your lips, sucking slightly at your lower lip earning him another moan that slipped from your mouth.

“Careful, you want everyone to hear?” He smirked as he moved to grab at your behind, lifting you slightly so you sat on the bonnet of the car your legs at either side of his waist as he continued peppering sweet kisses on your revealed skin. 

“You have no idea how crazy you make me darlin’, when I saw you in this tiny skirt I felt like I couldn’t breathe,” Jimmy confessed. You could feel his growing anticipating rubbing against your clothed heat. You could feel yourself becoming more and more excited, your heart was pounding out your chest and your legs began shaking in anticipation.

Jimmy slowly moved his hand up your thigh, rubbing his fingers delicately over your clothed wet pussy. “Please don't tease me, Jimmy.” You said, lust clouding your eyes as you practically begged for more friction between the two of you. 

“I’ll do anything you ask baby.” Jimmy giggled at your impatience, lowering himself between your thighs as you lay back, letting the bonnet of the yellow car take your whole weight. 

Jimmy could barely contain his excitement at finally getting to stick his head between your legs, he eyed up your lacey underwear, using both hands to delicately pull them from you. 

He was an experienced man who knew his way around a woman’s body, and whether the women of Jupiter wanted to admit it or not, Jimmy was a catch in bed. You looked down at him, peppering your thighs in kisses, yanking your skirt up higher so you could watch him as he began to eat you out.

He licked at your clit and you immediately let out a moan. He used his tongue expertly on you, going slow, then quickening his pace, flattening his tongue and sucking delicately on your most sensitive area. Your hands found their way into Jimmy’s curled locks. His dark eyes drank in the sight of you, breathing heavy, eyes shut in bliss all at his doing. 

He teased your wet entrance with his long fingers, pushing them in a little and then removing them all too quickly. He knew just how to build the pace but you were becoming impatient. You wanted him, all of him, and he could tell.

He stood straight from his position, grabbing at your thighs and pulling your body closer towards him, his clothed cock rubbing at his jeans. He leaned forward helping him fumble with his belt. He gave you another kiss, this time the desperation written on his face, letting his jeans and boxers drop to the floor.

It wasn’t long before he’d delved his large member into you, the moans that fell from both your mouths loud at the feeling of your tight walls wrapped around his cock. His hips moved slowly but deeply against your own, the feel of his throbbing cock pulling out you and slipping back in sent your mind into overdrive. 

Jimmy soon picked up the pace, somewhat desperate for his own pleasure to be fulfilled. He moaned your name, the sounds of profanities spilling from his lips and the skin slapping against skin drowning out any of the other noise the surrounding nature could conjure. One hand held Jimmy’s shoulder whilst the other you used to stimulate yourself, his cock driving in and out of you deeply, both of you sweating, chasing the familiar euphoric feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Jimmy moaned, watching as you took your bottom lip in your teeth, eyes heavy and dark as you watched him fuck you, “You look so hot.” 

Your breathy moans become louder, your hand desperately moving against your clit as Jimmy continued to fuck you into the bonnet, “I’m so close.”

Jimmy took this as an opportunity to rip the buttons off the front of your shirt, latching his mouth onto your exposed nipple, grabbing your thighs and fucking you as hard as he could. The cool metal of the car rubbing against your backside harshly as the tight coil in the pit of your stomach released and you came all over his cock. 

The feeling of your walls convulsing against him, the wetness dripping all over his cock, the sounds of his name falling from your mouth, the sight of you coming undone beneath him sent Jimmy into his own orgasm. He groaned, moaning out your name, his thumbs digging into your hips as he came inside you. He collapsed on top of you, both of you a sweaty heavy breathing mess.

You started to laugh.

“What?” Jimmy asked breathlessly, a smile so big on his face his dimples looked like craters, “What are you laughing at?”

“I can’t believe we just had sex on Elsa’s car.”

Jimmy laughed along with you. 

“We can try doing it somewhere else next time then.” Jimmy gave you a cocky smirk, his eyebrow cocked as he slipping his jeans back on and helped you off the bonnet.

“You wish.” You replied playfully.

“I certainly do.”

A/N: Decided to lay the whole skirt thing out in a way that made sense for the time-period as short skirts weren't a fashionable choice until the mid 60′s if my research is correct! 

[amyscascadingtabs]

with you, i am prepared for what is yet to come

(my take on post-casecation for you)

read on ao3

Jake wakes up after her the next morning.

Admittedly, he wakes up after Amy most mornings, and finds the blessed minutes they can spend talking and cuddling while half-awake in the morning to be the best imaginable start of the day.

Only this morning, Amy’s not in bed next to him, and for a fugacious moment, there’s a judgemental voice in his head asking what if she left.

What if she did decide to start over, despite their argument ending in mutual agreement? What if he dreamed the end of their evening, with thai-food and Property Brothers, baby names and stupid good sex?

He reaches out a hand and draws a breath of relief when he finds her side of the mattress still warm under the straightened half of the comforter. His heartbeat finally slows to a healthy bpm when he hears the sound of someone moving in the kitchen, closing a cabinet, turning on the water tap. She’s humming something upbeat, something resembling his innovative casecation-melody of yesterday, and he can feel the smell of coffee.

Not finding the point of staying in bed when his gorgeous, brilliant wife is up and about making coffee for them, he throws the comforter aside and puts on yesterday’s navy hoodie over his t-shirt before making his way out to the kitchen.

She’s there, because of course she is, despite what tricks the hateful voice in his head attempts, and he swears his heart is lighter the moment he sees her. She’s stolen his flannel from yesterday over a low-cut black tank-top and grey pajama shorts, and it’s just as adorable as it’s distractingly attractive. If they weren’t already married, he’d propose to her all over again in this moment.

“Nice flannel”, he remarks. “You look cute.”

“Borrowed it from the best. You’ll get it back.”

“Eh. It looks hotter on you anyway.”

Amy snorts, but she’s grinning. “Sorry I didn’t wait for you to wake up. You seemed exhausted, and I had too much energy, so I thought I’d get a start on breakfast. Coffee, at least.”

“It’s okay.” He makes an uncomfortable grimace. “I mean, there was a moment where I thought maybe you had left for good, but - that’s just in my head, right?”

She frowns, confused. “Of course that’s just in your head - why’d you even think I would leave?”

“Because of what you said yesterday. About starting over.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry”, she whispers, biting her lip. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

He fidgets with his hands before speaking, hiding them in the pockets of his hoodie as he looks down at the floor, then up to meet her eyes. She’s watching him, her head tilted slightly to the side and her lips pursed. Her attentiveness manages to make the words feel yet more terrifying, but somehow, he manages them.

“I just don’t want to lose you. Ever. And hearing you say it, even if you didn’t mean it - I hated it. Because losing you is my worst nightmare.”

“It’s my worst nightmare, too. Florida, prison…” Amy shakes her head. “I never want to experience any of that again. Not in a million years.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

She doesn’t give him an immediate answer. Rather, she takes a few steps back, watching as the pot fills with the steaming hot, black coffee she’ll pour milk in while Jake will douse his with sugar.

“I just needed you to understand. I’d never want to leave you, but I do want to have kids and I don’t have forever, you know? You don’t have a biological clock to consider, I do.” The machine beeps, signaling their coffee is ready, and he watches as she takes out the well-used matching Mr and Mrs-mugs and pours it into them.

“I’d never want to leave you”, she says, looking at him again. “But if you never wanted kids and I did, that’d be an irreconcilable difference. I wouldn't have been happy. You wouldn't have been happy. I don't want that for us.” Amy sighs. “That's why I said it. It was stupid and emotional, and you have to understand it's my literal nightmare. I was taken aback.”

Jake nods, trying to make what she's saying sink in, use her rational arguments to choke the indefatigable narrative his abandonment issues are presenting in the back of his head.

“I get it”, he says, because the part of his brain that's devoted to logical thinking does, and he figures that's what counts. “We really should have talked about it before.”

