#its been going on since half 6 this morning its relentless

[timoswerner]

these new people that have moved in 2 doors down have not endeared themselves to anyone i want moose the cats owners back

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Mr. Gallagher and Me

Jim x Reader

A/n- I feel like y'all are gonna figure me out with this one, but its fine lol

Playlist Chapter 6 Masterlists

Chapter 7

Jim introduces Y/n to an old friend. Insecurities and a repeated mistake may lead to the end of Jim and Y/n's relationship

Early November The diner Jim had taken her to while they were grading papers a year earlier had unofficially become ‘their place’ and every time they ate there, they'd split a Knickerbocker for dessert. They were probably on track to becoming the establishment’s best customers, not that either of them minded. She and Jim had gone that day primarily to get away from the hustle of the pre-exam season, his students had been requesting private meetings left and right, most of them eagerly asking for extensions or extra credit assignments and while Jim was usually as accommodating as possible, that day, he’d disclosed that he really just wanted to have one lunch without a nervous freshman knocking on his door and asking if he had ‘five minutes to spare’. Likewise, Y/n was growing tired of devoting her scraps of free time, left over from making final corrections to her thesis, helping Jim grade midterms and assisting with compiling the exam papers, to students that had opted to skip classes over the past few months, only to gather some concern for their GPA at the end of the semester. 

“Feels like we’re running away,” Y/n laughed softly, bringing her tea to her lips. 

“We are running away,” Jim chuckled, licking his lower lips before taking a sip of his coffee, “But it's for good reason because those first years are relentless,” he huffed, leaning further against the cushioned back of his seat. 

Y/n was about to respond when the bell over the diner’s front door jingled and two women walked in, one significantly younger than the other, though both were tall brunettes. Most of the patrons were usually regulars and every time she and Jim went there, she could recognize almost everyone in the establishment as someone she’d seen before, but the pair that had just entered, she’d never seen them before. After a moment though, as they got seated at a table near her and Jim’s preferred booth, Y/n stopped paying any mind to them. 

“I’m just gonna run to the bathroom,” Y/n said quietly as she stood abruptly, “Be right back.”

“Are you okay?” Jim knitted his brows, making her pause reluctantly.

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?’ Y/n frowned, a little annoyed that he was holding her back when she really had to use the bathroom. “It's just the tea,” she waved off his concern and before he could say anything else, she hurried off towards the back, where the ladies room was. 

She didn’t take any longer than ten minutes in the restroom, making a mental note to slow down on the fluids for the rest of the evening. Even if she had brushed of Jim’s innocent concern, Y/n had to admit, running to the bathroom that often was becoming annoying; immediately after she’d arrived on campus that morning, twice during a review session she’d held for a few students, when she and Jim had gotten to the diner and then just now- she didn’t even think she’d drank that much of anything! The worst part was that it had been going on for weeks, since they’d gotten back from Derry, according to her calculation. 

But she felt completely fine otherwise, so there couldn’t have been anything to worry about. 

Of course there'd been headaches and back pain sometimes, but that was just stress. 

Shaking off the thoughts, Y/n finished drying her hands and then checked her hair in the mirror before heading out in the direction of their usual booth. She was almost half way there when she caught a glimpse of the brunette woman from earlier, standing at their table, talking to Jim. He was standing too, and they looked like they knew each other well. For a minute, she paused, trying to figure out if returning to the table would be an intrusion. Though, she wasn't given much time to think it through though, because when Jim turned his head, he glimpsed Y/n and then gestured for her to come over. 

Smiling, Y/n approached them, her nerves settling a little when Jim’s arm snake around her waist, “Yvonne,” he diverted from whatever their original conversation was about, and Y/n’s breath upon hearing the woman’s name. Yvonne, he’d mentioned her name a couple times; his wife’s best friend, the woman he had an affair with. “This is my girlfriend, Y/n.”

“Oh,” Yvonne smiled kindly, albeit a little stiffly, extending her hand and after a few seconds of hesitation, Y/n took it so they could shake warmly. In that moment, Y/n realized that the woman she’d been expecting after hearing  Jim’s story was completely different to the one whose hand she’d just shaken, and it was no fault of his. She was the one that had conjured up some cruel, selfish vixen, but Yvonne seemed nice, quiet and shy, and from just their first interaction, Y/n could tell that she might be a little like Jim. Maybe, besides the boredom and turmoil in their respective marriages, that was what had connected them. “This is the woman you told me you were seeing, when we met for dinner?” She asked innocently, glancing at Jim.

Y/n’s eyes went wide and she too regarded Jim. “Er, no,” he chuckled nervously, “That was Orla,” he smiled tightly, “We broke up a couple months after that,” he informed softly, “That was last year,” he smiled to Y/n, “About eight months before we met.”

“Oh, my mistake!” The woman one had to her chest and Y/n exhaled audibly upon realizing that she’d been the confused one- for a minute, she thought he’d been meeting with Yvonne while they were together. “Well it's so nice to meet you Y/n, you’ve got a good one,” she teased lightly. 

“I know,” Y/n laughed too, still a little tense about the whole thing but quickly deciding that she had nothing to worry about, she trusted Jim. 

Next to her, Jim chuckled too, the sound was soft and bashful, “Uh, Yvonne was just telling me that her daughter is interested in Trinity’s Chemical Science’s program, so they did a tour of the campus today.”

“That’s amazing!” Y/n quipped brightly, “Trinity has been great for me, I’m sure she’ll love it here,” she added without thinking.

Yvonne knitted her brows and tilted her head slightly, “You’re a student?” She probed curiously. 

Realizing what she’d said, Y/n attempted to hide her surprise and stuttered, only for Jim to swoop in and attempt to save face, “We work together,” he interjected, squeezing her hip reassuringly. It wasn’t a complete lie just….a safer version of the truth.

“Oh, right,” Yvonne waved her hand casually, “You just look so young,” she added and they all chortled softly, though, for Jim and Y/n it was a bit awkward and forced. As their laughter quieted down, Jim and Yvonne fell into easy conversation once more. With her lips caught between her teeth, Y/n lingered there as they caught up, trading anecdotes about their children, sharing little bits of information about mutual friends and updates on their lives. They went on for a while, seemingly oblivious to her presence and as they carried on and at some point, Jim’s hand fell from her waist, slipping into the pockets of his jeans. Even having not seen each in over a year, Yvonne and Jim were perfectly familiar, if she were on the outside of the situation and hadn’t known them, she might have suspected that Yvonne and Jim were the couple and she was the third wheel. And with that thought,  Y/n let her mind wander to another; 

Was she the right person for him?

Mid November  One would have suspected that Jim would have learned the first time around, but he hadn’t, not really. Maybe he was just an idiot. He couldn’t believe he’d let something like that happen, he should have pulled away, he should have suggested that they not have anymore wine, he shouldn’t have gone to dinner with Yvonne in the first place. Not after Y/n had told him she didn’t feel like going because she had another headache. He should have stayed with her, like a good boyfriend. But he’d gone to dinner with Yvonne, as they’d planned a week earlier. It was really supposed to be the three of them, but when Y/n had said she wasn’t feeling up to it, she’d told him to go ahead without her, that she’d be fine on her own and was planning to sleep it off anyway. And so, he’d gone alone, well, alone with Yvonne. 

Everything had been going well for the most part, but by the end of the night, Yvonne had started talking about how her youngest was about to start university and she was dreading being home alone, without her kids. She’d also said that even though she’d been dating around since her husband had passed, no one had made her feel the way Jim had when they’d been sneaking around. By the end of the night, she’d had way more wine than he had and Jim didn’t think it would have been very responsible of him to let her take a cab or the bus, so he’d offered to drive her home. The ride back to her place had been pleasurably uneventful when they’d stopped in front of her place though, she’d leaned over the console and Jim had been convinced that she’d been going in for a hug. 

She’d kissed him instead. 

"She's too young for you, don't you think?"

"No," he'd chuckled nervously, "She's-" and just like that, her lips, soft and stained with wine, were on his.

“Well,” Y/n folded her arms, standing past the kitchen counter, the granite acting as the only physical barrier between them. "Did you kiss her back?"

"It doesn't matter," Jim reasoned, walking around the counter, only for Y/n to hastily move away, evading his touch. 

"What the hell do you mean "it doesn't matter"?" She retorted incredulously, "And frankly you saying that is answer enough," Y/n's voice broke and Jim felt his heart chip; he'd never seen her cry, emotional sure, but never in tears and he hated that he was the reason for them.

"It didn't even last-"

"So you did!" Y/n turned her face away as she put her hands to her lip, “Oh my God,” even if Jim couldn’t see her, he could hear Y/n’s soft sobs and they only served to shatter his already broken heart; he couldn’t believe he’d done that to her. The kiss hadn’t even lasted very long, Jim had pushed Yvonne away from the minute he’d realized himself, and despite her less than credible state, Yvonne had taken the visible disappointment in stride; walking up to the front door, only offering one halfhearted wave before heading inside. 

But he’d still done it. Even if kissing another woman had proven what Jim knew to be true- that he didn’t ever want to kiss another pair of lips but Y/n’s- it couldn’t be justified. He’d hurt another woman he loved. 

“Y/n,’ Jim reasoned desperately, “I swear to you, it doesn’t mean anything.-”

“Yes it does!” She yelled, pitifully hoarse, “Do you wanna be with her? Is that it?” She heaved mournfully. 

“No, no, definitely not,” he returned hurriedly, hoping Y/n would find truth in his urgency, “I want you, just you.”

“Then why did you kiss her back?” When Y/n looked at him, her lashes were wet with tears, her eyes were red and her face was blotchy. Closing his fists at his sides, the gesture a firm reminder to himself to not reach out and touch her until she was ready, Jim stood a couple feet away, stunned and speechless. He didn’t have an answer, not really, not above ‘muscle memory.’ Because that was what it had been to him, muscle memory.

When he didn’t respond, Y/n scoffed mournfully, “God,” she sniffed, starting to cry again, “I can’t even look at you right now.” Hastily, she collected her handbag and coat, hurrying towards the door, and like a puppy scared to see its favorite person leave, he followed her. 

“Y/n, please don’t go. It’s late,” he began, anxiously reaching for anything that would make her stay, “Please sweetheart, lets talk about this.”

“No!” She yelled, just as she wretched the door open, “I don’t wanna talk to you, I don’t even want to see you right now. So just,” she shook her shoulder dramatically as salty tears raced down her cheeks, “Leave me alone.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and left, leaving Jim defeated and wishing that he could hit reset on the past week or so. 

*****

Tagging- @pearlstiare

[pandoras-princess]

Next Best Thing (Tommy Shelby x fem!reader, John Shelby x fem!reader) 18+

*gif not mine//credit to owner

A/N: Hello my lovely peopless! 🌸 I have had the worst writer’s block and honestly it felt like this part was going to go on forever. But we’re here and we’re over it 🤗 I’m actually quite proud of how this one turned out despite everything so I shall keep it short and sweet but I will say please please read part one before you read this if you haven’t already, this part won’t make sense otherwise but that’s it for the nagging I swear 😚 sooo without further adieu I give you part two 😁😁 Happy Reading Peoples! 🥳🥳 as ever I appreciate every like, reblog and follow, feedback is always welcome 😌

Summary: It’s been half a year and you’ve settled quite nicely into your job at the Garrison, as well as all the perks that come with it. Your relationship with Tommy takes an unexpected turn, igniting a fire within John he hadn’t known was simmering...

Pairing: (OOC) Tommy Shelby x fem!reader, John Shelby x fem!reader

Warnings: Swearing, explicit mentions of sex, smoking

PART ONE PART THREE PART FOUR

━◦ ♡ ◦━◦ ♡ ◦━◦━◦ ♡ ◦━◦ ♡ ◦━

It’s been 6 months since your first shift at the Garrison, and running the bar isn’t the only thing you've settled into.

After spending the night together in his office, you and Tommy came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. You provide him with some much needed stress release, in return he provides you with the love and adoration you so desperately crave, even if only for the brief moments spent in your bed.

As the intimate meetings became more and more frequent, there was still no doubt in your mind that you were little more than a functional lay to the man.

Truthfully, you were anything but functional because with every encounter Tom could feel his heart falling for you.

At first, it was how you'd light a cigarette for him right after sex, plucking the stick from your lips to tuck it between his before you lit your own; it was the way your wild curls would encompass your face like a halo at even the smallest tilt of your head; it was the way you could handle any rowdy punter at the bar with a few choice words and a look that could put even the hardest man in his place. And now? Now, it was absolutely everything about you. Tom found his head clouded with thoughts of you constantly, the only relief taken from being in your presence.

What started out as a bit of harmless fun, had now become a nightly occurence.

Tonight being no exception, you skillfully roll over him, careful not to place any unwanted weight on delicate body parts. Tom pulls on his cigarette, inhaling the harsh smoke as he admires the after-sex glow radiating off your naked form. The only marrs on your skin were the hickeys he made in an eager bid to claim you as his own.

You set about gathering your clothes, unaware of the adoration swimming in the blue irises behind.

“What're you doing?”

“I’m getting ready to leave” you chime, now all too accustomed to the usual routine of sex and a quick smoke before walking home or sneaking Tom out.

Returning to the bed in hopes of retrieving your underwear, Tommy’s large hand wraps around your thigh holding you in place, and any thoughts of the discarded fabric are dashed.

“Stay.”

It was not a question but a statement, the silent pleading in his eyes a far too familiar feeling of your own.

“Are you sure? Because I distinctly remember you sayi-”

“I know what I said, that's not what I want anymore” he interrupts, perfectly aware of the words about to be repeated back to him.

Straddling his waist, his hands come to rest on your hips, thumbs drawing invisible circles on the soft skin beneath as your hands trail mindlessly along his toned chest, goosebumps appearing in their wake.  

“What do you want then?” The question comes out breathily, and your heart pounds against your ribcage at such an intensity you were sure it was audible.

“I wan’t you, Y/N.”

