#bushwick grind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

catholicartistsnyc · 5 years ago

Text

MEET: Jenna Mohr

JENNA MOHR is a cosmetologist and hair stylist living in NYC. (Instagram / email: [email protected])

CATHOLIC ARTIST CONNECTION (CAC): What brought you to NYC, and where did you come from?

JENNA MOHR (JM): I moved to NYC after college to start a new job as a tax accountant in Midtown Manhattan almost 4 years ago. I came from Charleston, South Carolina, where I was ready to take a position at a local firm and live a comfortable life eating lots of great food, listening to local music and enjoying cheap libations with friends. Living in New York and working as a hairstylist had always been a dream of mine; but as time progressed, I grew to accept the notion that my dreams might end and not materialize into reality.

A friend from high school, who was studying accounting at Clemson University, mentioned that his classmate had just finished an internship at a firm in NYC that was hiring. We were able to get a hold of the recruiter, and the rest is history. Now, I am living out my dream working at a Big 4 accounting firm to pay the bills and going to Arrojo Cosmetology school part time, contemplating what my next move will be. I would love to style/cut hair in the film, theater or print industries and am excited to explore those avenues once I graduate in February. I have close to no free time and eat mostly Cliff bars, but, hey! Living the dream!

CAC: What do you see as your personal mission as a Catholic working in the arts?

JM: I have never contemplated the term “Catholic artist” until answering these questions, but I suppose I can call myself one now. I definitely define myself as a Catholic but feel that I am growing into the term “artist” since I had to convince everyone around me in New York that I was an accountant first until I started cosmetology school in September 2018. Now my mission as a Catholic cosmetologist is to help bring out the innately good and beautiful in whoever I am working with. Although my profession as a cosmetologist is seemingly aesthetic only, I have come to discover that how you treat the individual you are working with and make them feel, regardless of what they end up looking like, is where the value is. Being in this profession, I have realized how truly selfless I need to be in order to give of myself to the client. As a result, I feel that my faith has strengthened because I recognize that only God and his grace can give me the emotional energy I need to make whoever is sitting in my chair to feel like the best possible version of himself/herself.

CAC: Where have you found support in the Church for your vocation as an artist?

JM: Sister Virginia Joy with the Sisters of Life! I first met Sister Virg in middle school where she was the assistant soccer coach and also a high school academics/college admissions counselor. I told her how I wanted to be a hairstylist but that my parents wouldn't let me and said I needed to get a 4 year STEM degree instead. Throwing in the towel, I thought I may study engineering but Sister Virg challenged me to not give up on my dreams. She helped me to to devise a plan where I could study accounting, specifically tax since it is seasonal nature, and then pursue cosmetology down the road in the "off seasons". My sophomore year, she told our soccer team she was moving to the Bronx to become a nun. Fast forward almost a decade and I also am moving to New York and reconnecting with Sister Virg. She helps to keep me Catholic by inviting me to Catholic events throughout the city and I have even gone to the house to style one of the mother's hair for a gala.

A special shout out to St. Patrick's in Midtown because I have the opportunity to go to daily mass and confession at one of the most beautiful churches in the country and arguably the world. Also, it has been a safe haven for me where I would go to nap during my lunch break during the gosh awful tax seasons where it was not unusual to leave the office before 2AM for months at a time.

Finally, reading the daily liturgy has given me the daily courage and reminder of what it means to be Catholic. Through daily readings, I have discovered one of my favorite passages where Jesus wakes the young girl up from the dead saying, "Talitha koum", or "Little girl, arise". This phrase is my own personal, "YOU GO GIRL!", from Jesus. I got it tattooed on my finger (highly advise against finger tatts, they fade and will look a little silly) as a reminder to keep pushing and pursuing my dreams.

CAC: Where have you found support among your fellow artists for your Catholic faith?

JM: I don't know a lot of Catholics or a lot of artists but Renee Roden (the editor of the newsletter!) has been instrumental in supporting my art and faith. She asked if I would like to be one of the featured artists on this blog. When she asked, I think that is one of the few times where I really felt like an artist and more importantly, a Catholic artist. She has invited me to plays, readings and is always excited to explore art and our faith. I am incredibly grateful for a friend that shows so much gumption for a world that I love and admire so deeply.

CAC: How can the Church be more welcoming to artists?

JM: My first reaction is: how can the two be separated? The Church and the arts have so much in common and both are all about exploring, discovering and seeking truth in some form. I think if we look at it from that angle the Church will naturally be more welcoming to artists. Seeing that my free time is limited, I am not aware of a lot of "happenings" in the city; however, I think if parishes hosted open mic nights or other art forums and extend it to the general community that people would be receptive. I understand that Church and religion can seem scary and rigid but I think a forum that allows people to express themselves free of judgement can create a bridge to a safe space that the Church needs to extend to the outside community.

CAC: How can the artistic world be more welcoming to artists of faith?

JM: I think it is a 2-way street! The outside world, particularly NYC, can seem scary to a law-abiding Catholic. However, these safe spaces, created through art forums can help to bridge those gaps.

CAC: Where in NYC do you find spiritual fulfillment?

JM: I am a parishioner of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral; however, I have been attending St. Cecilia's in Brooklyn lately due to its proximity to where I live. I highly recommend both! While Old St. Pat's is the cool, hip place for young folks to be, St. Cecilia's, at a fraction of the size, has also been great and just as welcoming! Both have beautiful music and the priests are very kind, welcoming and give great homilies. If you are in Brooklyn, you should definitely check out St. Cecilia's, us Catholics are out here too!

(Side note, St. Cecilia's is close to McCarren Park, Graham Avenue with so many cute places to eat and stroll around. I am currently answering these questions at FourFiveSix an outdoor bar with eclectic decor and food inside. Only a 2 minute walk to St. Cecilia's and they have WI-FI!)

CAC: Where in NYC do you find artistic fulfillment?

JM: I like to sit at the park and listen to my thoughts and take in the sites. I love North Brooklyn Farms in Williamsburg (you should visit since it will be closing soon!). You can see the Manhattan skyline and the old Domino sugar refinery factory, my favorite building in the city, is located there as well. I love the industrial look that parts of Brooklyn has to offer. I think a lot of that architecture and scenery influence the styles I like to create as a hairstylist because it is all about embracing the imperfections and bringing them to light in a romantic and beautiful way.

Due to my schedule, I haven't had a lot of opportunity to join many other extracurricular activities outside of work and school; however, I believe there is so much to be inspired by in our everyday lives that may transpose into another medium. You never know what may trigger an idea for a new hairstyle; it may be a building, a sign, someone on the subway, construction sites throughout the city, even a podcast!

CAC: What is your daily spiritual practice?

JM: I read the daily readings/reflections from the Laudate app on my phone on the way to work every morning. It is a great way for me to set the tone for the day. Sometimes I will go to daily mass and/or confession at St. Patrick's.

CAC: What is your daily artistic practice?

JM: Right now, my daily artistic practice is going to class every evening. On the weekends, I may do hair for my friends. In the past, I have gone to a music festival to braid hair. I love music and the performing arts in general so I was very excited to be in a setting where I could experience both!

CAC: Describe a recent day in which you were most completely living out your vocation as an artist. What happened, and what brought you the most joy?

JM: I love cutting and styling hair. I enjoy challenging myself, learning new skills and most importantly, seeing a client's reaction when they are feeling the LOOK! I am actually surprised by my most recent day in which I was most completely living out my vocation as an artist. I braided my friend's hair this past weekend. I was nervous because I am not super experienced with braiding add-ins (adding additional hair so that braids can be longer/fuller/more colorful, etc.) or working with natural hair. I was satisfied with the outcome and enjoyed the process but there was still plenty of room for improvement. What caught me by surprise was my friend's reaction. She was so grateful and excited that I was open to learning and pursuing a skill, being able to work with multiple hair types, particularly natural hair types, that is so under served in the beauty world. I am realizing that my sense of fulfillment, as far as living out my vocation, does not need to come from a high-profile job but can emerge from small encounters and bring a massive impact to myself and the client.

CAC: You actually live in NYC? How!?

JM: Friends of friends, my alumni group on Facebook, and the good Lord! This is the first time I am renewing my lease since I've lived here and I couldn't be happier! For one apartment search, I posted on my Facebook alumni group to see if anyone was looking for a roommate and reconnected with a girl I had interned with years ago for Charleston Fashion Week! Whenever I was searching, I think it was very helpful to start with the resources I had - friends of friends, alumni groups, or anybody I knew that was already living here. The options can be very overwhelming but I found that using my current network, as small as it is, to be very beneficial.

When I first moved here, I wanted to be in Manhattan so that I could ensure I was able to navigate life and get to work. Then I discovered North Brooklyn Farms and Brooklyn and cheaper rent and I've been moving further east ever since.

CAC: But seriously, how do you make a living in NYC?

JM: I became an accountant first and got my CPA. It was brutal. I know that my vocation is to be a world class hairstylist ideally in film, theater or print. However, I wanted to make sure I had a practical course of action to get there that would allow me to pay for my education and support myself in the city. My plan A started with my plan B. It took years of discipline and I know that I am coming into my vocation a little later than most; but Hey, look at Sarah! God's timing can be worlds different from ours; but patience, practice, discipline and most importantly faith has helped me to reach and keep striving for my goals. How much would you suggest artists moving to NYC budget for their first year? I think the important things to consider are transportation, food, rent, laundry and maybe a flight home to see mom every once in a while. If the budget allows, you may consider a gym membership that has a shower...you never really know the quality of the apartment you are about to be living in or the responsiveness of a landlord. Having a gym membership proved to be very helpful when my bathroom was out of commission for about a week. After that, you really need to tailor it to your lifestyle and figure out how much you want to spend.

CAC: What other practical resources would you recommend to a Catholic artist living in NYC?

JM: Find a good coffee shop or cafe! Some of my favorite coffee shops are closing due to increased rent prices so if you have a local coffee shop that you love, keep loving on them! These types of places will also host great events for artists and can be a great way to connect with others with shared (or different) interests. I love working outside as much as I can or to find a space with great natural light. I have enjoyed North Brooklyn Farms, Domino Park, McCarren Park, Little Skips, 19 Cafe, Bushwick Grind, FourFiveSix and runs along the east river through Williamsburg into Greenpoint or across the Williamsburg Bridge.

CAC: What are your top 3 pieces of advice for Catholic artists moving to NYC?

JM: GO TO CHURCH (and confession)! Even if you feel like you are losing your religion as an adult, stay open to God's grace. I think NYC is an incredibly challenging place to live - spiritually, financially, emotionally. If anything, allow the church to be a quiet place to sit and find solace in the silence, and let the Big Guy do the rest. I love going to confession in the city, because nobody knows who the heck you are!! It's such a weird and liberating sensation knowing that the guy behind the screen may never see you again. Also, I have had some of the best confessions of my life at St. Patrick's in midtown. You would think that it could potentially be an assembly line of people expecting a dry, one-size fits all confession and absolution; but it could not be more the opposite! The priests will make jokes, advise you on your life, provide tailored insight and give you a penance that will make you feel awesome.

Make friends with the non-Catholics and non-religious. I am a cradled Catholic and love my faith but God gave us free will and I want to use such an incredible gift and what better way than to learn about others who do not share the same beliefs as you. I recently met a man who said that he has always wanted to be religious. He considers himself spiritual but his parents never took him to church and religion is something he has always wanted to explore but didn't quite know how. These kinds of people need you in their lives. You don't need to turn them religious, or Catholic, but being there and listening is sometimes all it takes. I try not to tell people that I am religious or go to church because realistically, it can scare people off sometimes. However, some of my friends that I have become close with in NYC say that they admire that I still practice and have even asked if they could come to church with me. We are just mediums for God's art; sometimes we just need to show up and he will take care of the rest.