“We really should have.” She hands him the coffee cup with both milk and sugar, and he accepts it with a grateful smile. “I'm sorry I never properly brought it up. I kind of… assumed, I guess.”

“It's okay.”

“No.” She shakes her head, apologetic smile on her lips. “It's not, really. I'm sorry about not bringing it up for real.”

“Same here.”

Neither of them says anything for a while, letting the first sips of hot coffee come before further conversation. Amy sits up on the counter, flicking through the day's mail to see if there's anything other than a few flyers and the newspaper with its crossword, and hands him a two week early birthday card from his aunt Linda with squiggly handwriting on it.

“You were just always so happy around kids”, his wife explains, talking to him while he reads and puts away the card. “Terry’s daughters, Nikolaj, Iggy. My nieces and nephews. You love them, and I guess I just figured you wanted your own, someday.”

He thinks of babysitting and reading stories to Ava, of chasing Nikolaj through the playground when they babysat him for a full weekend, of holding weeks-old Iggy as she grabbed on tight to his pinkie and fell asleep. He does love kids, and he’d be lying to say he’s never pictured what it’d be like to have them with Amy, because he has - but he’s also terrified beyond compare.

Loving a kid means wanting them to have a good childhood. Jake knows too well what the lack of one can entail.

“I do love them”, he tells her, seeing her gaze soften and smile form. “But, you know, they’re not mine. I can’t permanently ruin them or scar them too bad. Because that’s what I’m scared of. I’m scared I’ll have kids, and love them, but still never be good enough.”

“I get it.”

He shakes his head. “Do you, though?”

“Of course I do. I mean, I’ve always wanted kids, and even I’m scared of a billion things. You know what it’s like to have a crappy father”, she says, reaching for his hand and linking it with hers, “it makes total sense for you to be scared of being one. But I don’t think you will.”

“How can you know?”

“Well, how certain are you that I’d be a good mom?”

Jake considers it for a while, recalling images of Amy teaching the Jeffords twins facts about feminism, of her barely wanting to let go of Iggy even when the baby puked all over her nice blouse, and of how much her nieces and nephews seem to genuinely love their Tía Amy. There’s no doubt anywhere in his mind of it; she’d be incredible.

“So certain”, he admits with complete honesty, and she blushes.

“You see - that’s how sure I am you’d be an amazing dad. You’d never ‘ruin’ your kid. You wanna know how I know?”

He nods, and she jumps down from the counter, holding both of his hands and taking a step closer so she’s directly in front of him, demanding all of his focus.

“Because you’re the most wonderful, loving, kind-hearted person I know. I don’t even think you’re capable of ruining someone. If anything, you make people better. You made me better.”

He doesn’t say anything - can’t say anything, can’t make himself do anything but take her into his arms, hugging her close. He rubs her back to comfort her, feeling the last remaining tension from yesterday’s discussion melt away into nothingness.

“You make me better”, he whispers in her ear. “I love you. And, you know - I do love kids. I guess I just never allowed myself to want them. Because it’s terrifying.”

“It is terrifying, and you don’t even have to be pregnant or give birth.” Amy laughs. “But we’ve done so much scarier stuff.”

“We’re a good team”, he agrees. “If I’d raise kids with anyone, it’d be you for sure.”

“Ditto”, she grins. “Out of curiosity - did you have curly hair as a baby?”

“Are you saying you want to have kids with me just so you can pass on my beautiful genes, Santiago?”

“Oh yeah, that’s totally the only reason.”

“Knew it. From what I’ve seen of your brothers’ kids - and the baby pictures your brothers have shown me to embarrass you - yours aren’t that bad, either.”

Amy chuckles, running her right hand through the curls their kids may or may not inherit. “We’ll have cute kids.”

“We will.”

She kisses him, and he’s still scared, but much less so when her lips are against his and she’s standing a little bit on her toes and his hands are on her back while hers follow their usual habit of cupping his face. She kisses him, and the future makes him nervous, but he holds her in his arms and knows they’re doing it together. She kisses him, and in the end, he’s confident raising kids together with Amy Santiago is sure to be one of the scariest but most rewarding experiences of his life.

As long as he gets to do it with her, he can’t wait.

[ursoself-satisfying]

My Sweet Lord (ch2)

hes a lil young here for when how old hes supposed to  be when this stry takes place but its hard to find a non adorable n giggly gif of him lol 

Chapter 2 - I’m On Fire 

Priest!Joe Mazzello x F!Reader, NSFW, ~3.5k words

My Sweet Lord masterlist 

A/N: go listen to holy ghost by modern baseball while u read too cus its rly good,,, anyway this one is a lil dif!!! its a lil bg on the town a lil scene setting n its all about joe now!!! 

special thanks given in this post!! you can find whole accompanying laylists there as well not just single associated songs!!!

Warning(s): sex, religious guilt, some scary images, mentions of ejaculate, uuhhh body horror,,,, i think thats it besides maybe kinda disrespecting ur elders lol ??? 

Father Mazzello had been distracted, to say the least. His newest regular was different, in the simplest terms, and drew his attention in the most tantalizing ways. See, the Oranges was a retiree town in the middle of nowhere, a Bermuda Triangle of the American Midwest. People arrive and they never leave, usually because they die. It was a bit ironic but very fitting to him that the epitome of classic American ideals, though contrasting, collided with ancient human instinct to create this town where the elderly are unequivocally cared for by the young, who remain the bones of the town and keep everything running. You could live and die in the Oranges without ever even leaving them.

The Father had always thought the name was deceiving. “The Oranges” sounded like a small suburb in the wet, hot, muggy parts of Florida, not an old folks zone in middle America. There was some part of him that would always dislike living in a town named “The Oranges”. Maybe it was the priestly side of him, feeling dishonest in their presentation when confronted with their reality, meaning they did not and never have grown oranges there. Maybe it was the sunny signposts standing crookedly beside the worn yellow houses, paint peeling and fences fading, showcasing the poor upkeep of people’s own homes.

He was too harsh, though, because a town, he knew, was not its structures but rather its people, its community. The Oranges had no shortage of smiles, even if they mostly consisted of secondary sets of dentures. That’s what made her smile so different. It was real. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason she stood out, no, it was also her legs, her thighs leading up to her hips, two very real hips, and a waist that would fit so well in his hands and then up a little further where his hands could perfectly cup-

The pencil snapped with a shock and the man blinked at his scribbles, unintelligible now that he’s been broken from his stupor. The lead tip of his pencil rolled in a curved line off his journal then off his desk and he watched it tiredly before glancing at the clock. It was nearly 1 a.m. The clergyman sat back and huffed, taking a moment to assess himself.

His hand had wandered to the crux of his black slacks and he groaned at the hardness beneath the cloth. His groan was unintentional but a needed release as he couldn’t “release” how he really wanted to. His thoughts were clouded with this girl- this girl- He barely knew her name and here he was, fantasizing about her simply because she was the only eligible woman he’d laid his eyes on in nearly a year, or probably more accurately over a year.

‘Why should that even matter to you?’ He asked himself. ‘Why should it matter that she’s eligible? She’s probably not. She probably has a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, even.’ Joe couldn’t help but groan again at the thought of her, pressed against someone else all the ways he wanted her to press against him.

‘Stop it!’ Some voice in the back of his mind hissed. ‘You’re a priest! It doesn’t matter if she’s unavailable! You’re the one who’s unavailable! You took an oath! You made a covenant with the Lord!’ If Joe were a man to curse, this is when he would curse. Instead, he simply moaned in compliance and gave into his conscience, sighing and giving his erection one last squeeze before sliding his hand back up his body, resting it on his open journal. He ripped out the page he’d been working on, the one describing his ‘newest parishioner’ in exquisite detail. No one would ever see that. No one could ever know he experienced such temporal thoughts. He was a priest, after all, he had to set a good example.