There it was. The words you’d been waiting to hear for what felt like an eternity.

You ignore the niggling voice in the back of your mind; the voice reminding you that this decleration of- of- whatever it is, was coming from the mouth of the wrong Shelby brother.

“Is that so, Mr Shelby?”

Tommy is cast back to the very first time you’d given yourself to him - bent over his desk and shamelessly moaning his name as he pounded you with such force he worried the aged wood might just give out from under you - and he remembers just why he’d had this change of heart in the first place.

You were perfect. Plain and simple.

Of course you had your quirks, everyone did. But try as he might he couldn’t find a single one that put him off. The more time spent together the more he was convinced God had crafted you entirely for his sake.

“Yes Y/N that is so.” Tommy’s fingers connect with your waist and your angelic giggles fill the air, the smile tracing his lips deepening.

Flipping over so that his body is snug between your legs, he continues his relentless tickle attack, relishing the feel of your body squirming underneath him as you desperately try to get away.

“To-tommy sto-stop tickling me!”

Your dainty hands barely manage to prise one hand from your waist before the other reconnects, rendering your muscles useless as you collapse into laughter.

“O-okay you win! I’m yo-yours, all yours!”

“Ah the magic words.”

Opening your eyes, you’re met with Tommy’s beautiful face beaming down at you, having obviously accomplished his mission. Draping your slender arms around his neck, you pull him into a kiss and his hands roam your body, tracing along each and every curve before settling for burying in your curls.

For the first time in six months, you and Tommy made love. Well, the first and second time, to be exact.

Hours later and Tommy is peeling his body off of yours, lungs begging for oxygen as the fragments of your mind recollect themselves - the ecstasy of your orgasms positively mind blowing.

“Tommy?”

“Mm?”

“Do you mind if we, um, maybe wait before telling everyone. I just don’t fancy them sticking their oar in, m’ really quite content just us” you muse, shifting into place beside him. Your touch dances along his collarbones, exploring every groove and crevice on its travels to his jawline.

Eyes closed, a lop-sided grin gracing those oh so plump lips. Silky brown waves marvellously tousled from hours of your fingers raking through them.

The man truly was a work of art.

Tommy hums softly in response, one lid opening to peer down at you before capturing your hand in his, lightly pecking each of your fingers along the way.

“Anything for you, Princess.”

With the ghost of his soft lips lingering, your focus shifts to the rhythmic beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, the ever so slight twitch of his fingers. And so, wrapped securely in the arms of tender loving care, you drift off to sleep.

The next morning your small figure is weaving throughout the back streets of Small Heath, now an expert on the roads less traveled by Peaky Blinders and Co.

With blood pounding in your ear drums and your heart thuddering in your chest, you sneak through the creaky door making a beeline for the stairs.

“Where’ve you been?”

You reluctantly enter the kitchen, finding Polly at the breakfast table with a cup of tea to her left, an ashtray to her right and a heap of papers inbetween.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“No where.”

“That hickey on your neck says otherwise” she smirks, finally raising her head to look at you.

Your hand pointlessly rushes to cover the purple bruise darkening by the minute on your jugular. “Shit!”

“So how is Tommy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said how is Tommy?” Polly repeats the question, panic creeping up your throat like bile.

“You mean... you know?”

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice my own nephew sneaking in and out of this house every night. Give me some credit” she quips. “Don’t worry your little secret is safe with me.”

The parilysing fear immediately dissolves and you plunk yourself down at the table, a dreamy sigh leaving your mouth as you lay your head to rest in your palms.

“Oh Pol, it’s wonderful! He’s so- so-”

“Please, spare me the details.”

“-so perfect!”

“Y/N, he’s Tommy Shelby - perfect isn’t a word within that man’s description.”

“Well it is in mine” you mumble.

“Anyway since you’re here you can help me. We’re having a gathering tonight and I want everyone here so I need you to go and tell them. In the lounge, 6pm sharp.”

“Fine” you huff, rising from the table.

“Oh and Y/N, make sure you cover that thing up before you see John, we don’t need any more murders around here.”

Red hot flames lick at your cheeks and Polly’s lips stretch into a smirk once again, chuckling to herself as she returns to the paperwork before her.

By 6 o’clock all members of the Shelby clan are slowly trickling into the lounge. Tommy and yourself are the first to arrive and he immediately chooses the right corner seat, guiding your body into the empty space beside him.

“Alright Pol” Tom greets his aunt not bothering to make eye contact as he notices a stray curl fall into your eyes, gently tucking it back in it’s rightful place before leaving a quick kiss on your temple.

Polly’s eyes twinkle with amusement as she hands you both a whiskey.

“You’ll want to be a bit more discreet than that when the others turn up.”

“Yes thank you Pol” Tom replies sarcastically as you direct your attention to ridding your jumper of non-existent fluff.

“Alright Polly.”

Your head snaps to the source of the gruff voice, butterflies fluttering against the confines of your ribcage as you lock eyes with John.

“Ye alright love” he plants a kiss on the top of your head before collapsing into the free corner of the sofa.

John was a man of few words, those that didn’t know him might even say simple. But when it came to you, the unspoken language of Jonathon Shelby was one of the few you could speak, thus giving rise to the overly affectionate nature of your relationship.

If this was a few years ago - before Esme, before Tommy, before that tart in the back alley, when everything was right with the world - you’d be tucked up next to John, curled into his side with a strong arm wrapped firmly around your waist. His fingers would absentmindedly trail along your skin, a private joke or snarky comment whispered into your ear every now and then. And when he laughed, oh god when he laughed, each muscle would flex around you drawing you in closer, forcing every fibre of your being to fight the urge to kiss him.

But this was not a few years ago and things had changed, the harsh truth slapping you in the face like a wet fish as you catch sight of Esme trawling into the lounge; each butterfly erupting into a tiny globe of fire as she settles herself between you and John.

How beautifully ironic you thought, shifting yourself closer to Tommy.

Eventually Ada and Arthur arrive and the night rolls on. The whiskey burns through your veins, blending with your blood on its way straight to your head. With a fair amount of Dutch courage under your belt your body was craving the intimacy it was used to on a night like this. So taking your chances you snuggle into Tommy, allowing yourself to relax when you feel his arm instinctively snaking around you.

The action - which could easily be passed off as a caring moment between two friends - hadn’t gone unnoticed, and every muscle under John’s control seized up at the sight.

More stories poured out, along with many more drinks - you’d half a mind to suspect Polly was purposely fueling you with alcohol - and the more brazen you become, your legs now laying over Tommy’s with his left hand resting comfortably on your thighs.

You gently tap on the waistband of his suit trousers, and hope that Tommy understands your silent request. The movement was much too slight to draw any attention and he brings his left hand to scratch an itch that wasn’t there, before casually placing it over yours, giving it a gentle squeeze when he’s sure nobody has noticed.

He forgot, however, that Ada was positioned with a clear viewpoint of the loving act, sitting smugly on the arm next to him as she put two and two together. She thought the pair of you had been awfully happy lately, much too happy for it to be coincidental.

As everyone focused their attention on Polly and her latest crazy tale, John’s jaw clenched and unclenched for the hundredth time, the muscle aching under the constant tension. He sat on the other side of the sofa, soundlessly raging as he thought over the countless nights you’d been draped over him like that, whispering and giggling, eyes glistening with mischief as he shared another secret joke with you. Now here you were, draped over his brother, whispering and giggling as your eyes glistened with what he hoped was the large amount of whiskey you’d ingested, and not the same mischief you once shared with him.

Esme attempted to replicate your position, and she was met with John’s hand roughly pushing her aside. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He wasn’t even sure why he couldn’t take it - it’s not as if you’d ever be stupid enough to fall for his brother’s plan.

“Tommy stop!” you giggle, brushing his hand from your curls as he pretends to mess them up.

That was enough. “C’mon Es we’re going.”

Your laughter dies down as you look up at John, his blue orbs cold and hard as they stare back at you.

For once, you couldn’t place the unvoiced emotion set on his face. For once, you couldn’t read the man you once considered your best friend.

[bitoffairydust]

Yesterday we came home from the hospital as a family of three.

Things haven’t been super smooth sailing, nor did I expect them to be, but our little one is doing well and I’m healing fine so that’s really all we could ask for.

Wednesday was a bit of a whirlwind. I was scheduled to go into the hospital for my induction at 5, so we spent the morning doing a bit of last minute clean up around the place. Then around 12, someone from L&D called and said if we were available to come in earlier, we could just show up whenever. We still had a few things to finish up so we had lunch, I took a shower while my wife did the dishes, then she took a shower and got the cats set up for a few days home alone before we called an Uber to head to the hospital.

We got there around 3:30-4 so not super early but they got us into the delivery rooms right away and someone came over to go over a few questions (medical stuff and what I was hoping for with the birth). I got hooked up to the contraction and fetal heartbeat monitors, they got my IV line in, and then we went over the induction options for me. Based on my last check up, I was about 1.5 cm dilated, so before anything else they had to get me to about 3 cm, which they offered to do with either the foley balloon or misoprostol. Then the plan was to start me on oxytocin to get contractions going. I requested the miso, cause I figured there would be enough things going in and out of my vagina for the evening without an additional thing thrown in there 😅

It actually took a little while for the induction to start because as it turns out, three people (myself included) showed up for their induction within 5 minutes of each other and I was the last so it was closer to 7 before the resident came to examine me. In doing so they found I had actually progressed to 3 cm on my own since my last appointment so they were able to just get me started up on oxytocin.

Contractions started up pretty much instantly but they were very manageable. I’d say just from the oxy progression, the worst contraction I got was maybe a 5 on the scale from 1 to 10. Then they ran through the dosage and did another exam to see where I was at. They didn’t give an exact number then but I think it was somewhere between 4 and 5 cm. Before starting me up on another dosage of oxytocin, they went ahead and tried to break my water as it hadn’t yet. They didn’t actually manage to fully get it, and honestly, at that point, them trying to get it to break was actually more painful than the contractions I’d experienced that far.

That changed pretty fast once they established they’d gotten enough of the membranes for the time being. I’m fuzzy on the timeline but I think it must have been close to 10 at that point, and the pain level climbed very quickly along with contraction intensity and frequency. I tried to bounce on a ball for a bit and the nurse showed my wife some pressure points to try and help with the pain but it did nothing. Around 10:30 I requested the epidural, which was unfortunate timing on my part as the anesthesiologist had just gone in to assist with a c-section. By the time she was out and got to my room it was about 11:30 and pain was an easy 10 on the scale with contractions maybe a minute and a half apart.

The epidural itself went in pretty smoothly but at first there wasn’t much to be said for relief. Since they mentioned it could take 15 minutes to really be felt I didn’t think much of it, and I did feel like things were getting a bit better as minutes passed. The last contraction I was asked about felt more back down to a 5 on the pain scale so the anesthesiologist left. Unfortunately, that 5 turned out to be a fluke because pain shot back up pretty quickly and I was soon at a 10 again, no matter the dosage boosts.

That part was quite honestly the worst of it all, having expected some sort of relief and finding it to be just as worse as before. To make it worse, baby was not handling those contractions well. His heart beat would drop with the start of each contraction, though it picked up before the end of them so though they wanted to keep an eye on it it wasn’t cause for intervention yet. The nurse monitored his heart rate with me laying flat on my back, on my right side, on my left side and then sitting straight up. The latter was the slightly better option for him, but definitely did nothing to help my pain management. She did get me back on my back to try and relieve me a bit since the difference to the effect on baby wasn’t huge but at that point contractions were relentless. I was dealing with back labor contractions, which were maybe a minute apart, and because they suspected the placenta had detached a bit when they tried to break my water, when a contraction would subside, the pain in my abdomen would become more prominent and almost to the same level. It made it feel like I was contracting non stop with no break for catching my breath or trying to recuperate.

Around 2 in the morning there were a few people in the room examining me and trying to figure out the best course of action. A C-section being needed started being mentioned if things didn’t improve, but I was at a little more than 9 cm by then. The OB and the anesthesiologist had a talk outside the room and decided to re-do my epidural as it had clearly failed (they did an ice test and it was clear I wasn’t frozen anywhere at all), and if I were to end up needing a c-section, I’d have to have it redone anyway.

She took two tries to get everything situated in my back. That second try did the trick. I don’t think I can even describe the amount of relief when my foot started feeling warm and then going numb, and within maybe 5 minutes it was amazingly painless. They did another ice test and this time I felt no cold at all anywhere, and when the nurse pointed out I’d just had a contraction it cemented it because I’d not felt it at all. The only thing I could feel at that point was a bit of abdominal pressure every now and then. And I will say, I did have a great team with me. Everyone was very empathetic and trying their best to get me to feel some form of relief before the second epidural. And they seemed almost as relieved as me when that last one finally worked - especially because after that baby’s heart stabilized.

By the time the epidural was done, even though they figured I had likely progressed to 10 cm, they elected to let me rest for a bit, and give baby a chance to keep making his way down, so I got to catch a breather until about 4 am. Then they told me it was time to try and start pushing, with the nurse guiding me since I still couldn’t feel any sort of contraction. I pushed through maybe four or five contractions without huge progress, and the OB came in to assess and established baby needed a bit of help coming out. They set up the forceps and had me push through another couple of contractions, but they were pretty week and hard to catch even for the nurse by then, and baby’s heart rate was starting to struggle again. So they got on the phone to get a room prepped for c-section, and the doctor told me I would get to push through one last contraction, but if nothing happened we’d have to go into surgery.

The nurse tried to wait for a good one (she had already reupped the oxytocin drip at that point) and by some miracle, the next push for his head half out and with the second one it was completely out. The rest of his body followed quickly and before I had even caught up with it all, I had his tiny little body on me.

Even though they’d brought someone in from the NICU just to be safe, he ended up being perfectly okay. I needed a bit more attention because I had more bleeding than normal, and I had to have 4 stitches and another IV line put in to help with the blood loss. Then we stayed in the delivery room until about 6 at which point we were brought over to our postpartum room.