Call mom. Like St. Monica (also my mum's name!), our mothers are likely worried sick that we are turning into delinquents hustling in the city. Let her know you are doing OK, brushing your teeth and still going to Church. And if you aren't doing those things, call mom anyway and tell her you love her and thank her and then try to go do those aforementioned things.

If you know anyone looking for a hairstylist please don't hesitate to reach out! I am new to the artist world and would love to become as immersed as possible in my spare time while I am waiting for school to finish in February 2019.

1 note · View note

thebitchtownexpress · 4 years ago

Text

Adventurous

Previously Unaired Christmas Pezberry. Oneshot. Thought I’d share here :)

Santana Lopez and Rachel Berry sat closely on the couch in Rachel’s Bushwick apartment. It was Christmastime and Rachel couldn’t be happier that Santana had showed up for a surprise holiday visit.

“I can’t believe Kurt’s hooking up with Studly Claus”, Santana joked.

Rachel smiled a boozy, content smile. “Me neither. This is totally out of character for him. But it’s cool, right? Maybe this is the right time to be adventurous. And that’s why…” she trailed off, turning her head toward Santana and batting her eyelashes.

“Berry, I can’t. You know I can’t.” Santana shook her head and started swirling her drink, looking at it intently so as to avoid eye contact with her more ambitious friend.

“You can, though!” Rachel declared. “I know your mom; she wants you to be happy! Look at all this money she gave you- she said you could go to New York if you wanted, and this is what you want! The Santana I know would follow her dreams.”

“No,” Santana responded, giving Rachel her most condescending tone. “The Santana you know finishes what she starts, and I can’t justify being a college drop-out. I want to graduate. You know I’ve always been a good student.” She stood up quickly and walked into the kitchen, leaving Rachel sitting on the couch.

Santana stood still at the counter with her head down for a moment before Rachel noticed that something was wrong.

“Hey,” she said, jumping off of the couch and heading into the kitchen. As she got closer she could tell that Santana was silently crying. “What’s wrong? Don’t cry.” Rachel stood next to Santana at the counter and started rubbing her back, and Santana started crying harder.

“I hate Louisville. I don’t want to go back after Christmas break. I hate it so much.”

Rachel grabbed Santana by the shoulders and turned her so they were face to face. “You don’t have to go back, Santana. Come sit down.” Santana took Rachel’s hand tentatively and they walked hand-in-hand back over to the couch.

Rachel sat down next to Santana. “Here, put your head on my lap.”

Santana sighed and laid down on Rachel’s lap, secretly enjoying how good it felt when Rachel started playing with her hair.

“I just don’t know what I’m doing. I love New York. I feel like I can be myself here. I know this is where I’m supposed to be, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.” Santana sounded more coherent with each word that came out, and Rachel knew they might be able to have a real conversation at this point.

“That’s the beauty of New York, Santana,” Rachel remarked as she continued running her fingers through Santana’s thick, shiny hair. “New York will answer those questions for you. And then you wouldn’t be alone! You’d have me and Kurt. We’d have so much fun! Kurt’s amazing, of course, and we have really great dinners. But you know him! He’s kind of boring. You’d push me to get out of my comfort zone. We’d be real New Yorkers together! And we could even…”. She stopped talking when she heard that cute little snore that she had missed so much. Rachel swiped Santana’s hair out of the way to see if she was really asleep and smiled when she realized that maybe she was, in fact, that boring.

“Hey!” Rachel started poking Santana’s cheek. “Wake up!”

Santana stirred for a moment. “What?”

“You’re not sleeping! It’s not even midnight!”

Santana sat up and shook her head. “You’re right. What should we do?”

Rachel looked at Santana and the two held eye contact for a moment before Rachel looked down at her hands. “I- I guess we should finish off this holiday eggnog!” She started to stand up before she was stopped by Santana’s hand on her thigh.

“Rachel… our glasses are full,” Santana noted, smirking at her shorter friend.

“Right.”

“We could have a good old-fashioned dance party?” Santana suggested.

“True, or…” Rachel turned toward Santana, grabbing her hand. “…we could embrace the adventure of New York.”

Santana felt her cheeks turn red hot as Rachel’s thumb rubbed the palm of her hand. “What do you…”

Before she could finish, Rachel grabbed Santana’s face and started to kiss her- a more passionate kiss than she had ever given anyone else, she thought to herself.

Santana embraced Rachel’s spontaneity and they fell into each other, Santana fiercely-but gently, on top of Rachel while their bodies grinded together. It was so natural, and Rachel could have sworn she was seeing real sparks.

“Pull my hair,” Santana demanded, already out of breath. Rachel grabbed a handful of hair, scratching Santana’s scalp and pulling. Santana let out a moan, which told Rachel she was doing it right.

“Let’s go to my room,” Rachel suggested.

***

“Wow,” Santana laughed, shaking her head as she laid next to Rachel on her bed. “This holiday has taken quite the turn.”

“You know this was bound to happen,” Rachel responded as she stroked Santana’s arm. “You didn’t just hate me out of nowhere. There’s always been something between us.”

“That’s true. I always think of you when I see those memes that talk about the weird tension between the miserable goth and Christian horse girl middle school best friends”.

“I’m Jewish, and you’ve never been goth,” Rachel smirked.

“Well fuck, sorry no one’s made personalized memes about your life, Berry. Never mind.” Santana got up, laid a blanket down on the floor, and wrapped herself up in it.

“Santana, come back up here,” Rachel protested.

“No, it’s better if I sleep on the floor anyway. It’s fine.”

After a moment of silence, Rachel spoke up. “You don’t like me, do you?” she asked quietly.

Santana let out an exasperated sigh and sat up, looking at her needy friend. “What do you mean, like you?”

“Well,” Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know… as a friend, as a person…”

“You see? This is what I mean. It’s time for bed. Don’t take it personally. I just want to sleep on the floor. If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t be here. Okay?”

“You promise?”

“Promise. But you’re talking nonsense now.” Santana stood up and gave Rachel a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Good night.”

Rachel closed her eyes and couldn’t help but keep smiling. “You know… if you moved here, there is lots of room in my bed,” she added.

“Noted,” Santana giggled. “I’ll call the U-Haul guy tomorrow.”

#pezberry #santana lopez #santana and rachel #rachel berry #rachel and santana #glee #pezberry oneshot #pezberry headcanon #santana lopez headcanon #rachel berry headcanon #incorrect glee quotes #glee fanfiction #pezberry fanfiction #previously unaired christmas

37 notes · View notes

carelessannie · 4 years ago

Text

maybe it goes like this: steve builds his pack (part 1)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Read on A03

Read the Tony courts Peter wip

Stucky focus (Steve x Bucky)

A sweet, slightly angsty backstory in three parts (ending in Stuckony).

Major warnings: D/S Au, A/B/O Au, Middle/High School Au, talk about family death, public non-sexual submission, steve beats the shit out of some bullies

---

Maybe it goes like this:

Steve can’t remember life with a pack, but knows for certain that his Ma grieves for them. Ever since he was a boy, he would catch his Ma staring at fading photos of strangers, wiping tears from her eyes, and denying it when Steve would ask why do they make you cry.

It’s not until later in his life that Steve learns the truth about pack bonds, about the decision an Alpha makes in life to form a familial or an intimate bond with their packmates. His Ma refuses to let him learn about packs from school, instead sitting him down across the table, like an adult, Steven, and he learns about orientations and secondary genders when he’s nine years old.

His Ma explains the way kids will turn into adults: first establishing their orientation as Dominant, Submissive, or Versatile, and later in high school, presenting as Alpha, Beta or Omega. She threads their fingers together, and asks Steve if he can notice what she is, and he concentrates real hard, trying to decide, as his Ma laughs.

It’s okay, Steven, you won’t be able to tell what other people are until your own body has developed.

Steve nods, pretending like he understands, and asks his mom about her presentation. She gives him a sad— sad? — smile, and says she’s a Submissive Beta.

It’s silent as Steve puts those two things together with the strong, beautiful woman he admires as his Ma, and is still confused. He asks about packs, and Alphas, and what intimate and familial packs are— gaining an amused shake of the head from his Ma.

Why don’t I just tell you about my pack, yes?

Steve nods eagerly, desperate to hear the story of a family he never had,

My pack was intimate, Steven, which means we all loved each other very much and decided to live together. I met my— our Alpha when I was in nursing school, before you were born. She was already mated to two Omegas, and they had been searching for a Beta to join their pack. We fell in love. I met her Omegas, and all four of us were very compatible— do you remember what that means, hun?

Mhm, like when you know you belong with someone even more than anyone else.

Right, good, so we all belonged to each other, understand? We lived in our Alpha’s house, and all of us worked jobs in the city. About a year after joining her pack, I met your Pa. He transferred to the hospital I worked at, and he was also a Beta, like me, but he was Dominant. I introduced him to my pack, and they loved him too. Within a year, we were mated and I had you. Makes sense, Steven?

Yes, Ma. But… What happened to them?

At this, his Ma goes silent, breathing deeply before finishing the story for her son.

Do you remember the difference between packmates and bondmates, Steven?

Um. One is forever, right?

Yes, good, if you are in love or committed to a pack, they are your packmates, whether you are intimate or not. But sometimes, two people, or a whole pack, want to make their relationship last forever, and they become bondmates. All people have the private part of their necks, remember? You have to know, sweetheart, the only way to start a bond is to bite each other there while mating. We’ll wait to talk about mating until you’re in middle school, okay hun?

Yes, Ma.

Good boy. Now. The other important thing about bonding is that it ties your soul to another person’s forever. Any person of any orientation can bond with whoever they’d like, as long as they’re compatible. But you have to know, and this is so important, that once you bond, your souls become one. My whole pack was bonded, but… Daisy… hun, our Alpha died of cancer. She got very sick, and died. And when one bondmate dies, everyone who shares the bond gets sick and dies too.

… Ma, but. Why didn’t you die?

I decided, once I got pregnant with you, that I didn’t want to risk bonding to my pack. Your father and I loved each other so much, and you were the symbol of our love, not a bite. And I’m thankful, sweetheart, because I get to be your Ma and watch you grow up.

Do you miss them, Ma?

Every day, Steven.

Steve doesn’t remember his Ma mentioning her pack again after that day, but he did start to notice that she would get sad a few times a year, around forgotten birthdays and anniversaries. She would spend all of her days working hard to provide for the two of them, and always made sure Steve knew he was loved and valued, even when she denied herself the opportunities to find a new pack.

Looking back, Steve can see that they didn’t have a lot of luxuries or comforts, and definitely didn’t live in the best part of town. He had a few friends in Bushwick, growing up in the nineties it was a poor place to live, but they were perfectly happy to play in the streets during the day, and lock their doors tight at night.

As he ties up his laces, he thinks about his small family and is immeasurably happy. There’s no one he loves more in the world than his Ma. He hates the thought of getting on the bus and driving far away to switch middle schools, but his Ma reassures him that he will love meeting new kids and making new friends.

So he grabs his backpack, tightening the knots holding the straps in place, and hops down the stairs, only sparing one look to his Ma on the front step.

It’s a long bus ride to the school, more than thirty minutes. Over the summer, his Ma found out that the school system wanted him to transfer to a better school because of budget... something and overcrowding—? He’s actually not quite sure why he can’t go back to his old school, but his Ma made it seem like William Alexander Middle School thinks he’s special and has asked for him specifically. So yeah, Steve is really excited.

He’s going into Seventh grade, and gets his own locker, and gets to go to art class.

Steve spends the whole bus ride reviewing the schedule he already has memorized, and comparing it with the school map that his Ma printed for him, tracing his finger around from class to class. Bus to Nurse to Homeroom to Algebra to English to Nurse to Lunch to Gym to Art to Nurse to Bus.

The day passes this way, Steve confidently following his map around the school and taking notes in his small notebook. It’s not until Gym that he gets nervous, remembering his last asthma attack, and hopes the nurse told his gym teacher about his restrictions as he files into the gym and takes a seat on the floor.