He spent the next twenty minutes in a headspace he despised, the one he used to eradicate the want that grew between his legs. It was images of the women in the first row of the church with teeth yellow and denture line visible, their smiles wide and slippery. The men in the back few pews have spots on their balding heads that are sometimes protruding and have hairs only growing there and somehow nowhere else. Joe focused on that, on the lumps and aches they vocalized, on the scratching of their smoke warped voices and the pores like pools on their noses. He thought of the way the hands of the mass shook when they went to place money in the collection basket, the yellow of their nails and the chipped polish on the manicured claws. Their skin was saggy and discolored and their hair is matted and fake and he thinks about what they must look like under their musty Sunday clothes-

He’s soft again, his pants no longer straining and he breathes a sigh of relief, maybe a quiet thanks to God. The priest does his best not to let his mind wander as he lets his feet carry him to his bed where he disrobes, definitely not drifting to imagine how her eager hands would feel pulling his trousers down, nails scraping down his thighs- Joe forced himself to turn the mental image of her tight knuckles to one of chapped and wrinkled ones to keep himself calm. As much as he dislikes subjecting himself to these thoughts, he tells himself he does it for the Lord. The Lord will keep him strong in these times of weakness, he tells himself, in these hours of temptation. He slid into his bed in briefs and an undershirt, letting the softness of his sheets smooth over his skin as it envelopes him and he’s whisked away into a few hours of much-needed rest and revelation.

Your hands had never been softer. It was the only definable thought in Joe’s head when you pushed up his thin shirt. The fabric bunched up over his stomach and you lowered your head to lick a long, wet stripe up from the happy trail disappearing down his shorts.

You were naked, straddling him, hips and thighs curved and soft and outlined by the moonlight that shone in from the cracks in the curtains behind you. The luminescence bounces off the soft tufts of your hair that bunched when your nose hit the bottom of his shirt and you kissed the middle space of his chest reverently. Joe was so wrapped in this moment that he asked no questions. His mind was muddled with lust and want. If you met his needy gaze, you would physically see the fog you caused in his brain, shown in the glazed over eyes that tracked your every move. It was like looking in the windows of a rocking teenager’s car, all steam, and sex behind them.

Your hips ground unconsciously on his crotch where his arousal was obvious and painful and he couldn't keep in his moan. The contact was too much for his near virginal state to handle. Your body, luscious and young and soft, and so easily defiled. It was so sinful. It caused a fire to burn within his loins, reigniting one that had long been a dormant pile of ashes before you came along. Every sway of your breasts as you rose your body slightly from his was another match stricken and thrown to maintain this burn.

Every clench of your thighs around his waist was kindle to feed it. Your undeniable silhouette was gasoline, your ass weighing on his lap was logs and paper, probably journal pages he’s written and hidden of you, but the way you looked down at him, the way your eyes fluttered and your lashes fell, the way your mouth puckered and curled and glistened, that was the first page of the book to burn. One by one, page by page, you would rid him of his religion, strip him of belief until all that existed was you.

And he was fine with that.

Again, Joe felt the contact of your soft pussy pressing over his aching cock and his hand instinctively reached for your hair, tangling his fingers in your locks while his other five went to squeeze at your thigh. Every desperate touch from him was a message; ‘You’re gorgeous,’ ‘please touch me,’ ‘I need you.’ He was practically tracing the letters into your leg as his hand slid down to your knee then back up to your waist. He was still laying down while you were straddling him and grinding against him, occasionally letting your hands wander, pushing up his shirt and licking the skin you could reach without stretching. You had leaned forward to suck at his neck and the holy man about died and ascended to heaven when he felt your tits on his chest and your lips on his neck simultaneously. Your nipples were hard, enough so he felt them drag over his exposed skin when you arched your back and left bruises at his jaw.

Being so focused on your lips, Joe had lost track of your hands. His were on your ass, groping and kneading with silent adoration, but yours had moved from mussing his hair to tugging at his briefs. The man gasped when your hips left his and then, with a swift and sudden motion, his underwear was yanked down and you giggled. Joe, however, did not giggle. The exposure was shocking and the cold was unwelcome, making his cock twitch and sending a shiver up his spine. It was in this moment that Joe finally took in your image, the bite of the cold shaking him from his focus on just how you felt.

All his other senses were hazy and the man of the Lord was overwhelmed. You were glowing. Your hair was feathered and voluptuous. Your skin was velveteen and your body belonged in a temple, deserving of an altar and endless worship. He would have sworn he witnessed a halo form around you as well, a golden line connecting one shoulder to the other in a shining arch. Your smile was soft and distracting, but his gaze persisted down your body full of admiration and curiosity. Your chest was supple and your stomach plush, just like your hips and thighs, all there for him to appreciate.

He sat up to improve his view, allowing himself to be in much closer proximity to you, able now to bask in your scent, sweet and innocent. Then he laid his larger hands on your breasts for the first time. He was almost worried the metal of his rings would surprise you, being cold on your hot skin, but you had no reaction. Kneading with slow gentle movements, he slid his thumb just barely over your nipples, hard and sensitive for him.

Somewhere in the back of his throat, a question was lost, a search for approval that got stuck on its way out, but it didn’t seem to matter as your constant blissful smile was encouraging enough. He didn’t question any of it.

Quiet hums vibrated in your throat and your half-lidded gaze motivated the priest to feel more of your body, squeezing at your waist and ass again and leaning forward to drop unpracticed kisses to the valley of your chest. You laced your fingers in the back of his hair, cradling his skull and holding him to your skin, but when his thumb brushed over your clit, you stopped him. His wrist was caught in your grip in a quick and unexpected move that stopped him from further touching you.

His breath hitched, fearing he’d done something wrong with the way your eyes bore into him, cutting through the silence and bringing him to the reality of what you were doing. Joe felt like he could only inhale, nothing coming out when he tried to push his breath away. He swallowed dryly and your expression softened ever so slightly, dropping his hand to instead wrap your digits around his cock and maneuver it to swipe between your folds. The wetness gathered in your sex and on his tip made for easy entry as you lowered yourself slowly, lashes fluttering and mouth falling open. The man choked on a protest but swallowed it with a moan when his head was sheathed in you, warm and tight and ideal.

Joe couldn't focus on anything. It was all happening so fast for him, a blur of skin and sweat. You bounced on him expertly and he fell limp at your abilities, a sputtering mess as your buoyant tits mesmerized him. Your hot, heavy breaths rained down on him and showered him with increased want, but he was unable to act upon it, struck dumb by a higher force, and that force was the look you gave him, accompanied by a breathy sigh and a smile when you settled fully on his shaft. He hadn’t realized but he had been holding his breath as you rose slid down him again, audibly slick and aroused. At that moment, the world vanished from around him, all fuzz and static, and all he knew was you and the way you felt, sleeved around him perfectly, undulating and flexing with an ever subtle thrust of his, impulsive and quick, needy and natural.

Your speed increased suddenly though, and the priest, barely holding on as it was, couldn’t contain himself. Speaking in tongues of love, he groped at you, searching for an anchor to his physical form as an ethereal feeling washed over him, his orgasm imminent and monumental. It was an out of body experience for the servant of the Lord, greater than any religious bliss he’d yet to experience. He could see himself beneath you, his face contorted as yours glowed with elation and he came inside you. He could feel you pulsing around him and heavenly choirs invaded his ears, the stimulation shrouding him in your presence.

What occurred next was warped and surreal. He was still inside you, coming down but still hard and you were still smiling but the air turned sinister and smelled suddenly not of your scent but of sulfur and lavender. You turned into a shadow over him, no longer a source of light, but rather the opposite; a source of darkness. That’s when your skin began to slip from its place on your skull. Melting like wax, he thought, but his comparison was wrong, so wrong because there were no hot drips hitting his stomach and your hands didn’t begin to pool at his bellybutton. No, instead your soft hands turned to leather and the familiar spots of discoloration and sun exposure began to blossom across your shoulders and chest. He could see your veins, one by one, rise up on your skin on your straining legs. Your breasts sagged and your stomach folded over. Your smile went wider as your lips thinned and eye crinkled, every line on your face growing deeper until he felt the first wisps of your fading white hair fall on his legs. Your nails began to dig into his lower stomach as they grew and then he fell the first few cold objects hit his heated skin. One by one, two by two, teeth, rotted black and yellow, bounced off his chest when you leaned forward.