Since then nursing has undoubtedly been the biggest challenge. He did have a tongue tie, but he struggled from the get go. He would latch well but lose it and then get frustrated and cry. He also is a very lazy eater - I’d spend easily 30-45 minutes per side trying to get him to stay aware long enough to take in maybe 15 minutes of proper feeding, but he’d start smacking his lips practically the moment he was done, and he’d wake up hungry again within the hour.

Unfortunately there was no lactation consultant on staff as she was on vacation this week. People commented time and time again about how I had no supply issue, and his latch (when he was latched) was good, but it didn’t seem to help. I also felt I kept getting conflicting information as one moment he’d have crystals in his urine to indicate potential dehydration, and the next they’d be telling me he had barely loss any of his birth weight and was perfectly on target for that.

We did decide to get his tongue tie cut as it seemed to really be frustrating him at feeds and make it harder for my breast to properly fit into his mouth. The feed that followed the cut was easily the best we’ve had to date, but unfortunately it went downhill from there. After we got home and I tried to feed him last night, he did fine on the right side but then only lasted 10 minutes on the left and then lost it, started to scream and wouldn’t latch again. I haven’t been able to make him latch on the left side since, and I only managed to get him latched to the right a couple more times before we ran in the same problem, so we had to go ahead and start giving him bottles. I’ll be trying to work through it with a lactation consultant as soon as possible, and I’ve now started pumping, but in the meantime, him being properly fed was the biggest thing.

He does also have a small fracture on his right clavicle, likely from the forceps, but the pediatrician said that will resolve on its own within the week. In the meantime we just have to be very cautious how we move his right arm, and she prescribed him Tylenol if need be.

In the meantime we’re just trying to settle down to our new sleep deprived routine. But then looking into all the sweet, funny faces he makes both when asleep and awake makes it feel pretty worth it.

- Marie

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 3

Pairing: Sam x Reader Warnings: cursing, a bit of self depreciation Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. Beta: None

Part 1  -  Part 2 Masterlist

Chapter 3: for the love of god, explain this

Sam Winchester lies awake at three in the morning, under foreign, scratchy sheets, stubbornly not tearing his eyes from the cracked, ugly wallpaper on the ceiling. A lot of things are happening and his brain is going about a million miles an hour, spinning endlessly, Castiel, Dean returning from hell, the stress of the hunting life, the current case and… Y/n. Wonderful, smart, talented, funny Y/n.

It’s been a while since someone has made him excited. He keeps bumping into her in his mind, keeps finding thoughts of her lying around, eager to distract him. He catches himself wanting to text her about every stupid thing that happens in his day, much like she sometimes does. She’s been the only thing that makes his heart a little lighter, and it’s such a strange feeling, someone’s presence being this uplifting.

He was suspicious of her at first. A strange woman (at least she claims to be one, he forgets he’s never actually… seen her) asking about him, his profession, and then about… ghosts? A bit random, too specific, Sam recognizes he got defensive. But the way she spoke afterwards… he doesn’t know.  His instinct tells him to trust her.

Amidst his thoughts, he doesn’t remember picking up his phone, but it’s just one of those nights, he needs someone to talk to- or rather, wants Y/n specifically. A thought he chooses not to dwell on.

are you awake? I can’t sleep.

I actually am. Lucky you.

Sam smiles. Lucky me, he thinks.

isn’t it like 4 am for you?

Tell me about it. No luck sleeping either.

happen to you a lot?

Yeah.

I happen to have anxiety induced insomnia.

Working at a bar also helps fuck up your sleeping schedule as well.

You?

i’m sorry :/

i don’t get much sleep either. something always keeps me up.

Yeah, I get that.

Where in the Great Unites States of America are you today?

hahah it’s Oregon today.

it’s the ugliest motel room i’ve ever been in.

Ooh

Do I ask about your case or is it confidential?

it’s confidential but i’ll tell you that i am investigating a bunch of strange murders.

You’re investigating serial killers?? That’s so fucking dope.

something like that yeah.

how was your day?

Oh, you know. The usual.

College assignments, a shift at the bar. I went out with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while.

I need to clean my house desperately.

I also nearly burned my kitchen down trying to cook lunch. Emmy and I ended up eating some lazy-ass spaghetti, because pasta is the only thing I can cook, apparently.

hahahah what were you making?

You’re gonna laugh if I tell you.

well now you must.

Ugh, do I?

come onnn

It was eggs, okay? I was just trying to make eggs.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAH

I TOLD YOU YOU’D LAUGH AT ME

HOW DID YOU BURN EGGS?!

LISTEN, OKAY

I NEVER SAID I WAS A GOOD COOK

HAHAHAHAH

Sam laughs over his phone, as silently as he can, so as to not wake Dean up. He turns on his other side and realizes his cheeks hurt from smiling, and it’s a feeling he’s missed.

Yeah, yeah, laugh, culinary genius. Not all of us can be perfect.

i never said i was a culinary genius

but at least i don’t go near stoves if i don’t have to.

Well, it’s not like I can afford every-day takeout (or like that shit is healthy, even if I could) and someone has to cook for my sister while she’s in school

you have siblings?

and yeah you’re right i didn’t think like that sorry.

It’s okay.

And yeah, my sister, Emily.” Emmy”

oooh i thought emmy was your friend.

Nono, it’s my sister. She’s 17.

can i ask you a personal question?

Shoot

why do you have to take care of her? are your guys’ parents not around?

you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable with that.

Well, it’s a bit complicated.

My parents’ marriage kind of fell apart when I was around 10. They tried to fix things by adopting a kid- Emily. For a while that worked.

When I was 16 my mom took off and dad took care of us for 2 years almost. He really dedicated himself to us.

He worked his antique shop and supported us. For two years, I didn’t see him spend a penny on himself.

But I ended up having to take care of Em when he passed. I was freshly 18, so I could take care of her as a guardian.

shit i’m so sorry.

It’s okay, honestly.

I mean, it didn’t use to be, and it was hell for a while.

But we made it.

i admire your positivity.

I try :)

i also love that you put smiley faces in your text messages.

Shouldn’t have said that, now I’ll always think about it before I do it

hahah

Sam bites his lip. What the hell is happening? They’re… flirting. Sorta. And it’s nice- better than nice. Fuck.

What about you?

you mean what’s my relationship with my parents?

Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid. It wasn’t what I was asking either.

What I meant was, how’s your life right now. How’s the family business. You can pick which you wanna answer.

i don’t mind either honestly.

as for my parents my mom died when I was 6 months old. my dad passed away about a year and a half ago.

Jesus, I’m so sorry Sam

I don’t know what to say. It can’t have been easy. Losing a parent never is.

it wasn’t but as you said we’re trying to sort of find our footing with Dean. we’ve had our ups and downs.

Yeah I understand that.

Do you wanna talk about it?

right now not really. I mean there’s not much to say about it.

i kinda wanna forget about it. thanks though.

Alright.

So how’s the family business?

Does it feel good to be paid to be Sherlock Holmes?

crap. but we’re doing our best.

for the record i don’t get paid nearly enough for the shit i have to do.

Hahaha, hang in there.

Dean still refuses to come get his phone?

yeah. he says you can keep it.

Tell him to take care of his devices from now on, this one was battered beyond recognition.

duly noted.

The conversation continued until well after the sun rose. Sam had officially accepted this night to be sleepless, and Y/n was good company. Somehow she took his mind off of everything that was bugging him, made him, if momentarily, forget about it, and he truly loved that about her. The back and forth tended to flow easily between them, and he couldn’t get enough of the chemistry he had with this practical stranger.

Sleepless or not, this night was a good one, after she entered the picture.

-

The glow on her skin is blue-ish and soft, combatting the one from the fairy lights above them. Laptop absolutely not low in volume, couch dipping under two bodies, slumped together, legs leaning against one another, soft flannel pants and droopy eyes. Emily’s hair is out of its usual half-up hairstyle, exploding with volume and bright, firey color, flowing onto the back of the couch.

Jon Snow is yelling on the screen, and Y/n is completely ignoring him, constantly checking her inactive phone and the way the screen doesn’t light up with Sam’s name. Every time she feels disappointed, she tries to quell the relentless thoughts of the possibility of him being completely over her.

Damn it.

“Do you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend I’m not aware of or something?” Emily mutters dryly, half-hearted but gentle teasing. Y/n sputters.

“Huh?”

“’Cause you keep checking your phone, and as far as I know you don’t have any friends.”

“HEY,” deeply offended, Y/n places her hand over her heart, glaring at her sister. “Excuse you!” she exclaims, “Connor? Ashley? Lydia?”

“Yeah, a neighbor and two college students that you haven’t talked to in like, what, two weeks? What a social butterfly.”

“Okay first off,” Y/n ignores the screaming and fighting on the screen and shifts to look at her sister. “Stop tracking my socializing.” Em scoffs.

“C’mon, bear, spill.” Bottom lip pouted. She pauses the episode, turning to face her older sister. “Who are they and when can I meet them?” A devilish smile, teasing like only a younger sister can, curling the right corner of her lip.

“He’s not my boyf-“

“AHA! So there is someone! I knew it!”

“I’ve known him for like- what, three weeks? Nothing is going on! I barely know the guy!” Y/n fiddles with her hair and huffs, holding back a smile.

“Where’d you meet him? Is he hot? What’s he like?!” Poking her sister’s thigh continuously, she grins wide, excited. “C’mon, you’re like, no fun.”

“The thing is… I didn’t. Meet him, I mean.” Eyebrows furrow.

“Uh…” Emily purses her lips. “I’m … not following.”

It takes all of five minutes for Y/n to explain to her sister all about her crazy adventure, the lost phone, the brother, Sam. The girls munch on leftover garlic spaghetti, talking about the stranger on the other side of Y/n’s screen.

“He’s just… different? I don’t know- I just, I’m intrigued I guess. He’s mysterious and hilarious. The type of guy we’d hang out with. Why pass it up?”

“Just hang out?” Emily wiggles her eyebrows. Y/n shoves her.

“It’s really not like that.”

“I don’t know, Y/n, he doesn’t necessarily sound just friendly to me.” Y/n won’t lie and say she hasn’t thought about it. She’s a romantic after all, and what a wonderful, movie-like love story would it be for them to fall in love and march into the sunset?

But she recognizes this is the romantic side of her picking up speed on a subject that definitely isn’t for her to decide alone. There’s a second participant in all of this, and he needs to do more than half the work by liking her. She knows it’s no easy feat. A bitter dab of paint dissolves in her chest, because why would he like her? She’s nothing quite special. She’s just a bartender, a college student, a boring, normal girl, painfully mundane, painfully boring. He’s brilliant, kind and sweet, a private investigator, he travels all the time, he’s the most interesting guy she’s ever met for crying out loud. Why would he ever give her a chance?

“I doubt it, Em,” is what Y/n decides to say, because there’s no way she can explain exactly what she’s thinking.

“No, no, you’re doing that thing again.” A hum in question falls from the older Andrews’ lips. “The thing where you put yourself down for bullshit reasons. He’d be lucky to have you.” Y/n wants to roll her eyes. “Hey,” a snap of Emily’s fingers in front of Y/n’s face to catch her attention. “I will literally slap you. You’re smart, funny, kind. He’d be fucking lucky to have you, and if you don’t believe it, I’m gonna beat some sense into you. Stop putting my sister down.”  Y/n doesn’t have anything good to say to that, so instead she lets out a huffed breath of a laugh and sits back on the couch.

“Now,” Emily leans over her own crossed legs and grabs her phone from the rickety coffee table. “Did you Google him?”

“Why the heck would I Google him?”

“It’s the 21st century, Y/n, gosh. Are you at all familiar with internet stalking?” Y/n watched pebbled coffee brown eyes get illuminated by the phone screen, freckles nowhere near as bright as they can be, because she hasn’t gone out into the sunlight today. Emily is gorgeous. Y/n is sometimes jealous, but also genuinely admires her younger sister. “What’s his name?”

“Sam Winchester.”

There’s typing, and then silence.

“Y/n…” And the warning tone on the younger one’s voice completely throws her off.

“What? What is it?” A phone screen is thrust in her face.

Mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecration, armed robbery, kidnapping, three counts of first-degree murder, and breaking and entering, she reads. Winchester brothers Sam and Dean, disappeared, considered dead.

“What the fuck,” she mutters under her breath, completely horrified at the chance that this is real and the universe isn’t playing some comic joke on her, creating another pair of Winchester brothers called Sam and Dean who, instead of chasing murderers, are the murderers.

She scrolls lower and sure enough, there they are. Mug shots, but more specifically, the guy from the dating app, smouldering cheekily into the camera –a real blue steel-, holding a police station name on a black plaque, sitting at close to six feet and two. Then the younger one, less joyful and sassy, more serious and puppy-eyed. Sam. Close to what was described to her, it’s all there. Pointy nose, sharp jawline, curly brown hair with a growing, swoopy fringe, pulled behind his ears. It’s him. There’s no way, the coincidences are too many.

“Bear…” Emily stares at Y/n’s shocked face, gaze empty and out of it. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Immediately, Y/n grabs her phone.

Sam

His reply is instantaneous.

hey y/n

i was just thinking about you

what’s up?

Please for the love of God.

Explain this.

She sends him the mugshot, photographed from the screen of her sister’s phone.

shit.

-

Part 4

A/N: Tell me what you thought? How the hell does he even explain this?

I realized I haven’t been tagging my forever taglist like a MORON, so just, sorry, I’ll start now. 