“Steve Rogers?”

“Here.”

“No, Steve, I need to talk to you,” Steve looks up and sees his gym teacher, a really large man with a beard, waving him to the front of the class. The other kids turn to whisper to each other as Steve walks forward.

“I— did—”

“Steve, I have a note here from the nurse, saying you cannot participate in most exercises because of your health issues. Because of this, I’m going to suggest you join the sixth grade class, which will go at a better pace for you, and let Mr. Howlett help you further, okay?”

He feels his entire face flush dark red as the other students behind him whisper and laugh. He’s a seventh grader, not a baby sixth grader. He holds eye contact with the gym teacher, folding his arms across his chest, but still grinds out a, “Yes, Sir,” like his Ma would want him to.

“Good, it’s settled. Here, Mr. Howlett has sent James to show you where to go.”

Steve turns to find a small, smiling boy waiting for him at... parade rest? What—

“Alright Stevie, let’s go,” and the boy turns on his heel, marching across the gym as Steve scrambles to keep up.

James slows down slightly, letting Steve catch him, “First things first, my name is James Buchanan Barnes, but most people call me Jamie. I hate it, but it’s better than nothin',” he looks over at Steve, eyeing him up and down, “Second, Mr. Howlett is friends with my dad. You stick with me, and this class will be a breeze, capiche?”

Steve swears his eyes are falling out of his head, and he nods his affirmation.

“Good,” is all Jamie responds with before grabbing his hand, tugging him to join a younger, smaller group of kids in the gym. As they approach, Jamie lifts their hands in triumph, “I found him!”

Feeling betrayed, Steve rips his hand free in embarrassment, but Jamie just smiles wider and pulls him towards their gym teacher, Mr. Howlett.

How this man could be bigger and scarier than the last teacher, Steve doesn’t know, but refuses to hide behind Jamie as they approach, and instead stands up even taller. Mr. Howlett makes a grunting noise, flipping through a few papers on his clipboard, before looking up at the two boys.

“Rogers?”

Before he can respond, Jamie pipes up, “Yeah! Here’s his note from the nurse, and he’s my friend and— and can I help him out? Please?”

It’s pretty clear that Mr. Howlett couldn’t care less either way, but all Steve can see is the raw, eager look in Jamie’s face as he begs their teacher to help Steve.

Huh, he thinks, the only other time I've seen this look is when Ma begs the pharmacist to refill my inhaler prescription when her paycheck's late.

“Whatever, Jamie, just keep outta trouble, ya hear?”

“Yes, sir!” Jamie delivers, with a crisp solute to match, and pulls Steve towards the back of the class.

They settle down, and Jamie keeps holding onto his hand. Steve glances over and sees Jamie quickly look away, suddenly shy.

“Jamie?”

The smaller boy looks over, hopefully, “Yeah, Stevie?”

“Thank you, I didn’t think I’d get a friend on my first day, much less the best one in the school.”

Jamie ducks his head again before turning his brilliant smile in Steve’s direction, and Steve continues before he has a chance to respond, “and Jamie?”

“Yeah, Stevie?”

“I swear, cross my heart, that I’ll find you a better nickname.”

Jamie’s eyes widen, and then he’s laughing, loud and doubled over. He grips harder onto Steve, who can’t help laughing along, even as they get funny looks from the class and a gruff, c’mon, quiet down, from Mr. Howlett.

Shaking his head, Jamie tries to catch his breath as he responds, “ I— I think— I’d love that— Stevie.”

And all Steve can do is smile back.

---

It takes a week for Steve to settle on Bucky, and when Bucky says he loves it, Steve runs all the way home to tell his Ma.

---

Steve and Bucky have Gym class and Lunch together almost every day for a year, and spend the whole summer waiting for their schedules to be mailed, hoping for at least two classes together.

They get their wish.

---

Halfway through eighth grade, Steve gets sent home with a stamped letter from his guidance counselor. For the past few weeks, the guidance counselor has asked him and Bucky to have lunch in her office, and the boys always shrug and agree. Today, after finishing lunch, she hands both boys an official letter for their guardians to discuss with them.

“Whaddaya think’s in it, Stevie?” Bucky asks, squinting at the letter as he holds it up to the light. The boys are heading straight from lunch to the nurse’s office to get Steve’s medicine, like they do every day, and Bucky grips tight to his hand, intertwining their fingers, like he does every day.

“I dunno, Buck. Maybe she’s gonna tell your Ma that you smell and needa bath,” the comment earns Steve a light shove, and an affectionate, “Punk,” in response.

“Jerk,” Steve replies, a reflex, and reaches out to pull Bucky closer, “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it, Buck. She’s been real nice up ‘til now—”

“Yeah, I know, I just don’t wanna bother my dad if it’s somethin’ bad.”

They fall silent for a moment, both boys knowing how busy and strict Bucky’s dad can be. Steve sees Bucky’s head drop, lost, as he looks at the letter in his small hands. He slows them to a stop, turns Bucky around to face him in the school hallway, and hums in approval as Bucky meets his eyes and slowly tilts his head back. He grabs onto both shoulders, squeezing lightly, and pulls Bucky up close. Fingers tighten in the back of Steve’s shirt as Bucky clings to him, and he nuzzles into his best friend's hair, comforting, while rubbing across his shoulders.

“So sweet, Bucky. There’s no way your dad could be mad at you, alright? Believe me?”

He gazes down into soft, glazed gray eyes, and freezes. Bucky is slightly trembling against him, looking at him like he’s a revelation. Steve feels a calm settle into his bones as he reacts purely on instinct, reaching up to grip Bucky around the neck.

A few things happen in quick succession.

First, Bucky’s eyes roll up into his head, breath leaving his body in a woosh along with a high pitched whimper.

Second, Steve widens his stance, straightening his back, and Bucky sinks, fast, to his knees, gripping onto Steve’s thighs for balance.

And then, out of the haze—

“STEVE ROGERS, YOU RELEASE THAT BOY IMMEDIATELY,” and the trance is broken.

Steve is horrified to see Bucky curled up on the floor, and he stumbles back. Large arms wrap around him, herding him away from—

“STEVIE, no, please—” the voice of his best friend, his Bucky, follows him down the hallway along with small broken cries, and Steve fights hard against the strong arms that hold him,

“C’mon, kid, it’s okay. Just gonna call your Ma and getcha settled,” but Steve doesn’t care.

His boy is back there, somewhere, calling for him, needing him, and he can’t get back, he can’t protect, he can’t save, he can’t— breathe.

---

It’s okay, hun. Shh, sweet boy, it’s okay.

— Sarah, he had Jamie on his knees, submitting—

— no, I don’t think Jamie has stopped crying yet—

— only a few more months, it’ll be fine—

---

Steve wakes in his bed at home, confused.

“B— bucky?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” his Ma pushes past the door, “you up alright?”

He blinks his eyes a few times, disoriented, “Where… what—”

“Shh, hun,” she holds out a glass of water, which Steve takes gratefully,

“Ma, where’s Bucky?”

His Ma looks nervous, and straightens the sheets on the bed, “Steven, Bucky is just fine. How much do you remember about what happened?”

The memories are sticky, “I was just hugging Bucky. He was scared that his dad would be angry about the— oh! The letter from the counselor. Ma, I have an important letter for you. Officially stamped and everything,” his Ma just nods, so he continues, “I dunno, I was hugging Bucky in the hallway, and then something was… different. Like really heavy between us? And all I wanted was to keep him safe, but then… Then they took him, and—”

Steve looks into his Ma’s eyes, suddenly horrified, “I hurt him, didn’t I?”

He must’ve, that would be the only reason they knocked him out and separated him from his— from his—

“No, Steven, not like that. You absolutely did not hurt him,” then what... “You were the perfect Dominant, hun, and it’s not your fault, okay sweetheart?”

“Dominant? Ma…”

“Hush, Steven. I’m going to tell you something important, and you’re going to listen to me,” he nods once, so she continues, “the letter from your counselor was very important, Steven. Remember how boys and girls start to present around your age? Your guidance counselor has been monitoring signs of presentation between you and Bucky, signs that were confirmed today in the hallway. Steven, today you presented as a Dominant, and Bucky submitted to you. Do you know what this means?”

“T— that we’re… compatible?”

His Ma nods solemnly, “Yes, exactly. The doctors are not sure yet if Bucky is Submissive or Versatile, but you are a strong Dominant. My strong boy.”

“But Ma, why was it so bad?”

She sits on the edge of the bed, scooting so that she can pull Steve closer,

“Because, hun, both of you dropped.”

“Dropped...”

Ma hums, finding the words to explain,

“A lot of times, when a Dominant and Submissive are together, they go into a headspace. It’s calm, it feels right and certain and instinctual. Usually a Dominant will take more control, and the Submissive will allow it, naturally. If this doesn’t happen in a safe, private space, or if it’s interrupted, both parties are at risk of dropping. That means you could feel sick, lost, and upset— and even panic or become depressed,”

Exactly like what happened to me, Steve thinks,

“— and with you and Bucky, you both passed out from the stress. That’s why I need to know if you’re okay, Steven,”

It makes sense. Now that Steve knows what to look for, he can easily recognize not only moments where Bucky has submitted easily to him, but also moments where Bucky challenged him and he ended up claiming Bucky’s submission in an argument. His best friend, the boy who fights for him and is always at his side— it’s overwhelming. All Steve wants to know is—

“Ma, please, what happened to my Bucky?”

“Steven, don’t—“

“I need to know—“

“He’s still in a drop, hun.”

Steve swings out of the bed, “How? It’s been hours,” he hears his Ma stutter out something, but feels a resolve settle, “I’ve gotta be with him, Ma.”

“No.”

“But—“

“I said no. His pack is sending me updates, but was very clear that they want you to stay away from Bucky for now. He needs time to recover and understand what’s happened, as do you. And, as your principal recommended, both of you are switching lunch periods and transferring classes, to help reduce the stress of being around each other, is that clear?”

Not even sure he’s heard right past stay away from Bucky, Steve drops back into bed in shock. No more Bucky? He can’t even comprehend what his day would look like without his best friend next to him, and just like that, he’s destroyed one of most important relationships in his life.

Hot, wet tears fall through the night as he wraps around his sheets, wishing he was holding onto a smaller, dark haired boy with crystal blue eyes.

—

There are only two months left until summer, and they feel like two years without Bucky.

Steve cries himself to sleep for the first week.

In the second week, he tries talking to the adults in charge, all of whom give him pity and suggest he’ll get over it and move on.

By the third week, Steve is angry. He snarls at classmates, teachers, anyone who looks at him the wrong way. He gets sent home with a note about his behavior, and his Ma just gives him more useless pity.

During the fourth week, he’s walking the hall to his last period of the day, when he hears a plea for help and the slamming of a door echo from the boy’s bathroom. He runs inside, ready to take down a bully, and sees two eighth graders pinning someone to the bathroom stall. He steps in just as they punch the boy across the jaw,

“Hey assholes, why don’tcha pick on someone your own size?”

The boys whirl around and sneer, dropping the smaller kid in a heap on the ground.

“Look what we have here, a pint sized savior,” the larger of the two smiles wickedly, as he sizes up Steve, and the other one delivers a kick to their initial target for good measure, “Wonder where you got the balls, tiny?”

Steve throws his fists up, and the boys smile even wider, amused. The larger bully lunges for him, suddenly, and Steve absorbs his tackle, trying to roll them around on the floor to get on top. He delivers a well aimed elbow to the guy’s throat, which has him sputtering, and drives his knee down between the kid’s legs, earning him a satisfying howl.

“Yo, kid, it’s okay, c'mon it was just a joke—“

The other boy’s words barely register as Steve lands one, two, three hard right hooks to the bully’s face, before pushing off his chest and standing to his feet. The second kid scoots past Steve, hauling his friend up and escaping out the entrance.