Joe wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. Maybe he was already, he couldn't tell. By now he assumed his vocal chord had been removed sometime in the night because, still, nothing came out. He tried, he forced all the air in his lungs out his tense lips like a coastal storm blowing in. He was the winds and the waves and the crashing sounds of ocean on rock and sand as he struggled to break free from the growing weight of the body still on top of him, still around him; shaking, twisting, tears streaming down his red face. You were death holding him down, boney legged and saggy skinned, every part of you being pulled with more strength every second towards your home in hell. He didn’t know what to do with his hands so they flailed at his sides as yours slid up his body with the same disturbing gummy, black smile looming over him and all he wanted at that moment was for it all to stop and disappear.

The sweat on his forehead rolled down the sides of his face and collided with the tears that were apparently seeping down his cheeks as well. The tears were hot and the sweat was cold and Joe’s entire face felt numb and damp, and it was. His whole body was. His undershirt was soaked through and his neck shiny and dotted with perspiration. He shot up out of bed, sitting upright with wide eyes as he shook as he frantically assessed his surroundings. The desk was still messy, his journal still out, the lamp was off, the window closed and the door locked. Fear still seeped through his bloodstream and ran from his face to his toes. It was electric emotion that coursed through his body, one that he couldn’t shake and that left his hair standing on end. It was deep beneath is skin, a nestled sense of discomfort. No amount of his unconscious physical shakes could rid himself of it.

He rocked back and forth on his bed for a while, the images of his dream never leaving his head, haunting him like some cliche victorian ghost. His tremors subsided but he wouldn’t be going back to sleep that not, not after that. The drastic shift had gouged a wedge in his heart, one that was now filled with questions and doubts, second thoughts. The fire in his loins burned brighter and hotter and blacker, smoke rising from it in dangerous, polluting amounts.

Upon the onset of further physical discomfort in the form of a cold patch on his briefs, he opted to spend the rest of his night in the shower, not only washing the shameful premature ejaculate from his underwear, but also his dream from his body, the dream he could only assume was a punishment for his earlier sinful thoughts. On one hand, he was washing her touch away, her soft, sweet, innocent touch that couldn’t be wrong, but on the other hand, the abomination that she’d been warped into left a film over him that didn’t seem to wash off.

Joe believed in signs and symbols. He believed that God spoke to you in natural ways, every day. The advertisement on the bus next to you at that red light this morning or the constant re-emergence of one specific suggestion throughout your day, seeing the same person everywhere you went, it was a message from God. “There are no such things as accidents or coincidences,” he preaches, “everything here God has preordained. It is predestined and meant to be.” He thought of her, meeting her and her timing. “Trust that this is the Lord’s will.”

This must be a sign. He thought of all the examples of prophetic dreams in the Bible, all the times the Lord has used this outlet to speak to his servants. Joseph, Jacob, Daniel, Solomon, Nebuchadnezzar- But what did it mean this time? The object of his unsanctioned affection decaying on top of his, immediately post-coitus. It scared him, the implications of it, but it also scared him that he had the dream at all, if he was honest. It was intense. Not only was it erotic, but also scarring. What did it mean for him and his faith? Part of him wanted to brush it aside and ignore any allusions his subconscious was trying to get to him. He wanted to, for once, turn to science to deny the religious answers to his issue, telling himself it was just a projection of some kind of worry, but that would mean he would have to admit to himself he was worried about her, around her, because of her. He would have to acknowledge the effect she had on him and he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t give in to this moment of weakness, so instead he scrubbed his soiled underpants at three in the morning and tried to wash the nightmare from his mind with Shout and bar shampoo, ignoring the heavy dread building in his chest as the hours counted down to Sunday morning, when he would face his congregation of elders and one woman he couldn’t ban from his mind if he wanted to.

He fell asleep at approximately 4:30 in the morning, face flat on the side of his tub, one hand caked in dried soap and the other clinging desperately to his still clearly stained boxer briefs. He didn’t dream this time, and for the first time he was ever aware of it, he was grateful he didn’t.

[ubeb0nes]

Chap. 1 of CONTRACT KILLER: Oc x Natasha Romanoff

I’m pretty sure this is gonna be the first fanfic I’ve ever posted, and I’m honestly wondering why it had to be one about everyone’s favorite insanely hot ginger (not complaining tho). 

This story isn’t meant to take itself too seriously. This first chap. is a bit of a slow start, but their relationship will get off the ground quickly from here, so don’t worry. Thank u, and enjoy! :P

Word Count: 2274

Summary: Jean Holiday is a paid mercenary known as Indigo. Or, in some other cases, ‘SHIELD’s Biggest Pain in the Ass’. And by extension of that, she’s Agent Natasha Romanoff’s biggest pain in the ass. 

Although she knows Romanoff is the last enemy she should be fraternizing with, Jean can’t help but to want to get to know her when she catches her at a bar. Romanoff, ignorant to the fact that this charming stranger is actually one of her most begrudged targets, slowly starts to let her into her life.

---Holiday Season---

Takes place a year before the events of 'The Avengers' in 2008.

---

"Agent Romanoff," Coulson greeted the assassin as the doors slid open, and in walked SHIELD's best. He'd called her early this morning, so there'd be less people to get in her way once she was released and sent off. After all, she'd need as much time for preparation as she could get for this next mission. 

"Coulson," Natasha replied with a nod, "So. Who is it today?" The assassin crossed her arms over her chest and flitted between Coulson and the hologram board. With an echoey click, an all too familiar masked face popped up on the screen. 

The Black Widow found herself staring down a black mask and golden-rimmed glasses that hid eyes that twinkled with amusement. It was a bit of a messy photo, since they'd only been able to capture it through Natasha's body cam on her last go-around with the target. 

Natasha let out a groan, and rolled her eyes. The source behind most of her headaches, and all three of her only failed missions' name was splayed offensively across the top of the board. 

Indigo. A mercenary for hire. There hadn't been a hit of her's anyone had managed to intervene. Due to such, she was officially one of SHIELD's most consistent and colossal pains in the ass. 

"How long have we been after her?" She asked. 

"Going on three years," Coulson replied, pursing his lips, "But our boys think they got an inkling on her. Her next target should be," the screen switched to a picture of a man, "James Wagner. The senator of Florida. You're familiar?" 

Natasha nodded. "Weren't there rape charges pressed against him just last year?" She recalled. 

"Correct. But they were dropped," Coulson replied, watching as the gears in Natasha's head turned. "Interesting, isn't it? None of Indigo's targets have hands bare of any blood. Allegedly, at least." Coulson took a file from the glass table and held it out to the assassin. 

"Allegedly," Natasha repeated as she started to skim through the folder. "Well, would you look at that," she drawled, "We know absolutely nothing more about her than we did three years ago." 

"Well, we did finally figure out she was female last year," Coulson said with a sardonic smile. 

Natasha snorted. "You finally figured out she was a female, Coulson," she said as she closed the folder. 

"Whatever," he quickly dismissed, "Anyways. Feel free to use whatever means that are necessary. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter." Coulson leaned forward and opened his mouth like he wanted to go on, but stopped himself short. 

Natasha raised a brow slowly. "And…?"

"I'd prefer her alive," Coulson said. 

"Of course you would."

"Look, it's your call. But you don't know. We might have another Black Widow on our hands," he said, smiling and giving her the 'huh, huh?' hand gesture like a car salesman. 

"In that case, guess I have to kill her," Natasha replied with a crooked smile, tucking the file away. No discount versions of herself would be crawling around SHIELD HQ. Not on her watch. "See you when I get back, Coulson."

"Be careful out there, Romanoff. And good luck."

---

The crowd was big enough that I was well-hidden, but not so large that I couldn't make my escape. Wagner was wrapping up his speech now, smiling and waving at his "fans" as he started down the steps. He'd just made another one of his empty promises to the state of Florida, calling for support and unity. Whether or not he intended to keep it this time around, nobody would ever know. 