Forevers:   @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester​ @deanssweetheart23​ @nostalgic-uncertainty​ @mogaruke​ @superseejay721517​ @lady-hawkguy​ @thosefeelsarereal​ @superwholockmarauder​  @justiceiswater​ @petra-arkanian-1497​ @heyitscam99​ @danijimenezv​ @aj-reuth  @unicornblood4ever @mystriee​ @sadist-fangirl23 @asguardiansoftheavengers​ @superrandomnatural​ @altosaxplayer098 @winter-moons @hunterswearingplaid​ @novaddictx​ @choosemyname​  @live-like-a-girl​ @thisismysecrethappyplace​ @bowtomytenderaddiction​  @elara98azalea​ @lemondropirwin​ @emmagolden4118​ @glitchcypher @calaofnoldor​ @paradoxical-sleep​ @narynechan @canwenotdothis​ @suicidepanda07​ 

Sam Taglist

@kymberlytorres​ @theboykingsamwinchester​ @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes​ @captainmarvelcorps​ @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away​ @nellachain​

 Seen Taglist  @shutupiminlooove​ @sammysgirl1997​ @kymberlytorres​ @bambi95-blog​ @demonic-meatball​ @thekarliwinchester​ @littlekay15​ @li-m-ii​  @thinspo-isuppose​ @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker​ @marichromatic​ @illuminatus42​ @lazy-author​ @mirandaaustin93​ @hauntedsiriel​ @pilaxia​ @devilgirlsarah​ @nobodys-baby-now​ @captiveties​ @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​ @burningforsam​ @aiofheavenandhell​

[no6secretsanta]

Stay

Stay

From @pigeonsimba to @crowmunculus

The winter chill bites into Nezumi’s skin, tugging his hood back with icy fingers and nipping at his nose and ears until his whole head aches.

Well, aches more, as Nezumi already has a tension headache from clenching his teeth all throughout play practice. Why is it so hard for them to get it?

He knows No. 6 has never been a hub for the arts—that, in fact, until eight years ago, the arts and any other form of self-expression was illegal—but since the wall was torn down and the citizens of No. 6 and West Block were encouraged to mingle, Nezumi would have thought at least some talent might have managed to slip through.

But no. The whole group is a pile of steaming shit.

Nezumi has been working with the troupe for a little over half a year, and they are still as miserable as when he first stepped through the door and ripped their run-through of Into the Woods to shreds. He barely managed to whip them into shape before showtime, and he only deigned to intercede because he could not bear to see a musical butchered so thoroughly in front of a live audience. The end result was passable, but apparently so improved from the group’s prior performances that the actors begged Nezumi to stay on as their director.

Nezumi had been steadfastly against it, but Shion insinuated it might be good for him, and Karan started making obvious comments about how great Nezumi was at theater, and finally Inukashi cracked and told him to fucking agree to the job already so he could stop mooching off of Karan’s goodwill.

Nezumi viciously regrets letting himself be bullied into taking the position. The worst of the volunteers act with all the charisma of wooden dolls; the best are sycophantic hams who howl their lines into the audience and throw themselves upon the stage props like “drama” means “dramatics.” Nezumi wants to cull the whole theater, but he’s already invested so much time into it that he’s loath to start over with a fresh crop of amateurs.

It seems No. 6 will always be a seat of disappointment and frustration for him, no matter how nicely the city functioned now under the Restructural Committee. It’s nights like this when Nezumi wishes he was still on the road.

 When he was traveling the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and his knife at his hip, he only had nature and his thoughts to contend with. The land never disappointed him the way people did; though it tested him almost as much.

He had staggered, starving, over endless yellowing plains; been bitten and stung by animals and insects he hadn’t known the names of; his skin had blistered from trekking over golden hills of sand under the relentless sun; he had hallucinated from hypothermia and nearly died in the mountains outside No. 4.

But Nezumi had always been a survivor, and for every time he skirted death, he gained a little more appreciation for the world around him. It had power he could never wield, power the human race would never possess nor fully understand. Elyurias had shown him his first taste of the wonder of the unknown, however bitter that lesson had been.

 Alone in the wilderness, there is no one to blame but yourself if things go wrong. The elements are punishing, but they are impartial. The sun doesn’t burn him to show its might; the rivers’ currents don’t snatch at his ankles to bring him to his knees; the trees don’t shed their leaves to rob him of shelter and food. The elements don’t care whether he lived or died. Nezumi means nothing to them and they have nothing to prove.

Nezumi had traveled the world for seven years, and even though he knew there was more to see, there had come a morning when he woke and the stillness in his chest said that it was enough; it was time to make good on his promise and attempt to put down roots.

So far, Nezumi has done well to keep the wanderlust to a low murmur in his chest, but sometimes, the roots still feel like choking tethers. He misses the days when he only had himself to rely on, the freedom of knowing that if someone’s company no longer suited him, or a job grew stagnant, he could simply pick up and move on.

Nezumi’s pocket vibrates and the reverie slips away in an exasperated cloud of breath when he checks his phone’s lit-up screen. It’s Midori, the most veteran actor in the troupe and resident thorn in Nezumi’s side. The woman is a prima donna in every sense of the word, but that’s not why she’s on Nezumi’s shit list: prima donnas he could deal with, but Midori is a frustrating mix of loudly entitled and deeply self-conscious. She demands starring roles, only to repeatedly ask for praise and reassurance of her abilities.

He presses the silence button and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He’s already late and he’s almost to Shion’s house, and he doesn’t want to exacerbate his headache or Midori’s fragile self-worth by spitting venom into a receiver.

Yet another thing to miss about wandering through the wilderness: no phones. Every mile walked in blessed silence.

Nezumi mounts the stairs to Shion’s apartment and fumbles to pull the spare key Shion gave him out of his pocket and shove it into the lock. The brass door knob is so cold the metal burns in his hand as he turns it and slips inside.

Only the lamp beside the couch is on, but the apartment is small enough that the soft light is enough to illuminate the whole space. The front door opens onto a neat little kitchen, and beyond that is the living room, outfitted with a small dining table, an armchair, and a couch and coffee table. Two long bookcases span the length of the back wall, their shelves and tops stacked with novels half pilfered from the underground room and half collected by Shion over the years. The heaps atop the bookcases are high enough that they block the windows behind, so in the afternoons, the sunlight has to steal through the crevices of the towers like a thief, painting irregular patterns on the laminate floors and over the thick-fibered rug that lays beneath the coffee table. The bedroom and bathroom lay off to the right, completing the tour of Shion’s humble abode.

It’s odd to enter the house and realize that it’s Shion’s home. It’s a far step up from the underground room, and certainly much nicer than any of the places Nezumi has lived in since.

Nezumi makes a cursory glance around the quiet living space, but he doesn’t see Shion. He frowns and checks his phone for missed texts or calls, but there’s only the ones from Midori.

Maybe he stepped out? Nezumi is more than a half an hour late, after all, but it would be very out of character for Shion to walk out when he is expecting guests.

The bedroom door is shut and silent, and Nezumi wonders whether Shion is changing. Or possibly he’s asleep, Nezumi considers drily. It wouldn’t be the first time Shion invited him over, only to pass out in the middle of the visit.

Well, if Shion did forget he invited Nezumi over, or accidently fell asleep in his room, Nezumi isn’t going to just turn around and return to his room at Karan’s bakery. It’s too freaking cold out and his stomach is growling like a wild animal, so Nezumi removes his shoes and pads into the kitchen in search of something small and quiet to eat.

A snatch of deep blue fabric catches his eye as he moves toward the cabinet to grab a bowl: a tie thrown over the back of the dining room table chair. Shion’s leather briefcase lays splayed over the table, its papers peeking out of the lip where the buckle isn’t fastened properly.

The corner of Nezumi’s mouth quirks up. He had always thought of Shion as a neat person—after all, Shion threw a fit about the state of the underground room and systematically organized the whole space, and only a neat freak would do something so pointless when they knew full well Nezumi was just going to come back and muck it up again. But after returning to No. 6 and reacquainting himself with Shion, Nezumi discovered that Shion isn’t quite as uptight as he thought.

Shion is by no means untidy, but he has habitual ways of making messes: clothes strewn over his bed, cartons left on countertops, reading glasses and mugs and paperwork abandoned on the coffee table for days before Shion remembers to put them away.

Maybe Shion had been more Type A when he was sixteen, and his time working in the real world has forced him to bend in the interest of saving time, but Nezumi has a different theory: Shion had been on his best behavior in the underground room because he had always thought of it as Nezumi’s home and himself a guest staying there.

Nezumi knows he hadn’t been an easy person to live with, and he can’t say with certainty that if Shion had left messes around the underground room that he wouldn’t have used them as ammunition to threaten and criticize Shion when he felt they were getting too close.

Nezumi presses his lips together as every slight, and scowl, and unkindness he’d shown Shion when they were kids flits through his memory. No, he hadn’t been the easiest person to live with, and despite Shion’s constant probing and declarations of affection, there had always been a wall between them—mostly of Nezumi’s making, but at least part of the distance between them came from Shion’s stubborn misjudgments of his character.

Neither of them understood themselves well then, and that had made it impossible for them to understand each other.

But that was the past, and Nezumi has learned not to hold onto the things he can’t change. He and Shion aren’t the same people now, and they have agreed to start from scratch. Still, he can’t help the surprise he feels when Shion acts contrary to his perceptions, or the pangs of guilt when memories of his past conduct rise unbidden to his mind.

Nezumi peers over the countertop and finds Shion’s shiny dress shoes kicked off against the side of the heavy coffee table. A fogged-up plate cover rests atop the table, laid upon a dish towel to protect the lacquer, and Nezumi abandons foraging for a bowl to investigate. He spots a tuft of white against the dark gray of the couch and realizes that Shion is not sleeping in the bedroom after all.

The couch isn’t long enough for him to stretch out, so Shion is curled on his side in the fetal position, half of his face pressed so snugly into one of the throw pillows that Nezumi suspects he’ll have the lines and seams imprinted on his cheek when he wakes. The top few buttons of Shion’s shirt are undone, as are the buttons at his wrists, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the pale skin of his arms. Nezumi’s gaze traces the edges of the red scar wending its way around Shion’s neck, following its path until it slips beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks peaceful, and Nezumi feels some of the tension ebb out of his head and shoulders as he studies the sleeping man.

It’s odd to think of him—them—that way, as a “man.” On the road, Nezumi always remembered Shion as he had been: cute and heartbreakingly earnest, with his fluffy white hair, big brown eyes, and even bigger ideas. Nezumi had found him equal parts endearing and maddening. But the years have shaped Shion into a man of consequence and elegance.

When he walks into a room, the gravity shifts in his direction; Nezumi’s seen it on televised programs and in person. People are drawn to Shion like bees to a brilliant flower, and Nezumi has never seen someone who’s able to resist Shion’s easy charm; everyone caught in conversation with him leaves smiling and murmuring praises, no exceptions.

Nezumi always joked about Shion being royalty, but he never imagined Shion might actually become No. 6’s new era prince. Calling him Your Highness and Your Majesty seem less like teases now than his actual titles.

But Nezumi doesn’t call Shion those nicknames anymore. The first time he slipped into his old habit, Shion had given him such a look that Nezumi almost excused himself from Karan’s bakery and skipped town again. Apparently, being part of the Restructural Committee has made Shion painfully conscious of how tyrannical governments can be, and he will no longer tolerate Nezumi referring to him as No. 6’s ruler, even in jest.

That’s new: being deferential to Shion. Nezumi isn’t sure whether he’s so cautious because he’s changed enough that he cares about getting into—and staying in—Shion’s good graces, or if it’s that Shion has just become that much more intense.

Shion’s always been too much for him to handle: too warm, too stubborn, too bright, too naive. Too human. The winter they spent together in the underground room was the happiest and most terrifying winter of Nezumi’s life. West Block taught him never to get attached to anything, because he never knew when it would be snatched from him. Nezumi didn’t know how to throw Shion away, and he didn’t know how to keep him safe, so every moment they spent together was like slowly drowning.

The time away from each other has worked wonders on Nezumi’s emotional growth, and he had thought he was ready to come back and face Shion as equals, but Shion is still too much for him. The important difference between now and then, however, is that Nezumi doesn’t want to run from the challenge. He doesn’t need to fight to live anymore and Shion certainly doesn’t need his protection, so that leaves them free to be human together.

Only, Nezumi is still learning how to fully be himself in front of someone he actually wants to see every day. A transient life doesn’t give one much practice on building lasting relationships. But he’s working on it, and this new, grown-up Shion doesn’t seem to be in a rush to prise him apart.

A yellow sticky note is stuck to the top of the plate cover, and when Nezumi cranes his head to read the cramped script, a smile steals over his face. The note says, “Wake me up before you eat!” The words “wake me up” are darkened and underlined several times, a warning that this isn’t a request; it’s an order.

Nezumi has ignored Shion’s verbal instructions to wake him many times before, so he’s not sure why Shion thinks emphatic notes are going to have more weight. God knows Shion needs the sleep. He’s up at 5:00 a.m., works until the sun is far below the horizon, only to come home and continue working. If he passes out on the couch from exhaustion, Nezumi figures he shouldn’t mess with the natural order of things.

But, well… Shion did invite him over, and tonight Nezumi is feeling like a little company.

So, he muses to himself, how should I go about this?

One time, he woke Shion by dropping a stack of books on the table. He thought it would be funny to see him jump at the loud noise, but Shion screamed instead, scaring the shit out of them both. Shion was surly with him for the rest of the afternoon, but he paid Nezumi back the next morning by sneaking into his room at the bakery at the ass-crack of dawn and dumping an armful of paperbacks onto Nezumi’s head before he skipped off to work. That was some cold-served revenge Nezumi hadn’t expected and wouldn’t soon forget.

Tonight, Nezumi decides he’d rather wake Shion gently, so as to avoid any vengeful repercussions.

He reaches for Shion’s shoulder and gives him a light shake. A low groan of resistance rumbles in Shion’s throat and Nezumi gives him another nudge. “Shion. You asked for this, remember?”

Shion’s brow creases and he burrows his face deeper into the pillow, until all Nezumi can see is the mess of his sleep-mussed hair. Nezumi’s mouth twitches. Cute.