“St— Stevie?”

All of the rage expels from Steve’s body as he turns to find Bucky smiling up at him from the floor where the bullies had dropped him just moments earlier.

He approaches slowly, and notices just how bruised Bucky is, just how tired he looks. Steve catalogs the blood on his face, dark circles under his eyes, possibly dislocated shoulder, and gaunt expression with care, touching as little as possible.

“We should— we should go to the nurse, Buck. It doesn’t look good.”

Bucky nods and attempts to get to his feet, but lets out a weak groan and sinks back down to the floor.

“C’mon, jerk,” Steve teases, trying his best to hide concern and devastation, pulling Bucky back to his feet on his good side, “do I hafta carry ya the whole way?”

There’s a weak laugh that could also be a sob from Bucky, and Steve tries to take more of his weight as they limp towards the nurse’s office.

He feels hopeful after hearing a barely whispered, “Punk,” in return.

---

The nurse lets the two boys cling to each other on the small cot, and proceeds to call both of their packs, asking for both kids to go home early for the day.

Steve glares at the nurse the whole time, knowing that he only has a few precious moments with his best friend before they’re separated again.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, Stevie?” the younger boy looks up adoringly, “you okay?”

“I’m fine, Buck, how— are you okay?” He does his best to hold back tears that are welling up in his eyes, and enjoys the solid feeling of Bucky, safe and warm in his arms.

Small fingers run over his cheeks, wiping away a few stray tears that had slipped free, and Bucky’s smile just grows, “So much better now, that’s for sure.” He wiggles a bit, and Steve laughs lightly, gripping his friend’s waist tighter.

He leans down, brushing his nose against the shell of Bucky’s ear, and whispers, “Nothing has been the same without you, Bucky.”

A shiver goes through Bucky’s body, Steve feels it by proximity, and Bucky remains silent, until Steve hears one hitched breath, then another. He pulls away slightly, looking into Bucky’s face as the smaller boy dissolves into tears. Bucky pulls himself closer, burying his face in Steve’s neck as great, giant sobs tear him apart. All Steve can do is shush him gently, kiss him on the head, and rock them back and forth, waiting for his Bucky to calm down as the minutes pass in silence.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,”

Steve looks up, turning his body to guard Bucky’s vulnerable one, and sees Bucky’s Beta father and Omega mother standing in the doorway, expressions both shocked and resolved.

“Steve, can you tell us what happened?”

It takes a few minutes for Steve to explain how he saved Bucky, and when he finishes, he watches the Beta and Omega exchange a knowing look, before they take a seat near the nurse’s cot. Neither move to take Bucky away, which is perfectly fine with Steve, who just holds his friend closer. A quick glance gown confirms Bucky has stopped crying and fallen asleep, sniffling lightly.

“We need to talk to you, Steve,” he hears Bucky’s dad call for him, and reluctantly looks up at both of them, noticing the guidance counselor also waiting in the doorway. He nods to allow them to continue,

“I’m afraid we haven’t handled this situation well, son,” Bucky’s dad continues, “and it seems to have hurt both of you boys. I’m sorry, and want you to know we only wanted the best for Jamie.”

“I get it, sir,” Steve shifts slightly, uncomfortable with the sudden attention. “Does this mean I can see Bucky again?”

The Beta leans forward on his seat, making sure to focus on the younger boys, “Yes, Steve, we want you and Jamie to keep being friends, at least until you go to high school next year.”

He can’t even help the relieved sigh and small smile that take over his face, letting his eyes fall shut as he relaxes back onto the bed. Good. He doesn’t even spare a thought for their friendship after middle school, completely convinced that in this moment, him and Bucky will be together, forever.

---

Steve and Bucky fall back into their old routine, classes and lunchtime back to normal, and the news of Steve’s fight spreads like wildfire throughout the school. Both boys find themselves surrounded by new friends, many of whom knew Bucky but hadn’t hung out with Steve before, and he enjoys watching his best friend thrive in newfound popularity.

As summer approaches, Bucky starts talking more about going out for football in eighth grade. Steve always knew he loved sports, and had often encouraged Buck to keep playing baseball when the younger boy would get frustrated, so he naturally pushes his friends to try out. What he isn’t prepared for is how little he sees of Bucky over the summer. He barely notices at first, still seeing Bucky a few days a week, but then he starts to get rain checks on his invitations.

“Sorry, Stevie, rain check— I’m doing drills with the guys all day,”

“Aw man, rain check? I’m at conditioning every day this week and literally can’t get free,”

“Maybe rain check for this weekend? The guys are running plays all day, and I just gotta be there,”

“— you understand, right Stevie?”

And Steve does understand. He decides to give Bucky a little more space, only asking to hang out once a week, if that, and focuses on preparing for high school. He spends more time with his Ma, and she helps him pick out a brand new backpack from Walmart. When he protests, saying his old backpack is just fine, she shakes her head and insists on buying a product that will last. He fills it with notebooks and new pencils and pens and even a pack of colored pencils with a shiny dual sharpener.

It’s a few weeks before school starts that his Ma receives a letter from the school system. He’s decorating the cover of his notebook, laying across their living room floor, when his Ma comes and sits next to him on the floor.

“Steven, I have something to tell you.”

“Okay, Ma, one sec,” he takes a few moments to gather his pencil shavings, packing up his colored pencils, putting them in the correct order, and closing his notebook, stacking everything neatly on top.

“What’s wrong, Ma?”

“Remember when you went into middle school, and the government had to move you to William Alexander because the school closest to us was overcrowded?” Steve nods, he does remember, “Well, they don’t have the same issue with the high school here. So you’re going to be going Bushwick High, which is just a couple blocks away from us.”

“Oh, I thought I was gonna be going to school in Park Slope again, near Bucky?”

“I know, Steven,” his Ma gives a small pat to his head, before standing up and heading for the kitchen, “why don’t we have a snack and talk about it more? They sent a list of classes, and you get to choose electives and everything.”

Steve tries calling Bucky that night, eager to tell him about his news, but just gets the answering machine. He tries two more times that week, and comes up blank.

Within a few weeks, Steve is walking into Brooklyn High, confident and proud, and barely spares a thought about missing his best friend at his side.

#stucky #steve pov #steve x bucky #d/s fic #childhood friends #soft stucky #fluff #minor angst #steve beats the shit out of some bullies #mcu #fanfic #MiGLT #omegaverse

12 notes · View notes

crownxgloryclothing · 4 years ago

Text

Black Owned Coffee Shops in NYC

Let’s be clear, it’s become “trendy” to support Black Owned businesses. Those who’ve always had an opportunity to support our businesses never did or cared to. I will continue to use my platforms to amplify and uplift Black Owned, as well as Black Queer owned establishments. We teach people how to treat us, and I want to start from within on not just buying Black privately but publicly. I will make these list and continue to add to them in order to amplify our businesses. Join me in doing the same, however you can.

Here’s a list of Black Owned Coffee Shops, please add more in the comments below if I missed a company you know of.

Sincerely, Tommy

Bklyn Blend

Butch & Coco

Brown Butter

Bushwick Grind

Bittersweet

Cafe con libros

Celsious

Crocus cafe

Drip Coffee Makers

Heart’s Coffee

Milk & Pull

Le Paris Dakar

Sit & Wonder

Roger That Cafe

Bread Love

Breukelen Coffeehouse

Brooklyn Kettle

Cafe Erzulie

Esther and Chuk

Cafe on Ralph

Corner Grind

Doctors Cave Cafe

The Estaminent Cafe

Kafe L’ouvertoure

MacDonough Cafe

The Mixtape Shop

Sol Sips

Sumner Cafe

Bread Stuy

Sincerely, Angie Jackson

Designer & Founder

#Black Owned Businesses #Coffee #Cafe #NYC #New York #Crown and Glory #CrownxGlory #Crown & Glory #Crown & Glory Designs

25 notes · View notes

losersclubforever-blog · 8 years ago

Audio

Government Vs Us

#brooklynrapper #bushwick #losersclub #hiphop #underground #fashion #beastcoast #streetwear #streetmuzik #Grind #indierap #SpokenWord #Poetry #mindset #BeYou #DNA #logic301 #YeerroSquad

1 note · View note

writing-parker · 6 years ago

Text

Happy Birthday, Steve Rogers

Summary/Pairing: You and Steve celebrate his 100th Birthday in Brooklyn. Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 5K

Warning: Mentions of war, PTSD, drugs, and alcohol. This is rated M for langauge and smut.

A/N: Hi everyone! I know this is a day late, but i was too busy running around yesterday to post! I hope you all enjoy. I really wanted to try to write Steve in a way that’s not really explored often, so i hope I managed to do that well. Angst, smut, and fluff. My favorite things.

Masterlist

“Y/N,” Steve sighs, “Please just drop it.”

You huff. For nearly a week now, you’ve been trying to figure out what on earth you could do to for Steve’s 100th birthday. He’d been ignoring your questions and pretending he didn’t see texts and generally avoiding talking about it at all.

“I just want to do something nice for you on your birthday.” Even over the phone, Steve hears the dejectedness in your voice.

It had been a week since you had seen each other, both caught up in work and obligations and life that it was just too hard to find time. Steve scratched the back of his head, “I know, baby. But I just want to see you.”

“Are you sure?” You sound uncertain, “I feel like your hundredth birthday should be a big deal.”

“I really don’t want it to be. Even before all of this,” he says, referring to life after being pulled from the ice, “I didn’t like my birthday.”

“Okay.” You concede. “How about dinner at my place? We have a grill in the backyard. Then we can watch fireworks on the roof. ”

Although you had no idea why, Steve loved your small Bushwick apartment and the backyard you shared with your across-the-hall neighbors. He said it made him feel a little more normal.

“It’s a date. I gotta go, enjoy the rest of your lunch.” Steve tells you.

“7pm at my place tomorrow!” You say before hanging up.

With a small smile, you turn to Sarah-your colleague at the non-profit you work at- who you were having lunch in Central Park with. Sarah was technically your boss, the director of the department you worked for, but she had also taken on an older sister role in the short time you had been living and working in New York City.

“Was that Captain America?” She wags her eyebrows at you.

“That was Steve, yes.” You give her a pointed look. You and Steve had been seeing each other since January, nearly 7 months now, but he had only convinced you to tell other people a few months ago.

You were new to the City and Steve was new to the century. So when you first met, the two of you agreed to keep things lowkey. You were dating around and he was an Avenger so you figured that it would a fun, quick fling. Of course you were wrong. You fell for him hard and fast, your feelings for him honestly scaring the shit out of you. He wanted to tell people, to show people that you were his and he was yours, but it took you a long time to warm up to the idea.

And to you, telling people meant becoming a part of Steve’s world. And that was something that intimidated you and, when you told him as much, he kissed you on the forehead and told you that you guys would tell people when you were ready. But your heart had never been broken, and you weren’t sure if you could handle it if Steve Rogers was the one doing the breaking.

You think back to the night that you two decided that this was something serious, something worth risking your hearts over.

You had to breakup with Steve Rogers.

Well, technically, you couldn’t breakup with someone who wasn’t your boyfriend, but you had to end whatever this was. You knocked on the door of his Midtown Manhattan apartment timidly and took a step back, waiting for the super soldier to answer the door.

He was surprised when he saw you. “Y/n, hey!” He pulled you in for a kiss, but you tilted your head so his lips landed on your cheek. “Why are you here? Not, uh, that I mind. I mean- come in.” He finally got out.

You stepped into his apartment and stopped in the foyer. His apartment at Stark Tower his huge. It made yours seem like a shoebox. When Steve realized you weren’t following him he turned to look at you questioningly.

“What’s up, Y/n?” He asked you.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.” You blurt out.

Steve raised his eyebrows, studying you for a second. “This about the other night?” He asks, eyes searching yours.

You look away. The other night.