Ten bodyguards surrounded him. My client had told me to use any means necessary to reach Wagner, but the bodyguards weren't the ones raping underage girls (hopefully). I'd already made a plan beforehand, and quickly went over it as Wagner and his guards neared the side of the parted crowd I was standing on. 

I suddenly became very aware of the knife in my jacket and the volatile smoke bombs tucked in my sleeve. They weighed heavily on my being, as if the objects of my assassination themselves were telling me to back off. Something was wrong. Someone who wasn't supposed to be here was here. 

It almost felt like I was the prey. 

But Wagner's eyes meeting mine snatched me from my doubts. I'd already pulled my mask and hood up, and assumed the identity of a killer. And he wasn't so stupid as to not recognize that. 

Wagner's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to scream Bloody Mary at his bodyguards. I darted out from within the folds of the crowd, and threw the smoke bombs down. 

Enough smoke to obscure the entire block went up, and I flipped the fog vision of my glasses on. 

Screaming came from all directions, and the crowd turned near animalistic as it started to stampede away, all of them trying to escape the danger that the persona of Indigo could bring. 

The bodyguards yelled for Wagner and flailed around uselessly. I prowled up to one of them, and pulled him into a chokehold from behind. His body started to shake and jump, like his soul was trying to make its escape without the rest of him as he suffocated in silence. 

"Sorry, friend. Guess you're taking a pay cut," I whispered to him as I lowered his now-unconscious body to the ground. 

I made quick, methodical work of the rest of them in a similar fashion. The panic amongst them as their numbers dwindled steadily rose, and their yells for anyone who could hear them became more desperate as comrades were formulaically silenced. 

Now standing in the middle of the sea of burly bodies in fetal positions was Wagner himself. I didn't bother to quiet my footsteps now, and watched with a smile as he jumped away from the sound. 

"Thought you'd be running by now," I said, unsheathing my knife and letting that unmistakable sound of its reveal ring in the air. 

"Leave me alone!" Wagner screeched, "Leave me alone, you hear me?! You ruined my goddamn speech! You goddamn- ugh…!"

My curved blade had shot out from the smoke and found Wagner's chest. I put a hand on Wagner's shoulder like you would an old friend, and pulled him closer to me, and further up on the blade.

"Ugh…!" 

I clicked my tongue and shook my head. "Shouldn't have touched the girl, James," I whispered. I let the hilt of the blade go as Wagner's eyes went wide at the realization of why his fate had been sealed, and his body went limp with that final revelation. His body hit the ground with a 'thud', as heavy and unfeeling as he'd been in life. 

The assassination was complete. But the mission wouldn't be over until I'd completely evaded the law. 

I checked my watch. The smoke wouldn't completely lift for another minute or two. But there were advanced units around with fog vision goggles. I could make my way to the safe house without being followed, so long as I acted qui-

"There you are," a woman's gritty voice said behind me. Like a church hymn, I knew it immediately. 

Romanoff. 

I grinned underneath my mask. Of all the dogs SHIELD sent my way, she was always the best. No doubt, she'd force me to make a few changes to my escape plan. But if it meant a good spar, I was down. 

"It's been a minute, Romanoff," I said. Instead of a verbal reply, I got two gunshots sent my way. She could see me. 

I slipped my head to the side and watched the bullets whizz by, then turned to face Agent Romanoff. The smoke seemed to part for her as she launched herself at me, all red fury and SHIELD discipline. 

“I’m ready to finally settle the score if you are,” she said, a shadow of a smirk on her face, almost like she was having just as much fun as me. 

I made a face beneath my mask. “You’re down three, Agent,” I said in the tone you used with an idiotic little sibling. 

Her leg slammed into my arm as I blocked what could've been a rib-breaker. I shoved her back so the smoke enveloped her, but she bounced right back forward at me, not missing a beat. She whipped her leg out twice, beating down on my defense with full abandon. 

Every kick she sent my way was like a piston slamming into my body. Mechanical. Unfeeling. Sometimes it didn't matter if I blocked it, it still hurt like hell. 

“C’mon, you got anything new?” I asked as I ducked and weaved around her kicks and punches. 

Agent Romanoff took a break for herself after another kick only hit air, while I danced around like we were in a boxing match instead of a real-life fight. “You talk a lot,” she huffed in between ragged breaths. 

“Just trying to catch up with an old friend,” I said, raising my hands placatingly. 

“Ew.”

I heard the tell-tale sign of a gun being cocked, and weaved around three bullets as they made their way towards me. Black Widow soon followed after the bullets, coming for my neck with all the means to kill. 

I grunted and then chuckled as she kicked me squarely in the stomach, making me stagger back a good several feet. My breakfast nearly came up right then. 

The onslaught paused. "Surrender now, and I won't kill you," she warned. A red light flashed before my eyes, and I found a laser dot resting on my chest. 

"You know, that’s more of a friendly greeting to me nowadays," I said. She pulled the trigger in reply. I darted out of the way. But instead of the explosive bullet I expected, the projectile expanded into an electrical net. I guess she figured out by now that bullets to me were a drunk man's swings to Muhammad Ali. 

"Shit," I growled as I watched it expand, and pulled the wakizashi off my back to cut through it just in time to save my ass. 

But I didn't get away from it completely unscathed, as one of the energized ends of the net still brushed against the exposed skin on my wrist. My heart seemed to launch itself around my chest cavity, beating sporadically as I cried out to maintain myself. 

I threw the net away with a sweep of my short sword, and tried to regulate my heartbeat again. But Agent Romanoff wasn't about to allow me that convenience. 

A flash of black and red flew through the air, coming for my neck. A pair of legs wrapped around me, and started to squeeze the ever-living fuck out of my throat. I grasped at them with a desperate gasp, and made the mistake of dropping my sword. A thin, but solid cord joined Romanoff's legs, which she wrapped around my neck and pulled. My vision went dark at the ends, and I could feel that real, raw fight or flight instinct starting to creep up. I grabbed and clawed at her legs uselessly, and muttered out several, “shit, shit, shit”s. 

“You gonna tap?” Agent Romanoff taunted, as if me tapping would bring mercy. I choked out a muffled “fuck you” against the kevlar and leather of her suit. 

Not gonna lie, suffocating between Black Widow's thighs wouldn't have been a terrible way to go out. But I was determined to get that paycheck I was promised. 

I felt Agent Romanoff yank me around as she tried to slam me into the ground, where I'd all but have my fate sealed if it were to happen. With a laboring burst of strength, I let out a growl and reared back, then slammed Romanoff into the ground. I heard her wheeze as the wind completely exited her body. 

In a moment of weakness not unlike my own, Romanoff was completely open to a killing strike as she struggled for air. I didn't give her any grace, instead closing my fingers around her throat. As her eyes widened and she grasped at my hand, I unsheathed the knife in my left hand, where it sat dangerously close to Romanoff's right side. 

"I really should kill you," I said in a tone that was more for asking what she wanted for dinner than threatening homicide.

Even as she stared one of death's finest agents in the face, her blood dribbling down her forehead and drops of mine landing on her brow, Agent Romanoff remained defiant. Emerald green eyes narrowed and glared harshly at me. 

"Then do it."

I shook my head, the decision made before I’d even said anything. 

In one swift movement, I flipped my knife around and jabbed her twice with the hilt, right in her liver. Even the world's best assassin couldn't go against her body. And the body wasn't going to get up after a liver shot. 

I stood up and watched as Agent Romanoff cried out, then folded in on herself from the pain. 

"Anticlimactic, huh?" I said as I twirled my knife twice before sheathing it, "That was fun, Agent Romanoff. I'll see you next time." She replied with a pained groan, and continued to writhe on the ground amongst the bodyguards I’d taken out before. 

And with that, I hastily made my escape. I could hear the law approaching now, but once they got here, all they'd find was a bruised and defeated Black Widow. 

The score was now Natasha Romanoff: 0, and Jean Holiday: 4.