The mischievous part of his brain tells him to blow in Shion’s ear, but the rational side knows better. Nezumi slips his fingers into the soft strands of Shion’s hair and gives it a ruffle. It’s criminally soft and warm against his winter-chilled fingers.

“Wake up, Shion,” Nezumi whispers, combing the snowy locks behind his ear. “I’m hungry.”

Finally, Shion lifts his head and squints at him. “Mm. Hey. Did you just get here?” he manages, just before a huge yawn claims him.

Nezumi slides his fingers once more through Shion’s downy hair while he’s too sleepy to really notice, then folds his arms over his chest.

Shion sits up and stretches his legs out in front of him, bumping his feet against the base of the coffee table. “How was work?”

Nezumi screws his mouth to the side, but his headache has dissipated and he can’t drum up the level of annoyance he felt on the walk over, so he answers with a blasé, “Fine. Everyone still sucks.”

Shion flashes him a quick, sleepy smile and nods at the table. “I made dinner.”

Nezumi plucks the fogged-up plate cover off the dish and discovers dinner is chili. “Finally got around to using that crockpot, huh?”

“It was really easy to make. You just throw the ingredients in there and time does the rest.”

“Mhm…. You know you’re supposed to refrigerate this, or keep it in the pot until it’s ready to be served?”

Shion shrugs. “It hasn’t been out that long.”

“It’s gone cold. How long have you been sleeping on the couch? Do you even know what time it is?” Nezumi glances over at the microwave clock.

Shion slants a look at him. “Time to stop being mean to me. I just woke up from a nap, and you know how I get when I’m woken up from a nap.”

Nezumi feigns a cringe. “Yes. All too well.” He takes the bowl and crosses the room to pop it in the microwave. 

When he turns back around, he finds Shion tidying the living room, heaping the dish towel, the plate cover, and his fancy work shoes into his arms before moving to the kitchen table for his tie and bag. He still looks half asleep. Nezumi leans back against the counter and watches Shion stumble around in the half light, his hands full of his mess.

For all that Shion has grown, he’s still very much the boy Nezumi remembers: soft and effortless and searching. Teenaged Nezumi had been a fortress, but Shion’s goodness always fleet-footed its way up the ramparts.

Shion’s quiet tenacity used to scare him. Now it feels like a blessing that someone cares enough to try to breach his walls. If Nezumi hadn’t had the memories of Shion’s warmth through the lonely nights of travel, he wasn’t sure what paths he would have taken, or if the journey would ever have led him back to No. 6.

Shion catches him staring and pauses on the other side of the island counter. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I haven’t made a sound.”

“Your eyes are laughing at me.”

Nezumi snorts. “My, we really are in a bad mood, aren’t we?”

Shion’s shoulders drop and he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Today was…long.” He shifts the heap he has collected in his arms and turns to the dining table, weighing his chances of success should he try to add the paper-laden briefcase to his horde.

“You should go to bed,” Nezumi says. “You look one object away from crumpling to the floor. I’ll clean up and leave once I’m done with eating.”

“No, I want to have dinner with you tonight. That’s why I invited you over. I just…” Shion hums in thought, still sizing up the briefcase. He clicks his tongue. “Oh, never mind. I give up,” Shion huffs, and dumps the collection in his arms onto the far end of the table to be fussed over at a time when he has more brain power to deal with it.

Nezumi chuckles, and turns to the beeping microwave to retrieve his food.

Shion settles himself in his designated chair, and Nezumi takes up the seat across from him.

“Where’s your bowl?” Nezumi asks. “You said you wanted to eat dinner with me.”

“Hm? Oh…” Shion colors slightly. “Right, well… I was hungry when I got home, and it was a while before you were supposed to come over, so I already ate.”

Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “And you were asleep before I even got here. I wonder why I came over at all. These are not the actions of a host looking forward to his guest.”

“I was looking forward to you coming over,” Shion insists. “I would have called you to cancel, if I wasn’t. And falling asleep was not on purpose.”

“It was on purpose enough that you had the forethought to leave a note to wake you up.”

Shion has no defense for that, apparently, and drops his gaze to the steam rising from the chili bowl. Nezumi bites down on a smile.

“I can make a small bowl for myself, if you want to eat together,” Shion offers, but Nezumi waves him off.

“Just keep me company and I’ll consider you forgiven.”

The chili is delicious, the perfect balance of spices and liquid consistency. But then, it’s Karan’s recipe, so of course it’s perfect.

When Nezumi first arrived in No. 6, he stayed in a room on the cusp between what used to be West Block territory and Lost Town. He remained there, alone, for a week, fussing over when and where and how he would announce to Shion he was back. He finally resolved upon visiting Karan first, since she was the mini boss in this situation.

Karan hugged him before he even finished reintroducing himself, and things snowballed from there. A month later, Nezumi found himself moved into Shion’s old room in the Lost Town bakery and having family dinners with Karan, Shion, Inukashi, baby Shionn, and occasionally Rikiga. The warm family atmosphere is at once disorienting, uncomfortable, and deeply satisfying. Being part of a greater whole appeals to a part of himself that Nezumi hadn’t even realized he had been missing.

The biggest perk of living with Karan, however, is that Nezumi has his pick of the most delicious foods and pastries imaginable. Nezumi has experienced some extremely novel, odd, and mouth-watering cuisines while traveling abroad, but Karan’s cooking could compete with the best of them. She makes simple things, comfort food, but every recipe is executed perfectly, and Nezumi would take common food made well over fancy dishes any day.

Shion rests his chin in his hand and says nothing as Nezumi eats. He looks more alert now. The glossy film of sleep has faded from his eyes, and Shion’s gaze is back to its usual level of penetrating. Shion’s ability to stare like he can see past all your bullshit directly into your soul hasn’t changed one bit. In fact, being a member of No. 6’s governing body seems to have made his perceptions more astute.

This is both a comfort and a cause of deep uneasiness.

“You must like it,” Shion says, “because you’re not saying anything.”

Nezumi spoons another bite into his mouth and chews on that comment. “I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating. It sounds like you think I only talk to criticize.”

Shion straightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Fishing for compliments, then?” Nezumi shrugs a shoulder. “Alright. Karan’s recipe is really delicious. You must give her my praises.”

Shion turns face away and shakes his head, but Nezumi still catches the curve of his incredulous smirk. Nighttime sparring is Nezumi’s preferred type, because Shion is usually too tired to win.

“Deliver the praises yourself,” Shion says. “You live there, not me.”

“I compliment Karan all the time. But I don’t think it means as much coming from me.”

“It means a lot. Mom loves you.”

Nezumi hums a sound of assent and decides to be civil and ask, “How was your day, then?”

“Fine.” Shion leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Everyone still sucks.”

Nezumi points his spoon at him. “Touché.”

Shion laughs lightly, but a moment later his face sours and he sighs. “Talking about work after work is depressing. Can we talk about something better?”

“I would love to, but I don’t think either of us do much else but work and read, Shion. And last time I tried to discuss literature with you over dinner, you told me to stop.”

Shion leans his elbows on the table and laces his fingers together, his expression serious. “You were playing devil’s advocate too much. I don’t get why people do that. If we’re having a discussion about something, I want to know your opinion, not an opposing opinion for opposition’s sake. And if it is actually your opinion, then don’t hide behind ‘playing devil’s advocate.’ Just be honest about it; otherwise, you come off as an uppity snob, parroting views that aren’t even yours just to pick a fight.” 

“…I feel like you’ve been sitting on that diatribe for quite some time.”

“I was thinking about it all week,” Shion admits. “People in the office do it, too, all the time, and it drives me crazy.”

Nezumi nods his head slowly. “Duly noted. Anything else you’ve been stewing on that you want to share?”

Shion’s expression goes quiet. His interlaced fingers tense, but he holds Nezumi’s gaze and says lightly, “No. That’s it.” 

The temperature in the room drops a few degrees. Okay… That’s concerning. Nezumi focuses on scraping the last remnants of chili from his bowl to mask his confusion. What did Shion have on his mind that he didn’t want to share?

Did I offend him?

Shion hasn’t seemed irritated or guarded around him lately, but then Nezumi doesn’t know him as well as he used to. Shion’s basically a politician now and is well-versed in evading uncomfortable questions and bending truths. But even though Shion has gained some important networking skills, he hasn’t changed that much in essentials; he’s still straightforward and fiercely opinionated. If Nezumi pisses him off, Shion lets him have it right then and there. So whatever it is, it’s a touchy enough subject that even Shion balks at mentioning it.

Does he want me to back off?

Nezumi’s stomach twists, and his appetite shrinks in the shadow of his thoughts. It’s barely been any time at all since Shion welcomed him back. He couldn’t be sick of him yet… Right?

Nezumi knew reuniting with Shion wouldn’t be seamless. They would have to relearn each other; they’re different now, and there’s no pretending that difference away when they’re in close quarters with one another. He had expected anger and hurt when he and Shion finally faced each other again, but Shion has shown him nothing but warmth. Shion’s emotions are more muted at twenty-four years old than they were at sixteen, but he is no less gracious or willing to throw open his home to Nezumi again.

Nezumi had been grateful for the warm welcome. It was proof that Shion still wanted him around, but he also recognizes that Shion’s willingness to try again merely meant Nezumi had gotten his foot in the door.

Nezumi knows very well he’s on probation.

The seven years of separation that had brought Nezumi so much clarity had apparently caused Shion a lot of pain. Nezumi has picked up enough from Karan and Inukashi to piece together the broken picture of Shion’s life in the first four years of their separation: anxiety, depression, periods of simmering misdirected anger. As happy as Shion’s friends and family are that Nezumi made good on his promise and returned—as happy as Shion claims to be—they have reservations about letting him slip back into Shion’s life. They want definitive proof that he’s here to stay, and will not make a ruin of Shion’s feelings a second time.

Nezumi thought he gave Shion that proof when he agreed to move in with Karan. He thought he’s shown his dedication through the family dinners, and casual conversations, and solicitude for Shion’s personal space over the last few months, but maybe he’s growing too slowly for it to work. Maybe for all the progress Nezumi has made he isn’t enough for Shion anymore.

In West Block, Shion needed him; he was marooned and uncertain, and Nezumi was his only support and source of information. But Nezumi isn’t Shion’s whole world now. Shion has work, and friends, and a mother who loves him, and he’s gotten by just fine while they were apart. Maybe he’s realized that Nezumi no longer fits into his life the way he used to.

“Nezumi? What’re you thinking about?”

Nezumi glares down into his empty bowl. He never wants to return to the angry, caged person he had been, but sometimes he remembers what a bitter hell it is to care about another person, and he wishes he could push away the feelings instead of letting them burn through him.

“Nezumi?” Shion reaches across the table and pokes his bowl with the tip of his pointer finger. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just thinking about what you said earlier, about being honest.” Nezumi pushes out his chair and stands. “Easier said than done sometimes.”

He takes the bowl to the kitchen sink and begins to wash it. Midway through soaping the spoon with the sponge, he hears Shion’s soft footfalls on the tile behind him. His presence pricks at the back of Nezumi’s neck like heat, but he keeps his attention on the sink.

“You can use the dishwasher, you know….”

“Old habit,” Nezumi answers. He rinses the spoon off, places it in the drying rack, and moves on to the bowl.

Stupid, Nezumi curses himself. Old habits indeed. He’s too old to be covering his insecurity with fits of pique.

And what is he so upset about, anyway? Shion hasn’t said he’s unhappy or he wants him to leave. He could be hiding something entirely different—he could be hiding nothing at all. Maybe Shion’s just tired. Maybe they’re both very tired and being weird for no reason and everything will settle itself in the morning.

Nezumi scrubs the bowl until the brilliant blue of the glass is completely eclipsed by soap.

“I made you mad,” Shion says like a revelation. “Why?”

Why? Nezumi doesn’t have to do any deep meditation on the question. He’s upset because he has feelings now and everything is inconvenient. Every one of Shion’s smiles makes him hopeful, and every frown and cautious reply sends his mind into a paranoid spiral. And although he’s in tune enough with his emotions now to acknowledge what he’s feeling, his stubborn pride is still an obstacle to expressing them.

So here he is, acting like a spoiled child about something that isn’t even confirmed.

Nezumi splashes a bit of water over the bowl and drops it onto the bottom of the sink with suds still clinging to the rim. He scrubs the water from his hands with a cloth and faces Shion.

“I’m not mad,” Nezumi mutters. “I’m…” Off balance. Terrified. Utterly inept. “Confused,” he hedges.

Shion bites his lip, his dark eyes wide and searching, and Nezumi tries not to sound like too much of an insecure fool when he says, “You lied to me just now. There’s something on your mind.”

Annnnd, now I sound accusatory. Nice. Shion doesn’t answer immediately and it makes the moment so much worse. 

Why did he have to be a masochist and call him out? He should have ignored the awkwardness and enjoyed Shion’s company instead. If Shion is uncertain of their relationship, he could have used tonight to convince him it’s worth giving them another chance. Instead, he’s forced Shion to tip his hand.

With every silent second that passes, Shion looks more uncomfortable and Nezumi wants to crawl out of his skin. He can’t stand the nervous tilt to Shion’s expression. Nezumi turns back toward the sink and runs the water over the bowl again, just to have a reason to escape Shion’s gaze, no matter how transparent.

“I didn’t want to bring it up yet,” Shion says softly behind him. The words trace a line of cold down Nezumi’s spine. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and I didn’t—” Shion pauses and clears his throat.

The bowl is clean, but Nezumi keeps the water running, staring down at the stream and dissociating while he waits for Shion to deliver the critical blow.

“It’s only been a few months, and I know you’re still settling in at Mom’s,” Shion continues. “I didn’t want to put too much pressure on you.”

Pressure? Nezumi’s racing heart makes it very difficult to think properly, but he vaguely realizes Shion’s words are a strange lead up to telling him to hit the road.

Nezumi flicks the faucet off and half turns to peer at him. Shion straightens when their eyes meet and a combination of relief and agitation flits over his face before falling into a guilty sort of apprehension.