It was really just like any other night. You went to the only dive bar the two of you could find in Midtown, got drunk in the dark, and stumbled back to Steve’s. He pulled you into his room, just like always, hips grinding into yours, breath heavy in your ears.

The electricity in the air sparked and shattered. In those moments, you were the only two in the world. He whispered in your ear about how beautiful you were and how much he loved the sounds you made and ‘c’mon baby, come with me’ so intense that you got choked up.

When the raging hormones and the buzz of the alcohol wore off you and Steve slumped into the bed, a pile of sweaty limbs. “Wow.” Steve chuckled, “That was, uh… different.”

“Yeah.” You agreed, mind already a million miles away.

“Good different?” He asked, hand running over the skin on your waist.

You nodded vaguely, not meeting his eyes. You wanted to leave, run as far from his bed as you could. Whatever that just was, you definitely weren’t ready for it.

When Steve woke up the next morning, you were gone.

You avoided him for nearly a week, until you finally worked up the nerve to go to his apartment and end things.

“The other night?” You asked, “What? No. Just… I don’t think this is working anymore.”

“This is totally about the other night.” Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. “Y/n, it was really intense and kind of scary for me too. But you can’t run from this.”

“From what?” You practically spit in his face, “We’re dating, whatever. But you’re not my boyfriend, I don’t need to explain to you why I don’t want to see you anymore.” You suddenly sound your age. Bratty and petulant.

“That’s not true and you know it!” Steve yells back, turning on you. When he saw the hurt, vulnerable look in your eyes he took a deep breath. “This isn’t… this is more than the two of us messing around. I know you feel the same way.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, looking anywhere but at him, “I just think it would be easier for both of us-”

“Now, you know I’m not a big fan of taking the easy road.” He smiled softly at you. “Tell me, Y/n, have you ever felt this way about anyone before?”

Truthfully, what happened the other night terrified you. No one had ever made you fell the way Steve Rogers had and it scared the shit out of you. You had wanted to put your tail between your legs and run, but it seemed like Steve wasn’t going to let you do that so easily.

“I’m barely 23 Steve, there’s lots of things I haven’t felt yet.” You told him with a false bravado, hoping he’ll just let you leave and be miserable on your own.

“Are you still seeing those other guys?” He continues.

You sigh and shake your head, ‘no’. When you and Steve had first started seeing each other, you were new to New York City- fresh out of college. You had been dating other people, some you even liked a lot, but when Steve came into your life, they had just seemed a lot more boring.

“Then why are you running from this?” Steve asked, eyes boring into yours. He took a step closer and you stepped back.

The two of you stood across his foyer, his eyes searching yours. Eventually you say, so low that if it wasn’t for his enhanced hearing he would have missed it, “I’m so scared.”

And then he was in front of you, big hands on your shoulders. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He whispers. “I… I need you, y/n.”

It only took one look at his face for you to believe him. The man wore all his emotions on his sleeve. “C’mon.” He said, grabbing one of your hands and pulling you into the living room, down onto one of the couches. There, you hashed it out. You told him that you were young and scared and he told you that as long as he’d been alive he’d never felt the same way about anyone.

That was the night he convinced you he was staying. The next day he introduced you to Bucky and Sam. “This is, Y/n.” He said, slipping an arm around your waist in a way that showed the other two men that you were his, and he wanted them to know it.

So, just like that, you and Steve Rogers were going steady.

“Anything planned for his birthday?” Sarah asks you, pulling you from your thoughts.

“I wanted to, but he just wants to hang, I guess.” You shrug. “I think we’ll just cookout, maybe watch fireworks on my roof? I don’t know. He literally took me to Montauk for my birthday.” You sigh, thinking back to the perfect weekend in May.

Sarah looks at you, “He’s obsessed with you, Y/n. I think as long as you guys are together, he’ll be happy.”

“Yeah. I guess.” You sigh, biting your lip. The two of you return to your lunches.

The next few hours of work drag on. Not only was it the day before a holiday, but you hadn’t seen your boyfriend in nearly a week, and on top of all of that you were terribly stressed about Steve’s birthday. You all but ran out of the office when five o’clock rolled around.

You spent most of the next morning at the store, picking up beer and charcoal for the grill. Your plans for a backyard barbeque are slightly derailed when you see your neighbors in your shared backyard, party in full swing already.

With a shrug, you decide the rooftop of your apartment will be just fine for the evening. You drag everything you can carry up the few flights of stairs and short ladder it takes to get to the rooftop. Once you’re up there, you begin to set up a blanket against the low wall that encloses the roof of your building.

Steve arrives 15 minutes early, like he always does, and calls you when he realizes the door to your apartment is locked.

“Hey!” You answer your phone on the first ring, “Small change of plans, I’m up on the roof. Can you grab the grill that I left at the bottom of the ladder and bring it up?”

Steve agrees and in just a few moments he’s pulling himself onto the roof, small, foldup grill in hand. He sets it down and gives you a smile. “No backyard?” He asks.

You push a beer into his hands and press a kiss to his mouth. “Happy birthday,” you say around his lips. You feel him smile through your kiss.

When you pull away you explain, “My neighbors are having a party. And I kinda wanted to hang, just the two of us tonight. Is this okay?” You gesture to your setup on the roof. In the almost-year that you have lived in the city, you’ve slowly set up the roof of your apartment with a small table, a few chairs, and some plants.

“Of course it’s okay.” He tells you. He sips his beer and pulls you close, your back to Steve’s chest, his arms around your middle. “Missed you.” He says.

You smile, enjoying the feeling of being in his arms after a week without him. Spending time apart was getting harder and harder, something you were both coming to realize. With a contented sigh, you turn to face him. “Hot dogs?”

Steve grins, “Of course.”

You watch him as he goes through the motions of setting up the grill, lighting the charcoal and removing the hotdogs from the cooler and grabbing the buns. He wears a navy blue t-shirt, that’s just a little tight across his muscled arms and chest, and light wash jeans, and his face is adorned with a pair of dark aviators. He’s fucking gorgeous, and you suddenly feel inadequate in your old white Wrangler top and cutoff shorts. Steve notices you ogle him.

“Like what you see, Y/L/N?” He asks with a smirk.

You stride over to him, sipping your beer. “Don’t blame at me for enjoying the view, Rogers.” You reach up to flirtatiously pull off his sunglasses and put them over your eyes, but you’re immediately distracted by the dark circles under Steve’s eyes.

You place his sunglasses on the table behind you and turn to look at him, face etched with concern. “Shit, when’s the last time you slept, baby?” You weren’t usually one for pet names, but the moniker slipped off your tongue easily when you were worried about him.

The corners of Steve’s lips turn up in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “’S nothin.” He says, suddenly very focused on the hotdogs in front of him.

“Steve…” You warn. There was a time at the beginning of your relationship that Steve would try to hide his pain away from you. He told you it’s because he didn’t want to burden you. You told him that that wasn’t how this was going to work. So he opened up to you more about the weight he felt on his shoulders. Sometimes it could be too much, but you would do anything for him.

“Y/n,” He looks up at you, one hand moving to grip the spot between your shirt and shorts where your skin was exposed, “Just been working with Tony a lot, okay? Please don’t worry.”

“Okay.” You say reluctantly.

Down on the street below you, there’s a loud crack of a bottle rocket going off, followed by the shrieking laughter of children. You feel Steve’s hand on your hip tighten harshly, just for a second, before he releases you completely.

All around you, fireworks explode in reds, blues, and purples. It seems like there’s an apartment on every block lighting off huge fireworks. You put on some music, whatever 4th of July playlist Spotify is advertising and grab another beer and the small joint you rolled from your bag.

Steve watches you dance around the roof, all messy, curly hair and thin limbs. You wore your black Dr. Martins and a cropped white t-shirt and short shorts that he could tell were cut from an old pair of jeans. His discarded sunglasses were perched on your nose. You put the small white joint between your lips and inhaled, the sickly sweet smoke curling around you.

You were just so opposite of the girl that Captain America should be dating, and Steve loved it. You turn to him, and watch him drink you in. He’s lying on the blanket you set up, hand behind his head. “What?” You ask.

“What?” He says back with a grin, “I’m not allowed to enjoy the view too?” You smile and all but skip over to him, feeling the effects of the beer and weed, and straddle his waist. He sits up, leaning back on one arm. You press the joint between his lips and he takes a big hit, coughing a little.

There was something about smoking with him that always sent a thrill through you. Captian America indulging in something illegal, not matter how innocent, would always turn you on a little. He takes another pull of the joint, and you lean down, pausing only when your lips are centimeters from his. One of his hands slips under your shirt and slides up your back as he exhales the smoke into your mouth.

So fucking hot. Steve thinks as you breathe out the smoke and then press your lips to his.

You two eat and drink and enjoy the mild July weather in New York City as the sky darkens. Steve is unusually quiet all evening. Normally, he would be talking your ear off about what he and Bucky used to on the 4th or his week, or anything, but you can barely get a word out of him.

When you have to repeat a question you asked him for the second time and he still doesn’t answer, distracted by the other rooftops around you and the happenings in the street below, you sigh heavily.

“You really don’t want to be up here, do you?” You ask, looking anywhere but Steve, “We could go-”

“What?” He asks, voice sounding a million miles away. “No. This is great. Perfect.”

He gives you a kiss on the temple and pulls you close to him, so you’re leaning against his chest, your body between his legs. You sigh. Clearly, he wasn’t enjoying himself.

You’re busy feeling like a bad girlfriend when the Macy’s fireworks start over the East River. You scoot back a little, so your head leans on Steve’s shoulder, and tilt your head back, lips grazing his chin. “Look.” You say, gesturing to the huge, in-sync fireworks over the Manhattan skyline. Steve simply smiles and pulls your earlobe between his teeth before giving you a quick but passionate kiss on the lips.

You lean back against him again and one of his hands absentmindedly runs up and down your thigh. Just as you’re about to comment about how cool the fireworks look over the city, there’s the cracking sound of your next door neighbors lighting off their own fireworks followed by two or three incredibly loud bangs, directly above your heads.

Before you even have time to flinch, you’re being shoved to the ground, head cracking off the cement building, and Steve’s body is covering your own, pinning you down. “Steve!” Your voice is muffled by his shirt and all you can hear is his ragged breathing in your ear. You try to push him off you but he doesn’t budge. You cry out in pain as his body pushes you further into the hard surface.

“Steve,” You repeat, more frantically, “That hurts.”

Steve hears you this time, because within seconds he is pushing himself off the ground up to his knees. He whips his head around, looking for potential danger before the sight of you on the ground in front of him brings him back to reality. He’s at your apartment in Bushwick. It was just a firework. We’re okay. Y/n is okay. He repeats the mantra in his head.

“Oh, god, Y/n…” Steve looks at you desperately. “Oh my god, I’m-”

He’s cut off by your next door neighbors lighting off more fireworks, so loud you can’t even hear yourself think. Steve falls forward, head between his hands, tugging at his hair.

A feeling of absolute dread washes over you when you realize what’s going on. The fireworks. The way his body covered yours, like he was shielding you from gunfire.

The banging stops and you and Steve look at each other, matching expressions of horror creeping across your faces. You feel like you could cry. Of course he hates his birthday. The sounds of the fireworks must bring him back to the battleground. Italy. Sokovia. Midtown Manhattan. It didn’t matter.

“Steve…” Your voice sounds watery, even to your own ears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He ignores your question, reaching up with one hand to caress the back of your head, feeling for blood or a bump and looking in your eyes for any sign of a concussion, “Did I hurt you?” He asks, hands trailing down your body, checking for any signs of harm.

“No.” You lie. You were going to have a gnarly bump on your head, “Steve.” You repeat your question, “Why?”

Steve drops his hands from your body and leans away from you. “It’s nothing.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, “That’s not how we do things.” You remind him, moving so you’re directly in front of him.

He leans forward, dropping his forehead so it rests on your shoulder. “I can’t tell people.” He explains. “I don’t want them to think that I’m…” He searches for the right word, “Broken.”