[delicrieux]

the phases of a firework

pairing: fred weasley x f!reader

fandom: harry potter

summary: fred weasley experiences the lana del rey-esque american dream 

d’s note: not written by me, but rather by a lovely nonnie! it’s a honor to post it xoxo leave some love in the comments! 

-------

I. Lifting Charge

Mother says they’re going to Florida for the summer. Florida means mosquitos, and sunburns, and salty skin and hair and breath because yes, Florida is a fucking cesspool, but for some reason, he doesn’t find himself thinking of any of that and is actually, really when you think about it, kind of calm. Everyone in the household finds this alarming. -“You’re not upset?” -“No.” -“Disappointed?” -“Not really.” -“Dad’s got a cousin in the Keys, that’s why we’re going.” -“Sounds like it’ll be nice.” -“We went to Egypt, you know, like, saw the pyramids and everything.” -“We can make sand pyramids.” But Florida doesn’t have sand. It doesn’t have beaches, either, at least not the part they could afford, because Molly and Arthur Weasley had scraped together everything to get that trip, because the kids didn’t need to know that it was possibly the last time they could leave the Burrow for a summer, because things weren’t safe at home and maybe a temporary home could suffice for a while. They didn’t need to think about the fact that people would die, statistically speaking, people they probably knew, and the kids didn’t need to worry or ask questions or complain, and they didn’t, because all they could afford was a trailer, enchanted, yes, but not exactly a condo, but you know what, no one really paid it any mind. Everyone was quiet, actually, and Molly and Arthur Weasley gripped their trunks and asked themselves how they thought they could hide a war under a swimming suit.

II. Time Delay Fuse

It’s not that it’s hot out, it’s just that balding grass patches and What Type of Blue Even is That sky doesn’t attract many, or really anyone at all. Ginny is on her side of the bunker, writing letters to friends, or maybe no one, just herself. Ron has been napping since they hopped off the portkey, Percy didn’t bother to come, and the parents are off doing parent-y things. George is who’s left, and that’s never a problem, but he’s worried about sunburns, and Fred assures him mate, we’ve got sunblock but it isn’t enough, and that’s why he’s sitting by himself in a lawn chair, Wayfarers resting on a sweating nose, and Johnny Thunder’s playing in a distant trailer and world. It’s oddly therapeutic, the bottom of the classes. There’s no worries, no cares, it’s like retirement but better because there’s no one they know anywhere around, and everything is finally kind of calm. He finds that alarming. -“You like fireworks?” It’s a nasal, chirpy sort of a voice she has. Like an alarm. An alarm goes off in him, not anything bad, just the inner male siren that blares and rings and screams Girl! Girl! Girl! He smiles to himself, thinking about the gargling sort of noise that would make when spoken aloud. George would’ve found it funny. -“Hello?” -“Sorry?” -“Fireworks. You good with them?” He doesn’t know why he’s nodding, maybe it’s because her hair shines that weird, oil gas spilled on a pavement colour, or maybe it’s because she’s standing there, expecting him to go, and who is he to disappoint, and he finds himself leaving the security of the lawn chair and following her up and into the empty part of the balding grass field. It takes half a day and three bottles of what the fuck is this anyway and they’ve managed to set up the perfect show. It’s the fourth of July, American Independence Day, yet it feels like everyone in the park is shackled.

III. Bursting Charge

He’s proud, drunk, and finding himself patriotic for a country he’s spent barely seven hours in. He’s had too much of Swamp Juice, that’s what she calls it, the mixture of Fanta and Bourbon, and the bottom of his stomach is twinkling and tingling, like there are mini little bombs going off in his gut. She says it’s a normal feeling, but he’s not too sure about that. He’s had liquor, of course he has, and one could consider him a sommelier, of sorts, in the way teenagers often pride themselves on knowledge of Grown Up Things. One of his favourite memories are when he and George broke into the liquor cabinet and stayed up till six in the morning downing bottle after bottle of gigglewater. Their stomach hurt, cramped, and their eyes were dried, but it was a night he’d cherish to the grave. But that wasn’t the same feeling. That was what it meant to be drunk and happy, happy that you’re drunk and drunk enough to be happy, but this, the sinking yet soaring and bubbling and fizzling sort of brew in his gut wasn’t that at all, and he’d heard Charlie mention a year back about some guy he’d met that bred some creature he couldn’t remember the name of at the moment. Charlie’d said it was indistinguishable, a feeling you get once or twice. Fred didn’t believe in soulmates, and he didn’t know if he really believed in being in love. It was a dangerous thought to have in a time as dangerous as these, but it wasn’t as if he cared all that much about the danger of things. -“You gonna dance?” She had her hand stretched out to his, hip cocked and lip quirked, and maybe it was the way the fireworks danced behind her shoulders. She was metallic nail polish and Disney World flip flops, two dollar tube tops and stolen hair ties, but she was smiling at him through a Cherry Coca Cola flavoured lip gloss grin, and who is he to disappoint, so he’s standing, swaying, dancing along to the sound of cracking and popping and booms, and he may have snuck in an enchanted firework or two, and the crowd is cheering and smiling and just nearly crying, and so is he when she leans in for a kiss. They’re proud, drunk, and Fred decides that Cherry Coca Cola is the greatest drink in the world.

IV. Stars

The summer stays hot, in every way possible. They spend afternoons melting ice cubes on each others backs and smoking cheap hash on the roof of her mobile home. He learns her parents are dead. She learns his aren’t. He doesn’t invite her to meet the family, but she, in a way, invites herself, and Molly and Arthur are absolutely ashamed when they find out that Fred didn’t immediately bring over the poor girl, look at her, she’s far too skinny. Ginny, dear, put on a kettle and a warm meal, she’s positively gaunt! She finds it amusing. She has dinner that night in the Weasley vacation trailer, and every night after it, too. Fred doesn’t mind. Some nights, he sneaks to her place and they read travel maps, planning future road trips to Nevada and eating Quaker Oats by the handful. She looks at the stars, he looks at her, it’s all very cliche, including her admiration for his super cool accent. He finds it amusing. -“So, what’s gonna happen when summer ends?” -“Whatya mean?” She huffs her smoke, a sign he’s familiar with. She’s frustrated but calm. Patient, but not for long. -“I mean, what’s gonna happen to you? To us? You’ve got school, yeah, but after, I mean, like, I don’t wanna jump to conclusions or anything but-” -“I like you.” -“I like you, too.” -“And I like hanging out with you.” The light in her joint goes out, and it matches the light in her eyes. -“So that’s it then.” - “I’ve just, I mean, there’s a lot going on back at home and, really, I don’t wanna drag you into it.” -“Yeah.” -“There’s a lot, really, there is, and I just wouldn’t want to-” -“No, yeah, it’s fine. I get it.” It takes him a few days, and a few talks with George, but it’s three in the morning and he’s had some liquid luck and he’s knocking on her door in Tommy Bahama shorts and a Life is Good shirt and he’s pretty sure he should’ve put deodorant on and spent more than two-fifty on the gesture but- -“It’s three in the fucking morning, Freddie. Either I’m about to die or you’re about to die, and neither option is really good, so what the fuck-” -“Marry me.” She stops talking, and breathing, and she’s about to laugh until he holds up a plastic little Made in China ring he got at one of those machines in the front of the supermarket, and it probably doesn’t even fit her, but all she can really think is thank God it’s not a damn Ring Pop. -“Are you fucking kidding me, red?” -“I don’t mean today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. I mean that when that thing going on is over, and when I’m out of school and ready to live life, I wanna live it with you. We could get a bigger trailer, or maybe an RV, and we could ride around America and, and collect special fireworks from around the world. We could have a kid or two, and they could live with us, or maybe we’d just start out with a dog, I don’t know, all I know is I wanna live my life like it’s a never-ending summer with you.” She’s not sure now if she’s laughing or tearing up, either is pathetic, but she crosses her arms over her Betty Boop pajama top and decides to find this adolescent adoration somehow sweet. - “What colour RV are you thinking?” - “Red.”