“I was afraid,” Shion says. “I didn’t want to scare you away when things have been going so well.”

“Scare me away…how?” Nezumi is thankful he’s such an accomplished actor, because it allows him to deliver the question with completely calm curiosity. Internally, he is a mess of electricity. Shion doesn’t want to scare him away, which means Shion wants to keep him close. His heart is pounding so hard his head feels like it’s going to explode.

Shion opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then turns his burning face aside and fixes his eyes on the front door. He’s raking his thumbnail so deeply and incessantly against the second knuckle of his pointer finger that he seems in danger of rubbing the skin raw.

“I wanted to ask…” Shion mumbles to the door, “whether you might consider…staying here.”

Nezumi drums his fingers quietly on the counter but otherwise stays very still as he probes, “Here as in…?”

“Here. My house.”

The faucet releases an errant drop into the sink; the faint plop is thunderous in the silence stretched taut between them. Nezumi clears his throat and turns his body the rest of the way to face Shion straight on. Shion glances at him sidewise, probably trying to read his expression, but as Nezumi is keeping his face carefully devoid of emotion, Shion will get nothing.

Nezumi leans back, crosses his arms across his chest, and asks as casually as humanly possible, “You want me to stay over tonight?”

He’s pretty sure Shion doesn’t mean anything suggestive by it, considering they are not romantically involved anymore—yet?—but even as a platonic invitation it makes Nezumi’s breath catch in his throat.

Shion eyes Nezumi up and down, and although he knows Shion’s probably just trying to get a read on him, a flash of heat skitters over Nezumi’s skin. He shifts fractionally and Shion’s eyebrows twitch up in equal measure. Shion stops pretending to be fascinated with the door, and Nezumi has a sense that he’s given something crucial away.

“No. Well—not exactly,” Shion says. “I want you to move in with me.”

Nezumi’s mind sticks.

Move in. Shion isn’t trying to get rid of him. In fact, Shion isn’t tired of him at all. He wants to live with him again.

Which is…terrifying? Exciting? Baffling and blessed and wholly unexpected. Nezumi isn’t sure how to feel about this sudden invitation, because he hasn’t belonged somewhere in years. He had never thought he was the type to stay put.

Until Shion.

His whole impetus for slowing down and returning was Shion. They’ve been stuck in each other’s orbits since they were twelve years old, and Nezumi has finally reached the point where he’s ready to submit to the gravity of them. But that’s a two-way street, and Nezumi expected he would have to match Shion’s patience if he ever had a chance of winning him back. If he and Shion ended up together, this time it wouldn’t be an arrangement of convenience or necessity; it would be because they had chosen to build a life side by side.

And Shion is asking me to live with him again.

Nezumi realizes he’s been silent too long when Shion starts twitch and flutter, a telltale sign he’s about to launch into a nervous ramble. God, Nezumi is so grateful time hasn’t trained that quirk out of him.

“I know it’s kind of… Kind of quick, maybe?” Shion babbles. “And maybe it’s a little backwards, since we’re not…together anymore, yet, and people usually move in after they’re already together, but…” He flushes, but pushes through the stumble quickly. “But we’ve done it before, and it worked then, and I think it will work just as well now. Better, even. We’re older, and we both know what we want out of life—and each other.”

Not the most coherent speech, but Nezumi agrees with all the sentiments. Even so, he finds himself asking, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Maybe it’s a dumb question in light of Shion’s confession, but Nezumi has to ask it. He has to hear the answer in order to quell the doubts bubbling up from the darkest parts of his mind, the parts that have grown quieter as he’s grown, but still whisper he’s not worth it, that he’s twisted and broken and taints any goodness that comes his way.

“I’m sure,” Shion says. “I’ve thought a lot about it and I realized something.” He takes a deep breath and stares directly into Nezumi’s eyes as he says, “I don’t need you anymore, Nezumi. I can get on just fine without you; I know that. But I want you in my life. And it seems like you want that too?”

“Yes.” Nezumi’s answer lacks Shion’s conviction, but it’s alright; Shion knows him well enough to realize he wouldn’t agree to something so serious if he isn’t committed. “I would like that.”

Shion releases a small breath. “So it’s a yes?” He slides a bit closer along the counter. “You’ll move in? You don’t have to. I know it’s fast and you’re used to being alone. I won’t be offended if you need more time.”

“I don’t. I’ve had plenty of time to think too, you know.”

“Right,” Shion laughs lightly. “Okay. Good.”

Nezumi and Shion smile at each other in the wake of their new understanding. Despite the wintry draft slipping in under the front door, the kitchen feels warm.

Too warm.

“I’m not as clean as you,” Nezumi blurts. Moving in together is fun in theory and Nezumi definitely wants to, but it’s only fair he be upfront about what Shion’s about to get stuck with.

Shion’s smile is incandescent. “I know. It’s fine.”

“And I’m told I still kick in my sleep.”

“I have a queen bed now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I shower in the mornings, and it takes at least twenty minutes, so you’ll have to factor that in when you get up for work.”

“I shower at night, so I think it’ll be fine.” Shion pauses. “But twenty minutes is a long time. What do you do in there for so long?”

Nezumi ignores the question and launches into his next point. “You’re going to need more bookcases. At least two more. I have a shit ton of books; they barely fit in my room as it is.”

Shion glances at his back wall. “I’ve been meaning to buy more anyway.” He raises his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

A million other things, but Nezumi decides that’s enough for the moment. Shion’s eyes are wide and full of laughter and the bit of scar peeking out from his unbuttoned collar is all of a sudden very distracting.

“You better not change your mind about this,” warns Nezumi. “Once I move in, I’m not leaving again.”

Shion’s eyes flash. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Nezumi can’t help but smile when he answers, “A promise.”

Shion lifts his chin and nods, evidently pleased. They regard each other shyly for a moment before Shion decides to diffuse the tension by announcing they’re going to watch a movie.

Ten minutes in and Nezumi pretends not to notice when Shion’s head starts to nod. Twenty minutes in, and Shion is back to being face-down on the throw pillow. Nezumi abandons the movie-watching farce and watches Shion sleep instead.

This is what I’m signing up for, Nezumi thinks, shaking his head. Night after night of Shion asleep and defenseless on the couch. He cards his fingers through the fluffy white hair at the nape of Shion’s neck.

He can hardly wait.

[iwritesickfic]

boy who cried flu

(yes I am aware of how stupid this title is leave me alone)

Peter rarely - if ever - got sick. Nobody who didn’t know him well would believe it though - he had a long track record of absences and missed assignments, despite being a 3.9 GPA student. He’s flaked from social events and parties countless times, always citing he’s not “feeling well.” It’s not technically a lie, though he does lie sometimes. 

People understand physical illness - they know what it feels like to be stuck in bed with a bad cold - but mental illness? Not so much. So...he bends the truth. A professor won’t be very forgiving if you say you spent all weekend in bed because you couldn’t find the motivation to move, but say you had a bad cough? No one bats an eye.

So most people assume Peter has an awful immune system. That or he’s just a pussy who won’t leave the house with so much as a sore throat. Everyone except a select few - Simon, Ashlynn, and Alex. 

Simon’d been his friend since undergrad, and they’d been roommates for a time, so he knows exactly what Peter means when he says he “doesn’t feel well.” Ashlynn is the type to show up unannounced with a quart of homemade soup. And Alex...Alex was there when things had gotten out of hand. 

But just because they knew he was lying when he said he was sick didn’t mean he stopped using it as an excuse. Ashlynn, despite herself, would usually not question it. Simon wouldn’t think twice about the lie, almost taking it as a direct confession. Alex would usually get pissed off and demand some kind of proof.

They were supposed to go to the beach tomorrow - get up early and take the train together to rockaway. But somehow, for the first time in years, Peter has something more than some congestion. Something way more.

It started a few days ago, a runny nose and swollen sinuses. He slept like shit, and the next morning his throat was raw and he absolutely could not breathe through his nose. But he had class, so he took the train in and sat in his lecture and tried to keep his sniffling to a minimum. By the time he was headed home, he’d long since run out of clean tissues, so he tends to his nose with a damp scrap of napkin he found buried in his bag, his nostrils red and irritated from the abuse. 

By the time he gets home, his congestion has gone from a clogged, static brick in his head to leaky, runny mess, but he’s well aware he can’t take a day off from work on his thesis, so he sits in bed working until 2 AM, one hand wiping the mess from his upper lip, the other scribbling notes in his worn out pad. 

He wakes the next morning not sure when he fell asleep, his head pounding heavily behind his eyes, sinuses throbbing and inflamed. His throat feels swollen and hot, and the relentless sneezing that started the night before isn’t helping any. The two days prior, everything seemed to be concentrated in his head, but now it’s clear it’s migrating into his chest as well. Halfway through his day at work in the library, he starts to cough, wet and harsh. 

It doesn’t help that his body aches like he ran a marathon, and chills are coursing through him like ice water in his veins. By the end of the day he can’t wait to finally sit down and rest. His body’s been screaming for it since the moment he got out of bed, and all day shelving books has really taken its toll.

Unfortunately, he’s got an hour long commute and lucky for him, it’s standing room only. He grips the subway pole like a lifeline, his head spins every time the train rocks. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened window - he looks awful. Bags like bruises under his eyes that are rimmed in pink and half lidded, his nose irritated and red. A coughing fit tears through him, and he tries his best to catch it in his sleeve. His knees start to tremble as he tries to take deep breaths, and he’s startled when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“You wanna sit?” the woman asks, and it takes him a minute to realize she’s offering her seat. Normally, he’d suck it up, but he’s too miserable to refuse. He mumbles a thanks, and sinks down.

It takes all his self control not to fall asleep then and there.

By the time he’s back at his building, he’s seriously doubting he can climb four flights to get to the apartment. Part of him would rather just lay down in the lobby but he knows this is the final stretch before he can climb into bed and sleep.

He’s interrupted by several fits of coughs, and by the time he’s reached the fourth floor he’s practically gasping for air, and soaked in sweat. The chills he had all day have swapped with an oppressive heat that makes him feel almost lightheaded. 

Somehow, he’s quite sure, he manages to stumble to bed, stripping off his damp clothes, the cool air on his slick skin throwing him back into shaking chills. Just as he’s about to let himself be sucked into sleep, his eyes fly open. Tomorrow. 6 AM. He’s supposed to go to the beach. There is no fucking way he is going to the beach.

He texts their group chat with trembling fingers.

hey im real sick i cant go tomorrow

There’s an immediate reply from Alex.

don’t fuckin do this man. we’re going.

A text from Simon.

you’ll feel better if you leave the house, you always do.

He sighs, cursing himself for using this shitty excuse so much now no one will take him seriously.

im serious i feel like trash

Alex answers immediately.

PETER. youre not sick youre being a pussy. we’re going to the fucking beach and we’re having a good time.

Simon responds.

chill alex.

if youre depressed thats fine but maybe consider coming still it might help.

i mean i’d feel better if you came

Peter groans.

im sick. like sick sick. like flu sick.

Alex shoots back quickly.

ok then what are your symptoms?

Peter rubs his eyes, trying to relieve some of the throbbing. 

fever, chills, aches, cough, runny nose, headache, tired.

There’s a moment of silence and he places his phone on his bedside table with a sigh. He’s about to go under when his phone starts to buzz. Once. Twice. Three times. He swears, grabbing it. Three texts from Alex. The first is a screenshot of the symptom list that appears when you google “flu” which just happens to be in identical order.

you need to be more creative

seriously man im not letting you miss this. we planned this months ago. dont be a dick.

Finally, Ashlynn chimes in.

you dont need to lie p, its ok if you dont wanna come.

While Peter would like to further argue that he’s not in fact lying, he just doesn’t have the energy. At this point, it doesn’t matter what they think. He’s not going - who gives a shit why? He’s able to fall asleep almost immediately, but unfortunately, he doesn’t really stay asleep.

He wakes up about every 45 minutes, coughing or shivering or burning or all three. After his fourth or fifth jolt awake he can’t for the life of him seem to get any rest. Every time he’s about to drift off, another coughing fit explodes from his chest and leaves him trembling. He’s hot, but he’s not sweating, which he realizes vaguely must mean he’s dehydrated. As the night wears on and his condition continues to worsen, he wonders if he should call an uber to take him to the ER. He can’t afford it, not in the slightest, but he’s not sure he’s ever felt this terrible before. Somehow, he remembers there’s an old thermometer in the kitchen. An old roommate had bought it thinking it would work for deep frying but didn’t realize the range only spanned from 95 to 107.

He needs to take his temperature. See how serious this actually is. He can’t remember the last time he actually ran a fever, so he’s not sure if this is just par for the course or whether this level of misery is cause for alarm.

He stumbles into the kitchen, and for once he’s glad to live in such a god-awfully tiny studio. He lands heavily against the counter, and rummages through the drawer to find the small device. After what feels like an eternity, he manages to grab it with shaking hands, fumbling with the buttons for a moment before flipping on the small kitchen light. 

He sticks it under his tongue, it feels like ice. He tries to coach himself on what he’s going to do. If it’s over 100, he’ll go to the hospital. No, that’s too low. 102?Still maybe too ambitious of a goal. It’s then he realizes he’s really just trying to justify what he’s going to do anyway - save himself an ER bill and stay in bed. He’s jerked out of his thoughts when the small device beeps and he removes it carefully from under his tongue. 

The display flashes 103.2. He doesn’t really know what that means but after a quick google search it’s not exactly any clearer. It’s bad, but not bad enough to cause brain damage, supposedly. Fuck it, that’s good enough for him. He climbs shakily back into bed, the small excursion has left him absolutely exhausted. 

He needs medicine. He knows that. Some tylenol at the very least, but if he can barely walk to the kitchen he doesn’t know how in hell he’s getting out the door, down the stairs, to the pharmacy, and back again. So, he’ll just have to live with it. 