“I didn’t ask why you didn’t tell people,” You say, “I asked why you didn’t tell me.”

One of Steve’s hands slides under your shirt and up your back again, anchoring you to him. A shiver runs down your spine at the feel of his hand on you. Despite himself, Steve smiles a little.

“I don’t know.” He whispers, “I guess I didn’t want you to think anything of it either.”

“PTSD is nothing to be embarrassed about.” You put a finger under his chin, forcing him to look at you.

“Y/n, PTSD wasn’t even a thing when I was a soldier, okay? It’s all kinda hard to wrap my head around.” His eyes bore into yours, “It’s just… loud noises like fireworks are the worst. Or a car backfiring. It’s like I’m back there and there’s nothing I can do to make it stop. Only when something happens that shouldntt. Does that make sense? But it doesn’t happen when I’m like out there yanno? I’m not putting people in danger or anything.Sometimes I have nightmares…” He trails off, cheeks red.

“Baby…You don’t have to explain anything to me. I understand.” You start, your fingers tracing the dark circles under his eyes. He must be exhausted, there have been fireworks from every corner of the city, every night this week. Steve leans into your touch. “What can I do?” You ask desperately.

He looks at you, eyes softening, “Just be here.” He tells you truthfully.

You nod frantically and strain your neck upward to kiss him. Steve opens his mouth immediately to capture your lips with his. You try to put all of your emotions into the kiss, to tell him you won’t ever leave him alone. A whimper claws at the back of your throat and you slip your arm around his neck as Steve crushes you against his chest. You try to pull yourself as close as possible to him tugging against him frantically.

“Y/n,” He murmurs before his tongue dips into your mouth. It sends a rush of moisture between your thighs, and you’re suddenly achingly aware of how wet her panties are already.

You break away suddenly, but only to yank your ratty t-shirt over your head. Steve watches you, breathing hard. “Y/n,” He breathes, “What if someone sees.”

“No one will see us up here,” You say, trying to tug Steve’s shirt off as well. Once you have it off him, your hands splay across his chest.

So perfect.

Steve chuckles a bit, “Thanks.”

Your cheeks turn red, you hadn’t realized you’d said that out loud. Of course, you had voiced to Steve just how attractive you found him before. But, if you were being honest, the super soldier’s physique made you feel more than self-conscious. You were all sharp edges, bony knees and elbows. You knew men liked curves, and you were lacking in that department.

Steve busies himself by latching his mouth to your neck, sucking on the delicate flesh on the hollow of your throat, and just like that you forget any self-consciousness you have around him. You tip your head back with a moan that goes directly to his groin. One of your legs swings over his him and you use your momentum to push him back on the blanket, your knees on either side of his hips. You think of the way his body covered yours when he thought you were in danger and weave your hands through his hair.

You kiss over his jaw, down his throat and chest, enjoying the feel of him under you. When your teeth catch one of his nipples, it’s his turn to moan, thrusting his hips up to into yours. You reach down to unbutton his jeans, the two of you clumsily working your way out of your clothes. Steve watches you dumbly as you pull off his tight, black boxer briefs, his cock springing free from the constricting fabric. You can’t resist running your hand over it, and he inhales sharply when you fist the shaft in your hand.

Normally, the two of you take your time. He’ll make you fall apart one, two times with his fingers or his tongue before he pushes into you- but tonight is different. Steve pulls you up his body desperately, molding his lips to yours. You reach down between your bodies and guide him inside of you.

The head of his cock parts your folds and you undulate your hips a little to accommodate his girth, you and Steve both groan at the sensation. When he’s fully seated inside you, you close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, adjusting to his size. Steve was big and this position always hurt a little at first.

“Good?” Steve asks after a few moments, voice strained. You can tell it’s taking everything in him to keep still right now. He stares up at you adoringly, hands flexing around your thighs.

You nod, bracing your hands against his chest and begin to move on top of him, rocking your hips forward. On any side of you, fireworks light up the sky in pinks, purples, blues, and golds. Steve watches the light from them color your skin. “You’re so beautiful.” He says reverently.

Steve inhales through his teeth, eyes flitting between your face and the place where your bodies are connected. Using your shins for leverage, you ride him, rising up and down above him as your pussy clenches vice-like around his cock. His fingers tighten on your thighs and he moans gravelly.

“My god, Y/n. You feel so…. Fuck.”

“Mmm,” You moan in agreement, clenching around him. You smiles when he moans louder.

Steve props himself up on one elbow, sliding his other hand up your thigh and abdomen so he can cup your breast. When he squeezes firmly you close your eyes and sigh; he teases your nipple, pinching it and pulling it between his thumb and forefinger, and you thrust down on him harder, pussy fluttering around him from the pleasure resonating from his attention to your nipple.

“Steve,” You gasp when he sits up to clamp his teeth around the bud. Your clit is throbbing, and you buck your hips forward to relieve the building tension. Your clit comes in contact with his pubic bone. “Steve,” His name falls from your mouth on a moan.

He stills your hips with his hands so he can thrust into you repeatedly. One hand remains on your hip when the other travels down to where you’re connected, thumb ghosting over your clit. You spasm in his arms and fall forward into his chest. “Like that?” He pants in your ear, adding more pressure to the sensitive bud.

“Oh, god. Yes, Steve,” You say his name like a prayer when his hips start to move with more urgency.

“You gonna cum?” He grunts in a strained voice.

“Yes, fuck. Just don’t stop.” You suck on his earlobe, “Please don’t stop.” It doesn’t take long, with his manipulation of your clit enhanced by his cock filling you over and over, stretching your walls. You come a moment later with an unrestrained cry, falling into Steve.

Your walls pulse around his cock, and his grunts become raspier and more erratic, thrusts slamming into your hips, threatening to split you open. You’re so caught up in your own orgasm that you barely register when Steve comes a moment later.

“Shit, Y/n.” He swears with a groan, stilling below you before resumes rocking, just barely. His hands slide down your sides and he slips out of you and falls back onto the blanket, pulling you with him. You’re both sticky with sweat and your arousal, breathing heavily into each other.

Steve runs his hand up and down your back at your heartbeats slow down. Not looking at you, he says quietly, “Sometimes I feel like I have to be strong for them all the time.”

You prop yourself up on his chest a little. You don’t say anything or force him to go on. You’re not sure if he’s talking about the other avengers or the rest of the world. Probably both.

“So, when something like tonight happens, or when I have a nightmare I guess, it makes me feel so weak.” His eyes finally meet yours.

You touch his face with your fingertips, “You don’t have to be Captain America all the time, Steve.” You say, “Especially not with me. The reaction you had to the fireworks was so normal.” You stress to him.

The hand on your back moves up to the back of your head. He feels around under your hair and stops when he feels the bump from when your head hit the ground. You wince when he applies a little pressure.

Steve drops his hand. “I hurt you.” His eyes don’t meet yours.

“I’m sure it will be the last time.” You tell him matter-of-factly.

He glances up at you and sees the complete trust in your eyes. He sighs your name and weaves his hand into your hair gently, tilting your head up for a kiss. Fireworks erupt around the two of you, loud and incessant, but Steve tries not to pay them any mind.

He just focuses on the steady rise and fall of your chest on his, the low vibration of your voice running through his body. You look at him, light from the fireworks dancing in his eyes.

Pressing your lips to his, you whisper, “Happy birthday, Steve.”

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rodgers imagine #steve rogers smut #chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans x reader #marvel imagine #happy birthday cap #captain america #captain america x you #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fluff #chris evans imagine #avenger!steve

412 notes · View notes

lilyvandersteen · 6 years ago

Text

Puppy Eyes Chapter 15

This chapter (Kurt’s POV) is as angsty as the one that came before, but I promise you a happy ending, cross my heart. Hang in there, please! They will sort things out in the end!

Thank you so much to everyone who sends me feedback - you’re wonderful and you spur me on to keep writing :-)

This story is also on AO3 and on Fanfiction.net.

The other parts can be found here: Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14

Chapter 15: A Nasty Shock

Kurt had to hand it to R/GA’s PR department: they knew how to throw a party. The venue they’d hired was upscale and tastefully decorated, the drinks and the finger food were of good quality, and the music was excellent and would get even better once Justin Timberlake arrived.

Standing there talking to Joanne and Peter, Blaine’s hand warm and comforting on his lower back, Kurt felt his apprehension about the party fade away. He’d dreaded coming here, but perhaps he’d been too hasty to condemn Sebastian and his pursuit of Blaine. He’d seen hide nor hair of him so far, and he hoped it would stay that way, so that he and Blaine could enjoy the evening.

When Sebastian finally did turn up, Blaine was just gone to the restroom. Perfect. Kurt hoped that Blaine would stay away until Sebastian had moved on to another group of people. The guy got on his nerves, though, first touching Joanne in a way that made her feel uncomfortable, and then slapping Kurt’s ass out of the blue.

Kurt slapped Sebastian’s hand right back and made him leave with a flea in his ear. Honestly! Did the guy have NO sense of boundaries?

Blaine came back with happy tidings – there would be karaoke later! And Blaine wanted to sing with Kurt!

Now that the Sebastian threat had passed, Kurt relaxed and had a good time. Justin Timberlake was a great performer – and easy on the eyes – and Kurt happily bopped to the beat. Every now and then, he snuck a glance at Blaine next to him, who was dancing with abandon and cracked Kurt up with his dorky moves.

Towards the end of the concert, though, Kurt got a nasty shock when his head turned Blaine’s way again.

Sebastian had found Blaine, and was plastered against him, his front against Blaine’s back. Blaine, far from jumping away and berating Sebastian, wriggled even closer, his ass against Sebastian’s crotch, his eyes closed and the corners of his mouth turned up into a wide smile.

Kurt felt as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over him. Numb and cold to the bone, he watched the nightmare unfold – Blaine and Sebastian, moving sinuously to the music, until Sebastian was quite clearly thrusting more than dancing, grinding his hard-on against Blaine’s ass.

Still, Blaine seemed content. He didn’t move away at all. He didn’t grimace. He grinned. He seemed to really enjoy Sebastian’s attentions.

So that’s what I should have done, is it? Jump Blaine’s bones from the get-go?

Kurt shuddered. No, that wasn’t his style at all.

Justin Timberlake ended his last song to loud applause, and Kurt clapped politely.

Well, if Sebastian is who Blaine wants, I won’t cramp his style. But I need to sing a song to get all these feelings out before they choke me…

So Kurt headed to the karaoke machine, and signed up for the first slot. Of course, the song he wanted wasn’t available, but he told Sandra he’d sing it without musical accompaniment.

As soon as he started singing, all his feelings rushed through him and poured out into the song – the love he felt, the uncertainty Blaine had kept him in, the anger and the sadness that caused, and now the heartbreak caused by Blaine choosing Sebastian over him.

Kurt sang most of the song with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, the first person he saw was Blaine, alone now, and looking at him starry-eyed and beaming.

In his head, he heard Mr Zakharov’s mocking voice, “Up to his old tricks, is he, Blaine? Making you feel like you’re the only boy in the world to him and then friend-zoning you?”

Yes, that was exactly what Blaine did. Over, and over, and over. But Kurt wasn’t going to fall for it again. Ever. No way. He’d been putting up with it for far too long already, and he’d reached his limit. He’d had it with Blaine and his running hot and cold. Yes, he loved him, and that would probably ache for the rest of his life, but this was not a healthy situation to stay in, so he needed to get out of it. Now. No doubt Rachel would let him crash at her place until he got another dog sitting assignment.

As soon as Kurt had finished singing, he hopped off the stage and ran to the exit, already checking his pockets for his subway card and figuring out which line he needed to take to get from this venue to Bushwick.

Someone followed him, and as soon as that person spoke, Kurt knew it was Blaine. He turned around and let Blaine have it.