V. Ash

It’s in the form of a letter, and in a way, that’s better than a call, because then they couldn’t hear her sobbing on the other end. She doesn’t really know why she’s crying. They hadn’t spoken in years. They were sixteen and stupid, as all sixteen year olds are, but the worst part is believing in that sixteen year old dream and thinking the flame was still lit. She couldn’t blame it on her age anymore. She was just stupid. She stares at the paper, passed away, as if that was a better way of phrasing it instead of just saying dead. She can’t be too horribly upset. As far as she was concerned, he’d been dead for four years. Four years. Fuck. He was four, already. -“Where are we headed?” -“I dunno. Nevada?” -“Cool.” He’s got his hand stuffed in a Quaker Oats box, and she finds hers traveling to the two-fifty Made in China ring she keeps on her neck. She’ll tell Molly and Arthur someday soon, maybe once they hit Oregon, she’s not ready for England winters, because right now, life is red. Red with pain and anger, yeah, but also with love, and with red hair, and red lips, and red Cola, and red American fireworks, and red rings, and flip flops, and RVs, and yes, life fucking sucks and war fucking sucks and everything nowadays should be really very alarming, but when she sits back in the driver seat, travel maps sprawled and a four year old in a faded Life is Good shirt sitting in the passenger seat, she finds that life is actually, really when you think about it, kind of calm.

[anneapocalypse]

[RvB 17.11] Stagnation

FIRST Spoilers

In isolation, Carolina’s Labyrinth scene was not out of character or inconsistent or objectively bad; however, cumulatively it is emblematic of the stagnation in Carolina’s writing since season 13. It undeniably resonates with viewers—but I deeply dislike what it represents and I’m going to talk about why.

So to begin, and to try and give this episode a fair shake, here’s what was good about Carolina in the Labyrinth.

Jen Brown kills it as always. It is no mystery that this scene resonates with people. There is a lot of emotion in it and Jen is a fantastic voice actor who always digs deep and does the best possible work with what she is given. Better than what she is given, in many cases.

Carolina’s self-hatred is, I think, evident in her character as far back as season 10 if you look at all beneath the surface level. I’ve said before that her actions make a lot more sense when viewed through that lens than if you look at her as simply competitive, and at this point I don’t think that’s a particularly radical statement. That self-loathing is given a particularly raw and painful manifestation here.

Carolina’s encounter is also the most on-the-nose representation of what the Labyrinth actually does: it seizes upon a person’s most negative emotions and reflects them again and again, further distorting them each time, until its victim succumbs to despair. The explicit, stated function of the Labyrinth is to drive its victims to suicide, which is dark even for this show. But given that function, it makes sense that the Labyrinth would seize upon the root of Carolina’s most self-destructive impulses.

I would also like to propose a theory that probably wasn’t authorial intent but which I think makes this whole thing read… if not well, at least better. It is already obvious to fans of Carolina that the Labyrinth’s representation of Freelancer Carolina isn’t truly her, and does not accurately represent what she was like in Freelancer. Others have said as much. But I would argue that “present” Carolina isn’t truly herself here either, because she both is not how past Carolina describes her, and says things about her past self that are untrue. Neither of them are real. The real Carolina is an observer in this scene, as we are, and the Labyrinth is subjecting her to two distorted versions of herself, both of them speaking lies.

Like I said, this probably wasn’t the intent, but it’s the only way this scene even begins to work.

Which is a pretty good segue into how it doesn’t.

“I feel so much rage when I look at you,” Carolina says to her past self. “You know that? You prioritize yourself over everything. You’re going to get people killed. Heck, you’re going to kill people. And they won’t always deserve it. Dad won’t love you more if you keep winning. He can’t. He died when Mom died. And you’ll bury him. Your competitive streak stops. I’m demanding it.”

“Oh,” says past Carolina, “you’re done? Okay. You got pretty talkative! No need for the lecture. I can read your whole shitty life from your whiny tone of voice.”

“Oh, you think you’re so—”

“Directionless? Scared? No. No, actually I—” Past Carolina laughs viciously. “I feel great. Weird to hear all that from you, though. Let me unpack this. You’ve now tasted defeat, I’m assuming, and you were—aw, sad? For a while?” Her tone grows taunting. “And you want people around as crutches in case you trip again. When have I ever—think about it!—ever allied with someone I didn’t need? A friend in a high place. A bolt hole. A wing man. To forget how to utilize people is to forget yourself. Forget me. And frankly, that’d be damning enough, but you went further. Carolina, you stripped away what comes without thought. What’s instinctual. Your passion. What greater betrayal is there? You’re not you anymore.”

So let’s unpack this. First of all, how much of what the two Carolinas say is true?

It’s worth noting that it’s present Carolina who immediately goes on the offensive here, spitting venom at the image of her past self before that image has even spoken. And the things she says… “You’re going to get people killed. You’re going to kill people.”

So what is she talking about? Who did Carolina get killed by being competitive? Who did she kill?

If she’s talking about enemy targets that weren’t who she believed they were… I mean, yeah, they didn’t deserve it, but Carolina was acting as a soldier under orders and her being less competitive wouldn’t make those any less her orders.

Is she talking about the other Freelancers? Because… Carolina didn’t get them killed. North, South, York, Wyoming, Florida—none of them were killed by or because of Carolina’s competitiveness. The only one you could really ascribe to her actions is Maine, and there is a case to be made that Carolina gave up Sigma as much to prove she didn’t need an AI as to help Maine after his injury—but that act was based on such incomplete knowledge that to call it a direct result of Carolina’s competitiveness is a stretch. Furthermore, this argument always seems to ignore the fact that if Maine hadn’t gotten Sigma, someone else would have, and while we don’t know how Sigma might have behaved with a different host, it’s hard to imagine it ending without casualties regardless.

Are we talking about Biff? Because… we’ve been over this, but Carolina didn’t kill Biff, and Biff also didn’t die because Carolina was competitive. Biff’s death was an accident; even Tex, who threw the flagpole Carolina deflected, wasn’t intentionally aiming at Biff, though it does seem like she (or someone else inside that helmet, more likely) must have realized she was throwing it with lethal force. Had Carolina been less determined to win that particular match, there’s no reason to assume Tex (and Omega) would’ve dialed back their own aggression.

We also have evidence from other bits of canon that sim trooper deaths during training exercises were disturbingly common within Project Freelancer—a fact not one of the agents, not even Good Guy Do the Right Thing York, are ever shown objecting to.

Let’s look at what past!Carolina says about herself. 

“When have I ever—think about it!—ever allied with someone I didn’t need?”

CT.

CT.

You know, that person everyone forgets about when they’re trying to make a case for Carolina being purely self-serving.

I wrote about this one a long time, ago, but for a refresher: the first time we ever see Carolina question the Director’s orders is when he says that CT is an “acceptable loss.” Carolina embarks on that mission with full intent to disregard that order and try to bring CT in alive, despite that fact that doing so will be far more difficult and offers her no personal gain whatsoever and in fact results in her failing the mission. And while Carolina’s motives in the briefing with the Director may be subtle, her intent on the mission itself is not. The first thing she does upon catching up to Tex is to remind her that they only need the armor. And when she tries to pull Tex back from the killing blow, she explicitly, verbally, objects to Tex killing CT, and even knowing that they have failed the mission and that she will take the blame, Carolina still chastises Tex for what she’s done. This is not just subtext. This is text.

And this is not the only instance of Carolina caring about her teammates. The haste with which she calls for medics when York is injured in training, the offer on the Sarcophagus mission to come to Team B’s aid instead of going after their objective, the “No!” she screams out when Maine gets shot—none of these are the behaviors of a person who is only out for herself at everyone else’s expense.

Freelancer Carolina is not characterized as a ruthless lone wolf who disregards her teammates except when they can benefit her. Not matter how much certain corners of the fandom prefer to read her that way.

But all right. It’s the Labyrinth. It’s a distortion. It’s not supposed to be real. It’s amplifying Carolina’s worst feelings about herself.

Still, that distortion is meant to be reflective of something real. It certainly seems to be so for other characters.

So which of the above would Carolina likely blame herself for?