He spends the rest of the night in and out of half-sleep, each coughing fit seeming to drive the illness deeper into his lungs. His nose has started to run again, and each rub with the already-used tissue makes his poor sensitive nostrils burn in protest.

The next morning he wakes to the harsh, deafening drone of his apartment’s buzzer system. He cracks his eyes and checks the time. 6:42 AM. Whoever the fuck it is can wait, he’d like to suffer in peace. Still, as he tries to slip back into the sleep the buzzer continues to go off and after about five minutes, he sits up in bed, fighting the wave of dizziness that washes over him. He stumbles to the keypad and presses the button that opens the lobby door, and the buzzing finally - mercifully - ceases. 

He grabs a t shirt from a pile on the floor and pulls on a pair of boxers - he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stand anything more with the way his fever is raging. He sits on the edge of his bed, trying to catch his breath, quickly breaking down into another awful fit of coughs. Just as he’s finished, he hears a heavy knock on the door. Sighing, he forces himself up, padding slowly over to the door, trying not to aggravate the dizziness any further. He pulls open the door and is confused to see not an overzealous delivery person, but his three friends. 

He stares dumbly for a moment before a breath catches in his throat and he breaks into thick, wet coughs. He sniffles, wiping his nose with his wrist, before looking back up at them.

“What?” he mumbles, and there’s an awkward silence. 

“Shit,” Alex finally says and Peter sniffles.

“What do you want?” he repeats, surprised at the hoarse, broken quality of his voice. Does he really sound that bad? Ashlynn pushes forward, wrapping him in a tight hug. She’s short, so her face is pressed into his chest, and he stumbles back slightly.

“Oh Peter,” she whispers, and he swallows, closing his eyes. She pulls away, and he has to force them open again. She she presses a hand to his forehead. Her palm feels cool but uncomfortable against his oversensitive skin. “You’re burning up.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wishing the conversation could be over so he can go lie down and not have to explain himself to his friends. He sighs, and narrowly avoids another coughing fit. “Are you gonna come in or you just all gonna stand there?” They exchange looks. “Well?”

Ashlynn pushes past him, followed by Simon and finally Alex. Peter shuts the door and tries his best not to look as fucked up as he feels walking to sit in one of his kitchen chairs. 

“What do ya’ll want?” he asks Simon and Alex, Ashlynn already digging through the medicine cabinet.

“We don’t want anything we were just concerned,” Simon says.

“Then why do you look so fucking shocked?” Peter snaps, even though he knows Simon is only telling the truth.

“Because I was 100% sure you were bullshitting,” Alex says. Peter is far too tired to get into a verbal sparring match with Alex, but he tries halfheartedly anyway.

“Still sure?” before Alex can reply Ashlynn is back with a damp washcloth and the thermometer he’d used the night before. She lays the cloth on the back of his neck, and he can’t help the small whine that escapes. 

“Open,” she says, and he does. She places the thermometer under his tongue gingerly, and strokes some of his hair off his forehead. “You don’t have anything? For this?” Peter shakes his head. She presses her lips into a line. “Simon and me are gonna go out and grab some stuff, ok?”

“That’s not necessary.” His voice is almost slurred with the fever, and as if on cue the thermometer beeps. Ashlynn frowns at the reading. She shakes her head.

“Christ, Peter.” She touches his forehead again, this time with the back of her hand. “103.6 and it’s not necessary?”

“I don’wanna be lectured.”

“I’m not lecturing.” She spends another moment fussing with his hair before getting up, grabbing Simon. “We’re going to get some stuff, we’ll be back. Alex, make sure he doesn’t die, ok?” It’s clear Alex is about to protest, but Ashlynn levels him with a glare. They leave, and then it’s just Peter and Alex.

Alex stands by the door, hands in his pockets. It’s a while before either of them speaks.

“What was I supposed to think?” he finally says, and Peter tries to swallow his anger.

“I don’t know, man.” He runs a hand through his greasy, sweat damp hair. He starts to shiver again, wrapping his arms around his torso. Alex takes a careful step forward.

“You get why I wouldn’t believe you, right?”

“Yes, Alex.” The chills are now back in full force, he’s sure he must be shaking like a leaf. He wants nothing more than this conversation to be over, but Alex doesn’t seem to be getting to message.

“You never get sick. Ever. So what am I-”

“I get it. It’s fine. Just...stop talking. Please.” He’s shaking so bad he can feel his teeth chattering. He pulls his knees to his chest. He closes his eyes, praying something - anything - will warm him up. He hears footsteps and fumbling, then feels a dry, warm blanket being tucked around his shoulders. He looks up, and Alex is standing there, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Do you wanna lay down or something?” The thought of climbing back into his sweat damp sheets makes him cringe, so he shakes his head. “Why not?”

“S’gross, I sweat a ton.” 

Alex nods.

“Right. What about the couch? You can lay on the couch and I can do your laundry.” 

Getting horizontal sounds heavenly, so he nods, and Alex touches his shoulder, quickly pulling his hand back.

“What the fuck - dude, you’re like...on fire. Shit.” He tests the side of his neck and winces. “Fuck.”

“Can you just help me?” Peter is embarrassed at how small and sick his voice sounds, and the fact he’s asking Alex of all people for help, but he knows if he tries to do it on his own he’s going to fall and crack his skull.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He wraps an arm around Peter’s waist, and supports him the few feet to the couch. It’s not very far but his knees go weak about halfway there and he’s glad Alex is holding him. As soon as he gets onto the couch, he curls on his side and closes his eyes. “You’re ok?” Peter nods, and Alex pats his shoulder awkwardly. “Ok. Cool. Just...stay there, I guess.” Peter can hear him starting to strip the bed.

“I was maybe gonna go for a run,” he mumbles, and Alex laughs softly. 

“Definitely. Then I’ll enroll at NYU for my bachelor’s.”

“You’re just jealous you don’t have all my debt.”

“You’re right. I’ve been trying to rack up some credit card bills but so far no luck.”

Peter opens his eyes to see Alex with the bundle of sheets in his arms and the bottle of detergent. He pauses for a second, shifting from foot to foot.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Peter swallows hard.

“I know man, it’s ok.” Alex smirks.

“Alright. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

[aboveallarescuer]

Dany is (relatively) frugal and modest

As I was rereading ASOIAF, I made it my goal to compile all* the book passages demonstrating either certain key attributes of Daenerys Targaryen (e.g. that she's compassionate and smart) or aspects of hers that are usually overstated (e.g. that she's ambitious and prophecy-driven).  Doing such a task may seem exaggerated, but I'd argue it's not, for many, many misconceptions about Dany have become widespread in light of the show's final season's events (and even before).

It must be acknowledged that it can be tricky to reference, say, ADWD passages to counter-argument how she was depicted in season eight (which allegedly follows ADOS events). Dany will have had plenty of character development in the span of two books. However, whatever happens to Dany in the next two books, I would argue that there is more than enough material to conclude that her show counterpart was made to fall for flaws that she (for the most part) never had and actions that she (for the most part) would never take. (and that's not even considering the double standards and the contradictions with what had been shown from show!Dany up until then, but that's obviously out of the scope of these lists)

Another objection to the purpose of these lists is that Game of Thrones is different from A Song of Ice and Fire and should be analyzed on its own, which is a fair point. However, the show is also an adaptation of these books, which begs the questions: why did they change Dany's character? Why did they overfocus on negative traits of hers or depicted them as negative when they weren't supposed to be or gave her negative traits that were never hers to begin with? Another fact that undermines the show=/=books argument is that most people think that the show's ending will be the books', albeit only in broad strokes and in different circumstances. As a result, people's perception of Dany is inevitably influenced by the show, which is a shame.

I hope these lists can be useful for whoever wants to find book passages to defend (or even simply explore different facets of) Dany's character in metas or conversations.

 *Well, at least all the passages that I could find in her chapters, which is no guarantee that the effort was perfectly executed, but I did my best.

Also, people could interpret certain passages differently and then come up with a different collection of passages if they ever attempted to make one, so I'm not saying that this list is completely objective (nor that there could ever be one).

Also, some passages have been cut short according to whether they were, IMO, relevant to the specific topic of the list they're in, so the context surrounding them may not always be clear (always read the books and use asearchoficeandfire). Many of them appear in different lists, sometimes fully referenced, sometimes not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To justify the existence of this list, let's see examples of widespread opinions that I feel misrepresent Daenerys Targaryen:

Even when Daenerys was kidnapped by a then-hostile Dothraki in season 6, she didn’t look this disheveled. In fact, her hair and outfit were impeccable in the face of relentless desert grit and threatened imprisonment in the Dosh Khaleen. Dany, a woman who has believed she was fated for greatness since birth, has never let herself look anything but perfect. That is, until now. (x)

Dany has not believed she was fated for greatness neither since birth nor as of ADWD. This meta and these lists make it clear enough. But this list is about something else: has Dany "never let herself look anything but perfect"? I would argue that the books tell a very different story.

NOTE: There are few moments in AGOT because Dany is among the Dothraki, so several behaviors that could be considered "frugal" and "modest" are normalized. In other books, she's among other nobles, which highlights these particular traits of her.

A Dance with Dragons

ADWD Daenerys X

The sun was hot this morning, the sky blue and cloudless. That was good. Dany’s clothes were hardly more than rags, and offered little in the way of warmth. One of her sandals had slipped off during her wild flight from Meereen and she had left the other up by Drogon’s cave, preferring to go barefoot rather than half-shod. Her tokar and veils she had abandoned in the pit, and her linen undertunic had never been made to withstand the hot days and cold nights of the Dothraki sea. Sweat and grass and dirt had stained it, and Dany had torn a strip off the hem to make a bandage for her shin. I must look a ragged thing, and starved, she thought, but if the days stay warm, I will not freeze.

~

Hers had been a lonely sojourn, and for most of it she had been hurt and hungry ... yet despite it all she had been strangely happy here. A few aches, an empty belly, chills by night ... what does it matter when you can fly? I would do it all again.

~

The sun grew hotter as it rose, and before long her head was pounding. Dany’s hair was growing out again, but slowly. “I need a hat,” she said aloud. Up on Dragonstone she had tried to make one for herself, weaving stalks of grass together as she had seen Dothraki women do during her time with Drogo, but either she was using the wrong sort of grass or she simply lacked the necessary skill. Her hats all fell to pieces in her hands. Try again, she told herself. You will do better the next time. You are the blood of the dragon, you can make a hat. She tried and tried, but her last attempt had been no more successful than her first.

~

Once I dreamed of flying, she thought, and now I’ve flown, and dream of stealing eggs. That made her laugh. “Men are mad and gods are madder,” she told the grass, and the grass murmured its agreement.

~

Dany wedged herself into that corner, making a nest of sorts by tearing up handfuls of the grass that grew around the ruins. She was very tired, and fresh blisters had appeared on both her feet, including a matched set upon her pinky toes. It must be from the way I walk, she thought, giggling.

~

She wondered how the ants had managed to climb over it and find her. To them these tumbledown stones must loom as huge as the Wall of Westeros. The biggest wall in all the world, her brother Viserys used to say, as proud as if he’d built it himself.

Viserys told her tales of knights so poor that they had to sleep beneath the ancient hedges that grew along the byways of the Seven Kingdoms. Dany would have given much and more for a nice thick hedge. Preferably one without an anthill.

~

Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands. In Meereen I was a queen in silk, nibbling on stuffed dates and honeyed lamb, she remembered. What would my noble husband think if he could see me now? Hizdahr would be horrified, no doubt. But Daario ...

Daario would laugh, carve off a hunk of horsemeat with his arakh, and squat down to eat beside her.

 ADWD Daenerys IX

Behind her, Reznak leaned in to whisper in her ear, “Magnificence, hear how they love you!”

No, she knew, they love their mortal art.

 ADWD Daenerys VII

Reznak mo Reznak bowed and beamed. “Magnificence, every day you grow more beautiful. I think the prospect of your wedding has given you a glow. Oh, my shining queen!”

Dany sighed.

~

She sat upon her cushions, listening, one foot jiggling with impatience.

~

Dany envied the Dothraki maids their loose sandsilk trousers and painted vests. They would be much cooler than her in her tokar, with its heavy fringe of baby pearls. “Help me wind this round myself, please. I cannot manage all these pearls by myself.”

~

“The day is too hot to be shut up in a palanquin,” said Dany. “Have my silver saddled. I would not go to my lord husband upon the backs of bearers.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one is so sorry, but you cannot ride in a tokar.”

The little scribe was right, as she so often was. The tokar was not a garment meant for horseback. Dany made a face. “As you say. Not the palanquin, though. I would suffocate behind those drapes. Have them ready a sedan chair.” If she must wear her floppy ears, let all the rabbits see her.

 ADWD Daenerys VI

The bride is dressed in dark red veils above a tokar of white silk, fringed with baby pearls.”

The queen of the rabbits must not be wed without her floppy ears. “All those pearls will make me rattle when I walk.”

~

“Daenerys, my queen, I will gladly wash you from head to heel if that is what I must do to be your king and consort.”

“To be my king and consort, you need only bring me peace.[”]

~

Dany hurried off, calling for her handmaids. She would not welcome her captain home in a tokar. In the end she tried a dozen gowns before she found one she liked, but she refused the crown that Jhiqui offered her.

 ADWD Daenerys IV

Oft have I heard that yours is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Wise, and Daeron the Dragon. The noble Hizdahr is of the blood of Mazdhan the Magnificent, Hazrak the Handsome, and Zharaq the Liberator.”

“His forebears are as dead as mine. Will Hizdahr raise their shades to defend Meereen against its enemies? I need a man with ships and swords. You offer me ancestors.”

~

“Bright queen,” he said, “you have grown more beautiful in my absence. How is this thing possible?”

The queen was accustomed to such praise, yet somehow the compliment meant more coming from Daario than from the likes of Reznak, Xaro, or Hizdahr.

 ADWD Daenerys III

“Let us speak instead of love, of dreams and desire and Daenerys, the fairest woman in this world. I am drunk with the sight of you.”