Blaine, who’d never experienced true Kurt Hummel snark or glares so far, shrank back, but that didn’t stop Kurt at all. He decimated Blaine, and then walked off without another look.

Blaine pursued him, pleaded with him and then offered to kiss him.

That made Kurt see red, and once again he tore into Blaine, viciously. If he really thought that Kurt was that much of a doormat, he had another think coming. Seriously? Ten minutes ago, Blaine was dry-humping with another guy right in front of Kurt, and now he was expecting Kurt to brush that off as if it were nothing and skip into the sunset with him? Delusional!!

Blaine, instead of apologising, turned into a dog.

Well, isn’t that just typical! Anything to avoid a confrontation…

Blaine whined, and Kurt instantly felt a pull towards him, to pet him and soothe him and tell him it would all be okay. He straightened his back and forced himself not to move a muscle, except to say that he couldn’t deal with this right now. He truly couldn’t. One week with Blaine the adorable dog and he’d cave for sure.

And then he jumped out of his skin when someone said, “Let me.”

Who had followed them into the hall and had been eavesdropping?

It proved to be Professor Scher, and she offered to look after Blaine while he was a dog.

Kurt, tired and defeated, agreed to that and handed over Blaine’s collar and leash, turning his back on Blaine and walking away.

Blaine let out a howl so full of pain and despair that it seared through Kurt’s body and stopped him short.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back!

But Kurt, always the masochist, did so anyway, and Blaine’s stricken expression almost brought him to his knees. Why did Blaine have to have such expressive eyes? So. Unfair.

And then Blaine’s eyes turned pleading, and again Kurt felt that pull, but then he remembered what had happened before. That betrayal was still fresh enough to make him choke and tear up, and before he knew it, he was at the subway station, panting and his spleen protesting violently at having had to run so hard.

Now that Professor Scher was taking Blaine home, Kurt decided to go to Blaine’s apartment first and pack up all his stuff, so that he wouldn’t need to go back there. It didn’t take him long. Thanks to his dog-sitting experiences, he’d become an expert at packing, knowing exactly how to roll up and stack everything to fill his suitcase to its maximum capacity in record time.

On his way to Bushwick, he took the key marked ‘Devon’ off his keychain and flipped it over and over in his hand. He’d leave it at Trent and Ashton’s. He had no business keeping it. Still, as he looked at the metal warming on his palm, his first instinct was to close his fist around it. Mine!

Well, you thought that about Blaine, too, and look how that turned out, snapped a snide voice in his head.

Kurt sighed and put the key in his inside pocket.

By the time Kurt had climbed the stairs to the loft with his luggage, he was worn out, and wanted nothing more than to fall face first onto a bed and sleep. But when he pulled open the dragging door, what he saw made him yelp and want to wash his brain with bleach.

Rachel was lying on the sofa, naked, and a guy was kneeling in front of her, eating her out.

Ugh, ugh, ugh!

Kurt shuddered and threw his hands over his eyes just as Rachel shrieked “Kurt!” and scrambled to cover herself.

A moment later, Rachel yelled at him, “What are you doing here?”

But Kurt paid her no mind. He had recognised the guy who was with her, and hissed, “Jesse? How dare you show your face here! You cursed Finn! He died because of you!”

Jesse huffed. “Not that again… I explained to Rachel that I DIDN’T curse Finn. How could I? I don’t have any magic. No-one in my family does. All I meant back then was that Rachel and Finn were never meant to be. They were just too different.”

Jesse put his arm around Rachel and kissed her cheek. “Now, Rachel and me, THAT’s a great match. Both excellent singers and dancers and actors, ambitious and driven…”

Kurt raised an eyebrow and thought, “… and full of yourselves.”

Rachel repeated, “Kurt, what are you doing here?”

“I texted you,” Kurt said. “I had a place to stay lined up, but it fell through last minute. Can I please crash here tonight? Tomorrow I’ll be off to Ohio for Christmas.”

Rachel looked at Jesse, who shrugged.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “But… Jesse’s living here too, now. So…”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow by six a.m. at the latest, I swear. I won’t cramp your style. I just need a place to sleep, and access to a shower, and half a shelf in the fridge, that’s all.”

Rachel nodded. “Okay.”

“My bed’s still over there?” Kurt asks, pointing to the partition wall behind which used to be his ‘room’.

“Yep.”

“Then I’m going to shower and get into bed. Goodnight!”

Kurt didn’t wait for an answer, wheeling his suitcase to his part of the loft, stripping quickly and hopping into the shower.

In bed, he’d expected to fall asleep straightaway, as exhausted as he was, but sleep eluded him. He'd gotten so used to sleeping with Blaine that he couldn’t sleep without him anymore.

Well, isn’t that just great…

After a few hours of tossing and turning, he grabbed his phone and looked up sleep aids. He ended up buying an inflatable boyfriend pillow, to be sent to his father’s address.

Yep. I’m officially pathetic.

K&B

Of course, when he arrived in Ohio, the first thing Burt asked was why he hadn’t brought Blaine.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dad.”

Burt gave him a piercing look, but didn’t press the issue.

Of course, when Carole came home from her shift, she also asked after Blaine.

Kurt, already moving in for a hug, stiffened and turned away. “He’s not coming.”

Carole frowned. “Why not?”

Kurt gritted his teeth. “Because. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

He went to his room, flopped down on the bed and cried himself to sleep.

When he woke up, it was late afternoon. The daylight was dimming into dusk already, his head hurt like hell and his mouth felt like sandpaper.

Knock-knock.

“Come in,” Kurt croaked, and Carole slipped into the room, closing the door behind her.

“I didn’t want you to sleep too long or you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” Carole said, sitting down on the bed.

Kurt shrugged.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Carole asked, gently smoothing his bangs out of his face. “Did you and Blaine break up?”

Kurt scoffed. “For that, we would have had to be dating first.”

“But it felt like you were well on your way there,” Carole protested. “I really thought…”

“Yeah, me too.”

Kurt’s throat was thick as he forced the words out, and Carole’s expression turned even more concerned. “What happened?”

“He likes someone else better.”

Saying it out loud felt like ripping off a plaster, and Kurt couldn’t help the tears that sprung up in his eyes.

Carole switched to bafflement. “Are you sure? That boy worships the floor you walk on!”

“Quite sure. Yes. He left no room for doubt.”

And that dry statement set Kurt off on another bout of ugly sobbing. Carole hastened to take him into her arms and hold him tight.

When Kurt resurfaced, his nose and eyes red and his headache now blinding, Carole patted him on the arm. “I’m going to make you a nice cup of chamomile tea, and then we’re going to watch some Christmas movies on television, with the cinnamon cookies I’ve just taken out of the oven. Come along.”

Sweets and tea and feel-good television couldn’t heal his heart, but they did make him feel slightly better.

Burt thankfully didn’t mention Blaine again the rest of the day, and didn’t ask why Kurt had been crying. Before he and Carole went to bed, though, Burt hugged his son, long and tight, and dropped a kiss on the crown of his head.

Christmas was a quiet affair. Kurt didn’t feel like cooking, so Carole whipped something up. The conversation at the table was halting and a bit stilted, as they all had a hard time avoiding the elephant in the room.

After dinner, Kurt excused himself to his room and worked for school. He debated e-mailing Professor Scher to ask if there was any way he could take the rest of his graphic design classes with her instead of Blaine, but decided that was too petty and childish. He could conquer this. He could.

I can’t promise to be civil to Sebastian, though. I hate him. Out of so many people he could have picked at that party, he goes for Blaine. Was that to spite me because I slapped his hand? And what does Sebastian have that I don’t?

Money, his mind supplied. Sex appeal. Experience.

Hey, you’re supposed to make me feel better, not worse, Kurt protested, and then he laughed, because he was arguing with himself, and how ridiculous was that?

K&B

A few days after Christmas, the dog agency called him with a new dog-sitting assignment. Poodles, this time, and he’d be looking after them for six weeks.

Kurt accepted eagerly, and just after New Year’s, he rolled his suitcase into his new temporary home. The poodles were nice, but their tight black curls made him think of another dog with a dark curly coat, a sweet and cuddly playmate that he missed more than he could say.

At night, the inflatable boyfriend pillow proved invaluable to help him fall asleep. However pathetic it might be, the illusion of having an arm around him was comforting.

He dropped in at Trent and Ashton’s place and gave them the key to Blaine’s apartment. They didn’t seem surprised, only sad, so Blaine must have briefed them already.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hold on to it?” Trent asked tentatively.

Kurt squared his jaw. “Quite sure, thank you.”

“He thought it was you, you know,” Ashton said.

“Uhm, what?”

“Blaine. He thought it was you hugging him from behind.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Seriously? He thought I’d dry-hump him in public? And how could he not tell the difference between me and Sebastian?”

“I know, right?” Trent shouted. “I asked him that too, and he said he smelled a whiff of Creed Green Irish Tweed. And that made him think it was you. He said you borrow his perfume sometimes.”

Kurt bit his lip. “That’s true. I like having his scent around me. And he’s always more affectionate when I smell like him. Probably a dog trait he’s adopted. Still. He should have checked. He broke my heart.”

“And his own into the bargain,” Ashton said. “He’s really depressed.”

Kurt glared at Ashton. “That’s not MY fault! He can’t blame anyone but himself. I’ve been clear about my feelings from the very beginning. He’s the one who kept me hanging and then dry-humped with some other guy.”

“He’d never have done that if he hadn’t thought it was you,” Trent pointed out. “He’s never felt sexually attracted to anyone except you.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “And you know that how?”

Trent clammed up, shifty-eyed.

Ashton giggled. “Trent promised not to tell, but I didn’t, so… Blaine has been having sex dreams about you. And he talked about it with Trent, ‘cause he thought something was wrong with him. He felt horrible about having those dreams.”

Kurt frowned. “As in… he’s never had such dreams before? About anyone? Really? That’s weird.”

Trent shrugged. “I guess he’s asexual. Or demi, seeing as he’s into you.”

Kurt processed that for a moment. “Right. That’s… kind of comforting to know. I thought… I really thought he was into Sebastian.”

Trent made a face. “Ugh, no. He said the guy gives him the creeps. That he wanted to punch his teeth out for touching him that way.”

That made Kurt laugh. “Boxer Blaine in action. Wouldn’t that have been great…”

Kurt eyed the key on the table, then looked away. “I’m still not going back to him, though. If he wants me, he’ll need to PROVE it to me. I’m not going to throw myself away on someone who refuses to commit. I deserve better than that.”

“We’ll pass on the message,” Ashton promised.

“But no stalking me!” Kurt continued. “I don’t want to bump into him wherever I go. And no harassing me in class either. Tell him to give me space.”

“We will,” said Ashton.

“We’re on your side,” Trent added. “Blaine has been taking you for granted. It’s good that he got this wake-up call. We’ll kick his butt into gear, don’t worry.”

Kurt nodded and got up. “I need to get going. Dogs to walk.”

“We still on for jogging tomorrow?” Trent asked.

“Yep. See you then!”

K&B

The next evening, when Kurt and the poodles met up with Trent to go jogging, Trent was grinning ear to ear.

“Wow, you’re in a good mood,” said Kurt.

“Yep.”

“Want to share with the class?”

Trent grinned wider. “Later.”

After half an hour, they slowed to a halt.

“Well, I’m going to take these ladies back home,” Kurt announced, crouching down and scratching one of the poodles under the chin.

Trent zipped his jacket open, and took out a plastic bag containing something rectangular. “Take this, too.”

Kurt accepted the bag and peeked in it. He saw a letter and a long slim box with ‘You bring colour to my life’ written on it in gold lettering.

“From Blaine?” he guessed.

He peeked inside the box, and saw a neat row of colourful macarons.

Trent winked and scampered off, shouting over his shoulder, “Enjoy! I got a box, too, for playing delivery boy.”

“Sweet tooth!” Kurt laughed. He put the box back into the bag and walked back to the apartment he was staying at with a spring in his step.