Well… we actually have canon on how Carolina feels about most of the above.

In season 13, Carolina apologizes to Sharkface for what she and her team did to his squad. “I’m sorry,” she says. “We were on one side of the fight, and you were on the other. We thought we were the good guys. I’m sorry.”

Let’s unpack that for a hot second. In this short line, Carolina:

expresses genuine remorse for what she took part in.

acknowledges that she acted on false information, and by extension, that not everything was her fault.

Season 13 Carolina knew that not everything was her fault.

Let’s go back even further.

In present day season 10, Carolina has a couple of vulnerable moments in which she states her motivations outright. And a large source of that motivation for getting revenge on the Director is the suffering and death of her teammates. She tells Epsilon:

Church, the Director's still out there somewhere. And I need to find him. Not just for what he did to me, but for what he did to York, and to Wash, to Maine, the twins, to all of them.

Even earlier in season 10, when Carolina stands with Wash inside the wind power facility, she says, “Poor Maine,” expressing sorrow over what happened to her teammate. When Wash says, “Carolina, it wasn’t your fault,” she says, “But it was my AI.” There is regret here, obviously, and I think in that statement in particular is no small trace of survivor’s guilt. Carolina knows full well that had she not given Sigma to Maine, the Meta might well have been her.

But that’s not all she says. She goes on voice her suspicions that the Director, at the very least, could have been aware of the dangers of the implantations. That he acted recklessly in his “little experiments.” She places that blame where it’s due.

My point is that even as far back as season 10, Carolina is capable of identifying culpability that was not her own, without outright denying or handwaving her part in it. There’s a balance in what she says there, when she talks about Freelancer. She blames the Director for his part in it, while also feeling the weight of her own involvement.

As for Biff… we can’t know how Carolina feels about that now, because Joe decided it wasn’t important for her to be told onscreen why Temple hated her, so we didn’t get to see a reaction. But we already have a part of Carolina’s arc in which she comes to see sim troopers as people, as friends, and then as family, and based on how she speaks of other parts of her past, it’s hard to imagine she would brush it off.

But Biff’s death is also a part of this arc, and Carolina’s part in the plot of season 15 sets a precedent for how she will be treated for the rest of this storyline.

What about that final accusation: "You're not you anymore."

Is this a real fear that Carolina has in the present? I mean, it could be, but it's not something she's expressed since, arguably, season 13, and even then, Carolina's fear that letting her guard down will get everyone she loves killed doesn't really resemble past Carolina's claim that she's lost the self-serving passion that made her who she was. This doesn’t reflect an expressed fear relevant to any of Carolina’s recent conflicts.

If it reflects something real, it's news to us.

I can accept that the Labyrinth is meant to take the worst things Carolina thinks about herself in her worst and darkest moments and amplify and distort them beyond even that. I’m personally not a fan of plot devices that allow writers to kind of throw characterization at the wall and then say it was bad on purpose. But okay, given the mechanics of this plot device as it’s been established—fine. It’s supposed to be over the top.

All right.

But what I just described isn’t character development.

It’s just putting the characters through an Angst Machine. You notice we’ve had a lot of that lately?

Let’s go back to Chorus again. Let’s look at the plot device this one is ripping off the True Warrior test. Still not my favorite McGuffin ever, but at least the portal on Chorus showed the characters something real. And for multiple characters, including Carolina and also Locus, what they saw in the portal drove some kind of character growth for them.

Because it was, on some level, real.

What is there for Carolina to learn from this experience that she hasn’t learned already—in past seasons and previous arcs which both Joe and Jason seem determined to ignore?

Carolina’s character development since season 13 has stagnated.

In the same way that this arc overall has resorted to recycling character and story beats from past seasons, Carolina’s writing in particular has sunk into a rut.

Season 13 gave Carolina a meaningful mini-arc in which her past came back to haunt her in the form of Sharkface, and collided with her fears of failure and loss in the present. This drove real growth and meaningful change for Carolina as she struggled to avoid falling back to old habits while also giving her all to protect her new family.

Most importantly, season 13 had Carolina engaging with her past in a nuanced manner. Carolina in 13 was able to separate regret from responsibility. Her apology to Sharkface was not self-flagellation. It was real, meaningful, and necessary. It was not Carolina taking on the blame for things she didn’t do.

In recent seasons, however, Carolina's only real plot involvement hinges on the writers beating her guilt like a dead horse and making up new things she did wrong.

Where Sharkface and the death of his squad were drawn from events we saw happen, Biff’s death (already a retread of Sharkface) was invented and inserted into past canon, and showed us a Carolina whose aggression and callousness felt out of place even for her Freelancer self. Carolina never heard Temple’s grievances onscreen and was never allowed to respond to them, so she wasn’t allowed any growth of her own from the experience of being put through the Angst Machine with Wash.

Season 16 invents yet another sin for Carolina: keeping Wash’s memory lapses a secret, because for some reason Dr. Grey doesn’t think it’s important to keep her patients informed personally and instead puts that responsibility on their friends. This of course blows up in Carolina’s face at the worst possible moment, forcing conflict between her and Wash and driving Carolina to make yet another mistake: the decision to time travel to save Wash, the catalyst for season 17.

This season has done some pretty decent damage control in that it has repaired Carolina and Wash’s relationship. Yet it’s still not allowing Carolina to move on from Freelancer. If we had to have a plot device that amplifies negative emotions, why not use Carolina’s more recent struggles, like the way her overprotectiveness and difficulty opening up even with people she loves led to her unintentionally hurting Wash?

There were warning signs, unfortunately. Wash’s time travel to the Freelancer era showed Carolina straight up refusing to speak to him, which… really isn’t something we ever saw Carolina do to her teammates in Freelancer. But despite Wash’s sympathy to Carolina in the present, Jason seems intent on driving home the point that she was unambiguously “mean” in the past. So I guess it’s no surprise that now we get to watch her feel bad about it some more.

In season 13, Carolina called the Reds and Blues her family, and expressed that she would do whatever it took to protect them.

In season 15, Carolina said she wondered if she’d missed her one chance at a fresh start, completely ignoring the fact that she’d already had one several seasons ago.

In past seasons, Carolina’s regrets led to her growing and changing. Now, recent seasons have reduced those regrets to static traits that never change. She was mean in the past (because with few exceptions, “ambitious woman who’s good at her job” is synonymous with “bitch” in RvB), and she’s going to feel bad about it forever. That’s it. That’s her character now. Past growth is discarded and ignored. We’ll continue to hammer on her past wrongs and her regret every single season, but she’s never going to be allowed to move on.

It's bad character writing. Yes, even if the plot provides a mechanic for it.

I’ve said this before, but Joe and Jason are not writing character arcs. They are simply remixing old character beats for Feels and then resetting the characters to status quo. We’ve seen it with Grif, and the same thing is happening with Carolina.

And furthermore, it really feels like a lot of these writing decisions stem from a very shallow impression of “what the fans like.” Fans like Wash angst, so hurt Wash for no reason. Fans didn’t like it when Wash and Carolina were close, so force some conflict, and when they make up be sure to inject a line about how they’re like siblings. Fans didn’t like Tucker being torn down in favor of Grif, so that must mean fans don’t like it when we pay attention to Grif.

Fans liked it when Carolina apologized and was emotional, so that means Carolina should always be feeling bad about something, all the time, regardless of context.

I don’t want or need Carolina to be in the spotlight. Like Wash, I feel at this point that she’s spent a good amount of time there, and it’s perfectly fine and good to let someone else have a turn. I’d be quite happy to see her just be one of the team—taking part in the story, but in a supporting role. She doesn’t need a dramatic new character arc. She just needs her past growth to be acknowledged. To matter in the present.

But to these writers, it doesn’t, because to them, characters don’t change.

This scene was undeniably emotional. But it is not growth. It is not, in this context, even particularly meaningful.

It’s just putting a character through the soulless gears of the Angst Machine.

It’s stagnation.

And if this is how Carolina is going to be written from now on, it just might be what makes me walk away for good.