He waited until bedtime to open the letter, and smiled when he recognised Blaine’s handwriting.

“Dearest Kurt,

I should have told you long before what I was starting to feel for you. You’ve always been open with me, and I admire you for that, but I was scared. Scared because these feelings were new to me, and so strong they overwhelmed me at times.

You came into my life and turned it upside down. You dazzled me. With your smile, your wit, your inspired designs, your honesty and the friendship you offered without asking anything in return.

It’s as if I was living in Dorothy’s Kansas and you brought me to Oz. Suddenly, life had so much more colour and vibrancy to it, because I had you.

I’m sending you macarons today, because I want to be the colour in your life as well. I made these for you. Lemon, for the zing of your retorts. Pistachio, for your delightful nuttiness and the laughs we’ve shared. Chocolate, for the richness of your talent. Rose, for your sense of fashion and your flair. Salted caramel, for all the ways in which you keep surprising me in the most delightful way. Raspberry, for how bright you shine and how much you stand out. Passionfruit, for your passion and your drive. And last but not least coffee, for the kick that you give to any conversation, to each new idea.

You are so stimulating, so innovative, such a bright star. I miss you in my sky.

Please come back whenever you’re ready. I’ll be waiting for you.

With all my love,

Blaine”

#puppy eyes #my fic #chapter 15 #klaine fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

abracadabramagicfood · 2 years ago

Text

What Do you Need to Know about Turkish Coffee?

Coffee is among the most widely loved beverages around the globe. The energy kick it provides is incomparable and indeed refreshes the consumer. It helps them get rid of all the fatigue of the day before and equip themselves with sufficient energy to get going in that new day. For those people, coffee has become an important part of their lives. These days, you can easily find a comprehensive assortment of coffees all around the globe. One of the types of Turkish Coffee in Bushwick Brooklyn.

Turkish coffee is a way of coffee preparation that developed in Middle Eastern and European countries, including Turkey, Iran and Greece. It’s composed by mixing finely ground coffee beans with water (and usually sugar) and fetching the liquid to a sudsy foaming stage, just below boiling.

Turkish coffee is usually brewed in a pot known as a cezve — though any small pot can also accomplish the task. After it arrives to its the desired stage, the brew — including the coffee grinds — is poured into various cups.

The coffee grind powder sticks to the bottom of the cup, and the leftover liquid is ready for the consumption. Unfiltered coffee will lead to higher caffeine concentration which is not usually gained from other coffee preparation methods. As it offers a highly concentrated dose of caffeine that may benefit athletes as they need more energy to excel in their field.

It can be served unsweetened but is typically crafted with moderate amounts of sugar. Another common addition is spice cardamom.

#Best coffee expresso Bushwick #Food Order Online in Brooklyn

0 notes

v-raovatcom · 2 years ago

Text

Saat Usaha Kecil Menaikkan Harga, Beberapa Pelanggan Menolak Berita Pemasaran dan Iklan, ET BrandEquity

Inflasi tidak hanya menghabiskan uang usaha kecil. Itu juga merugikan klien mereka. Di Bushwick Grind Cafe di Brooklyn, New York, Kymme Williams-Davis menaikkan harga dan beralih ke berbagai jenis barang untuk mengimbangi kenaikan biaya susu, kopi, barang-barang kertas, dan plastik, serta kekurangan barang-barang seperti cangkir kertas dan tutup plastik. Belum pernah mengalami hal seperti itu…

View On WordPress

0 notes

toogoodtogobk · 2 years ago

Photo

My Too Good to Go order from Bushwick Grind Cafe in Bushwick: a banana nut muffin, a blueberry donut, and a breakfast croissant with sausage and tomato. My Too Good to Go cost: $3.99.

This was a last-minute purchase that I got because I was close by during the pick-up time. I was happy with the surprise bag. All the items were tasty.

#too good to go #brooklyn #bushwick #bushwick grind cafe #baked goods

1 note · View note

reveal-the-news · 2 years ago

Text

As small businesses raise prices, some customers push back

Kim Shanahan, who runs the online store Gifts Fullfield, stacks Get Well Soon boxes in her store Thursday, Sept. 8, 2022, in Berlin, Md. It is a fulfillment project for another company to create jobs in his company. (AP Photo/Todd Dudek) By MAE Anderson AP Business Writer New York Inflation doesn’t just cost small businesses money. It is also costing their customers. At the Bushwick Grind Cafe…

View On WordPress

0 notes

rivaltimes · 2 years ago

Text

Inflation drives away customers and overwhelms the owner

New York- Inflation isn’t just costing small businesses money. They are also costing them customers. At the Bushwick Grind Cafe in Brooklyn, New York, Kymme Williams-Davis raised prices and switched to different types of products to keep up with rising prices for milk, coffee, paper and plastic items, as well as the shortage of items such as paper cups and plastic lids. She hadn’t experienced…

View On WordPress

0 notes

awutar · 2 years ago

Text

Strong inflation drives away small business customers

Kymme Williams-Davis takes an order at her Bushwick Grind Cafe on September 8, 2022 in New York. (AP Photo/Bebeto Matthews) AP Inflation isn’t just costing small businesses money. They are also costing them customers. At the Bushwick Grind Cafe in Brooklyn, New York, Kymme Williams-Davis raised prices and switched to different types of products to keep up with rising prices for milk, coffee,…

View On WordPress

0 notes

insideusnet · 2 years ago

Text

As Small Businesses Raise Prices, Some Customers Push Back : Inside US

By MAE ANDERSON, AP Business Writer NEW YORK (AP) — Inflation isn’t only costing small businesses money. It’s costing them customers as well. At the Bushwick Grind Cafe in Brooklyn, New York, Kymme Williams-Davis has raised prices and switched to different types of goods to keep up with the rising costs of milk, coffee, paper goods and plastic, as well as shortages of items such as paper cups…

View On WordPress

0 notes

caltropspress · 3 years ago

Text

DEBRIEFING: 27 November 2021 | Brooklyn, NY | TREVORSHAUS

There’s a lot of wires...trying to clear my space… Trapped in a communal identity. Cannibal Ox’s “Pigeon” blares. Vast Aire tesseract-stares through space and time: “In this frigid, fragile capsule, / That allows you to fly south before the winter winds trap you.” Somewhere on the borderline between Bushwick and Bed-Stuy, where “FTP” chalks the sidewalk and “ACAB” is Kryloned cursively across the street. The girders of the elevated tracks running above Broadway are bombed-out. (We were under the underground.) Better days behind; better days ahead. Where was I, some temporary autonomous zone? Circle-A commune stylings, and intentions are always messy, but collective effort inspires. An altar of prayer candles and sigils, zines and incense. We don’t really need altars, is what my money clip of small bills reads. Legal tender. Cowrie shells. Coat drive for the cold, chilled to the bone. (Make noise for the clothes on your back, AKAI SOLO implores.) The whiff of Obama incense: “Somewhere between Saturday night and Sunday morning. / You want it all, but it can’t save you.” ELUCID was Black Herman in the fugue state, hoodoo headaching. I fight the night just to save the day, Dreamcrusher sighs, suspires [from below + breathe] nihilistically, queerly. Fertile is a feeling, and this seemed like a hovel where’ing those flowers grow. Rose from concrete. Four Skinny Trees from the sidewalk slabs of Mango Street. (Avocado prices going up…) “When the seeds from the trees of the bounty not fruitful.” AKAI throaty with his raps through nebulae, ibliss at his back. Blackout of ’77. Arson fires and gentrifiers. No gentle fires. Hyssop sneaks through the cracks. God speed, you Black emp-ruh. Didn’t someone once say we’re trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death? Did I hear wrong? The sun has fallen down. “The Masters Clock is X”, a concerto in X minor. Control’s an illusion. He’s Sonnet 29 howling, and “screaming in the void only gave [him] a sore throat.” And trouble deaf heaven with his bootless cries. You don’t have to be here if you don’t wanna. I wanna. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, the Hunter urged. Centennial Gardens, quite contrary. How does your garden grow? From Dreamcrusher: “I love when nature takes over, like when shrubs and bushes climb buildings...pictures of centuries-old structures completely taken by nature.” For Geng, it’s about “intentionally inviting our people to challenging tradition in the journey—never to alienate…. a familiar place of love & spirit & energy.” Dreamcrusher’s menagerie of musks wafts and KING VISION ULTRA’s nub of Palo Santo glows in the gossamer of smoke. [...trying to clear my space…] And then you hear the anvil snares and glass-cutter percussion. Love, love, love, love, love. [WE MOVE WITH LOVE!] Scuzzed and fuzzy. Diaphragm-damaged goodness. [IT’S STILL WILD LOVE!] “You can fathom it—I trust you.” Prison doors creak. Metal grinds. Blades sharpen on grindstone. “There’s no room for de-vi-a-tion!” Mic pass to Fatboi Sharif bladdered on coconut vodka, crying out, “Mass abundance, / Kidnapped in the dungeon.” He speaks of epochs ending, every time. He is a zeitgeist, a duppy deading us instantaneously. [SELF-ACTUALIZATION!] The most baleful and beautiful bassline there’s ever been: Wu-Tang’s “Clan in Da Front,” which samples The New Birth’s 1971 psychedelic soul smite “Honeybee.” Here, tempo slowed, drug through the gutter. Like a mouthful (a godawful maw-full) of bees, the swarming ribcage of Tony Todd. Our bodies buzzing. The toilet seat had only one working hinge, and I expected a honeycomb when I pinned back the lid. The pit! In the pit we were all pendulum’d from side to side. It was sick—sick unto death with that long agony. AKAI SOLO summoned back: he shrieks. Dreamcrusher steps into beyond. “Take off my mask, baby, and see what I’ve become. SEE WHO I’VE BECOME!!!” What is this Precious Silence before H31R? The nanosecond before JWords plugs into the aux. No signal loss. The signal flare is tossed. “You can’t put your spirit on sale,” maassai says. Donations only in this space. Pay what you can. “You just wanna take my big spirit, throw it in a flame.” Sacrificial. Take a hold of the person next to you and sway to JWords’ squealing winds. We | will | not | tolerate | beating, | lynching, | burning, | whipping, | pillaging, | torturing, or “toxic behavior” of any kind. maassai warns those who “wanna wear [her] like a face.” Semiratruth leads the call-and-response, ritual and the rawest democratizing of voices: “MY GAWD.” I be disassociating… Hard to maintain my om mantra. Don’t believe me? Just watch my chakras. Omicron circulates in our consciousness, transmitting over planetary currents. I caught a case of the Covid creeps [I caught the vapors...vapors...vapors...] with mucosa on my backpack which I had set on the floor, blunt smoke permeating the fibers of my layered fur. Walls closing in. “To be the norm—not to be normalized,” followed by a primal scream Janovian yowl. Noise that cuts like metal burrs. Brrr, it was brick, and the weather outside was frightful. First snowfall of the season speculations, but I didn’t see even a dusting on the New Jerusalem side of the Hudson. SILENT WEAPONS. Been killarmy’d. Silent Weapons for Dirty Wars: the top secret programming manual, “uncovered quite by accident” in 1986. A Boeing employee purchased a surplus IBM copier for scrap parts and “discovered inside details of a plan, hatched in the embryonic days of the ‘Cold War’ which called for control of the masses through manipulation...diverting the public’s attention from what’s really going on.” The original doc insidious, of course, but the proliferation of the text (found in a copier!) a gift to the people. A tape dub. The weather in Brooklyn dropped to near-freezing. Feeling frigid like Vordul Mega’s “Eskimo metal.” I felt I was under siege of sound, listening to Black visionaries bringing war like revolutionaries. I heard drunk and deadly poetry over murderous melodies. AKAI says to make melody out of this mess. Yes.

Photo credits: caltrops. | Detail of “Silent Weapons” flyer design by Dreamcrusher

0 notes