She was no stranger to the overblown courtesies of Qarth. “If you are drunk, blame the wine.”

 ADWD Daenerys II

Dany seated herself on a cushion, crossed her legs, and gazed up at him.

 ADWD Daenerys I

The tokar was a master’s garment, a sign of wealth and power.

Dany had wanted to ban the tokar when she took Meereen, but her advisors had convinced her otherwise. “The Mother of Dragons must don the tokar or be forever hated,” warned the Green Grace, Galazza Galare. “In the wools of Westeros or a gown of Myrish lace, Your Radiance shall forever remain a stranger amongst us, a grotesque outlander, a barbarian conqueror. Meereen’s queen must be a lady of Old Ghis.” Brown Ben Plumm, the captain of the Second Sons, had put it more succinctly. “Man wants to be the king o’ the rabbits, he best wear a pair o’ floppy ears.”

~

The slippers the Butcher King had sent her had grown too uncomfortable. Dany kicked them off and sat with one foot tucked beneath her and the other swinging back and forth. It was not a very regal pose, but she was tired of being regal. The crown had given her a headache, and her buttocks had gone to sleep.

~

In the afternoon a sculptor came, proposing to replace the head of the great bronze harpy in the Plaza of Purification with one cast in Dany’s image. She denied him with as much courtesy as she could muster.

~

As Dany stood, her tokar began to slip. She caught it and tugged it back in place.

  A Storm of Swords

ASOS Daenerys VI

Her audience chamber was on the level below, an echoing high-ceilinged room with walls of purple marble. It was a chilly place for all its grandeur. There had been a throne there, a fantastic thing of carved and gilded wood in the shape of a savage harpy. She had taken one long look and commanded it be broken up for firewood. “I will not sit in the harpy’s lap,” she told them. Instead she sat upon a simple ebony bench. It served, though she had heard the Meereenese muttering that it did not befit a queen.

Her bloodriders were waiting for her. Silver bells tinkled in their oiled braids, and they wore the gold and jewels of dead men. Meereen had been rich beyond imagining. Even her sellswords seemed sated, at least for now.

 ASOS Daenerys V

“I must have this city,” she told them, sitting crosslegged on a pile of cushions, her dragons all about her.

 ASOS Daenerys IV

Dany sat crosslegged on a cushion, and Viserion spread his white-and-gold wings and flapped to her side.

~

“Do all the Yunkai’i whine so over a singed tokar? I shall buy you a new one ... if you deliver up your slaves within three days. Elsewise, Drogon shall give you a warmer kiss.”

~

When the old man came, she was curled up inside her hrakkar pelt, whose musty smell still reminded her of Drogo.

 ASOS Daenerys I

The narrow sea was often stormy, and Dany had crossed it half a hundred times as a girl, running from one Free City to the next half a step ahead of the Usurper’s hired knives. She loved the sea. She liked the sharp salty smell of the air, and the vastness of horizons bounded only by a vault of azure sky above. It made her feel small, but free as well. She liked the dolphins that sometimes swam along beside Balerion, slicing through the waves like silvery spears, and the flying fish they glimpsed now and again. She even liked the sailors, with all their songs and stories. Once on a voyage to Braavos, as she’d watched the crew wrestle down a great green sail in a rising gale, she had even thought how fine it would be to be a sailor.

~

But later that night, as Balerion plunged onward through the dark and Dany sat crosslegged on her bunk in the captain’s cabin, feeding her dragons—“Even upon the sea,” Groleo had said, so graciously, “queens take precedence over captains”—a sharp knock came upon the door.

[...] Dany pulled up a coverlet and tucked it in under her arms. She was naked, and had not expected a caller at this hour.

 A Clash of Kings

ACOK Daenerys V

She was breaking her fast on a bowl of cold shrimp-and-persimmon soup when Irri brought her a Qartheen gown, an airy confection of ivory samite patterned with seed pearls. “Take it away,” Dany said. “The docks are no place for lady’s finery.”

~

"I have won no victories," she tried telling her handmaid when the bell tinkled softly.

Jhiqui disagreed. "You burned the maegi in their house of dust and sent their souls to hell."

That was Drogon's victory, not mine, Dany wanted to say, but she held her tongue. The Dothraki would esteem her all the more for a few bells in her hair.

~

“I regret if we caused you alarm. If truth be told, we were not certain, we expected someone more ... more ...”

“Regal?” Dany laughed. She had no dragon with her, and her raiment was hardly queenly.

 ACOK Daenerys III

Rhaegal hissed and dug sharp black claws into her bare shoulder as Dany stretched out a hand for the wine. Wincing, she shifted him to her other shoulder, where he could claw her gown instead of her skin.

~

“Weep, weep, for the treachery of men.”

Dany would sooner have wept for her gold. The bribes she’d tendered to Mathos Mallarawan, Wendello Qar Deeth, and Egon Emeros the Exquisite might have bought her a ship, or hired a score of sellswords.

~

The crown was the only offering she’d kept. The rest she sold, to gather the wealth she had wasted on the Pureborn.

~

“Did I not give you an army, sweetest of women? A thousand knights, each in shining armor.”

The armor had been made of silver and gold, the knights of jade and beryl and onyx and tourmaline, of amber and opal and amethyst, each as tall as her little finger. “A thousand lovely knights,” she said, “but not the sort my enemies need fear. And my bullocks cannot carry me across the water[”]

~

“The Milk Men shun him. Khaleesi, do you see the girl in the felt hat? There, behind the fat priest. She is a—”

“—cutpurse,” finished Dany. She was no pampered lady, blind to such things. She had seen cutpurses aplenty in the streets of the Free Cities, during the years she’d spent with her brother, running from the Usurper’s hired knives.

~

“No trick,” a woman said in the Common Tongue.

Dany had not noticed Quaithe in the crowd, yet there she stood, eyes wet and shiny behind the implacable red lacquer mask. “What mean you, my lady?”

“Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass. He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets.”

[...] “And now?”

“And now his powers grow, Khaleesi. And you are the cause of it.”

“Me?” She laughed. “How could that be?”

The woman stepped closer and lay two fingers on Dany’s wrist. “You are the Mother of Dragons, are you not?”

 ACOK Daenerys I

“I fear no ghosts. Dragons are more powerful than ghosts.” And figs are more important.

 A Game of Thrones

AGOT Daenerys III

“You dare!” he screamed at her. “You give commands to me? To me?” He vaulted off the horse, stumbling as he landed. His face was flushed as he struggled back to his feet. He grabbed her, shook her. “Have you forgotten who you are? Look at you. Look at you!”

Dany did not need to look. She was barefoot, with oiled hair, wearing Dothraki riding leathers and a painted vest given her as a bride gift. She looked as though she belonged here.

AGOT Daenerys II

Other gifts she was given in plenty by other Dothraki: slippers and jewels and silver rings for her hair, medallion belts and painted vests and soft furs, sandsilks and jars of scent, needles and feathers and tiny bottles of purple glass, and a gown made from the skin of a thousand mice. "A handsome gift, Khaleesi," Magister Illyrio said of the last, after he had told her what it was. "Most lucky." The gifts mounted up around her in great piles, more gifts than she could possibly imagine, more gifts than she could want or use.

AGOT Daenerys I

“We will have it all back someday, sweet sister,” he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. “The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back.” Viserys lived for that day. All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.

~

When he was gone, Dany went to her window and looked out wistfully on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo's manse.

[her-world-on-fire]

Malfoy Manor V {Draco Malfoy x Reader}

REQUEST HERE MASTERLIST

DRACO MALFOY SERIES

Part 1 The Deal Part 2 Charming Part 3 The Train Part 4 Dinner Part 5 Malfoy Manor Part 6 The Return

Word Count: 2,776

The next few days progressed in the same fashion. Learning new spells and more about each other. Today I wanted to try something different.  Once Draco got up I lead him to the kitchen. It's no surprise that Draco is not a morning person. He was still groggy and unaware of what was happening. "What are we doing?" I couldn't help but laugh at his tone, and his scowling face. "Well, I figured we change thing up a bit and make breakfast." He shook his head and laughed, never did he think he was going to make himself breakfast. He couldn't think of a time where the thought even crossed his mind. He was so used to having things done for him, now it was time to do something for himself. "Let's do it then."

We washed our hands and I looked in his fridge. Once again I wasn't surprised to find it fully stocked. "What about french toast?" I asked, he agreed so I handed him ingredients. Eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, etc. "So what exactly am I supposed to do?" He looked over the ingredients confused. "It's quite simple, take 2 eggs and put them in the bowl. Add in milk, cinnamon, and vanilla." It sounded simple enough, he grabbed the eggs and gently knocked then against the table. He repeated this a few times. "You've got to use a little more force." I laughed he looked at me unsure. But listened anyways, finding that I was right. He managed to open the rest without getting eggshell in the bowl, it was a sight to see. While he did this I found some fruits and chopped them up to serve on the side. "Now what?" He seemed to actually enjoy himself. I grabbed the bread and handed it to him. "Now put the bread in. And then we put it on the pan." I wasn't sure that I trusted him to gauge the toast. It was already hard to tell if you knew what you were doing. "I'll do the next part." 

"What are exactly are you implying?" 

"I don't want under cooked toast, Malfoy." He stood up and came after me, "You've gone too far." I moved through the kitchen hoping to tire him out, but he was relentless.  He caught up to me and grabbed me. I let out a yelp, making him laugh. "Now what was that?" I looked up at him, we were both a little flustered. I never thought I would be standing in Draco Malfoy's kitchen in his arms. "What's all this?" I stiffened, Draco's mother was here. Draco held on to me a little tighter, refusing to back down just because his mother was here. She looked over the kitchen, it was a bit of a mess. I had every intention of leaving it just as I had found it. "What does it look like?" Draco asked, his tone was drastically different than when he had been speaking to me only moments ago. She looked between us, it was tense and no one spoke. She left without another word. 

I looked at Draco, "Let's finish what we started." We did just that. I finished up the toast, I even let him flip a few of them. Just so that he would feel like he contributed. We served ourselves and sat down next to each other. "I will admit, I did enjoy myself." He admitted looking at me. "See! I knew you would." I looked at the mess and sighed. He followed my gauze, there was a mess of dishes and ingredients. "I suppose you don't know how to do dishes." I joked it didn't hurt to try. In reality, I knew I was probably going to have to do them. He scoffed getting up from his chair grabbing both plates and placing them in the sink. He rolled up his sleeves and looked back at me, almost offended. 

"I'll have you know I am quite well versed in dish washing." I looked at him surprised and doubtful. "Forgive me for not being too convinced." It was true, he wasn't a dishwasher, but he wanted to help. I shrugged, "If you insist." Once we had finished I put away supplies where I had found them, and Draco did the dishes. I looked over at him, still in doubt but he seemed to be doing just fine. "How many times are you going to surprise me today Malfoy?" He looked over from the dishes, a smile playing on his face. "It is only 9 am." I finished before Draco did and sat on the counter beside him. He finished and then put his hands on either side of me, "Not bad for my first time." He beamed, I raised my eyebrow. "I thought you were well versed in dishwashing?" I quoted his previous statement. "Oh come on, you did everything it was the least I could do."

It was hardly true but the gesture was appreciated. "Now what?" He inquired I had a few more plans. "How about we get out for a bit?" I figured he and his mother needed some space. They were still really tense from their argument and I knew Draco wanted to getaway. He couldn't leave his room without her checking on him, which made him angry. In reality, they weren't used to being around each other anymore. For most of the year was at school, he only came back for a few weeks at a time. They also had to adjust to the loss of Lucius, losing him made both of them bitter. Although he didn't always agree with his father, he still felt love for him.

 He cocked his head to the side, leaning back a bit. He didn't mind the idea at all. He helped me off the counter. "I suppose we ought to change out of our sleep attire." The thought of changing into less comfortable clothes wasn't appealing. I figured it would be inappropriate to venture out in them. I agreed and we walked back to his room. We both looked in his closet since my luggage was in there as well. He grabbed his clothes and went to his bathroom leaving me in his room to change. In a few moments, we were both ready. "Do you have a coat?" He asked coming out of the bathroom I grabbed it off the bed, "Yes." He nodded and opened the door to his room gesturing for me to go out first. I gave him a thank you and we made our way out of the manor. We walked along aside the gravel pathway. It wasn't a long walk until we got to surrounding shops. 

As we walked Draco's influence was notable. People greeted him, doors opened for him. We walked into a small bookshop. Draco was immediately recognized, "Mr. Malfoy, I wasn't expecting your presence." The owner, an older gentleman remarked. "I can on an impulse." He looked over at me, the impulse being me. I had noticed the books on his shelf and was curious to see how he interacted with them. We browsed through the shelves. Overall the shop was very cozy, there were love seats next to shelves in case you wanted to read. Draco trailed behind me for a bit, then something caught his interest. I peaked over, he was in the ancient literature. I watched as he grabbed a book and trailed his fingers over the spine gently. 

I grabbed a book of my own and for half an hour we read on the love seat. We sat facing across for each other. The shop was fairly quiet getting a few costumers every so often. An older couple walked in, and they gave us a look. "What a lovely couple." I looked up from my book, Draco met my gaze and smiled. He looked at the couple, "Thank you." I  couldn't help but smile at them. They disappeared soon after, losing themselves in between the slim shelves. Neither of us had the heart to deny their compliment. I excused myself leaving Draco alone for a moment. Figuring it was my turn to have some surprises.

Once I came back he seemed ready to move. We thanked the shop owner and parted ways with the cozy shop. We went into a few more shops and were greeted in relatively the same manner. Draco looked up at the sky, it was getting dark once again. He wrapped his arm around me, leaning his head against, "Are you ready to head back?" I confirmed and we were on our way back to the manor. 

---

Once back in his room an owl was sitting on his bed. I looked at him and his expression was once again unreadable. It cooed, right in its beak was an envelope. I decided it was none of my business and went into his bathroom to give him some privacy. It could be his father, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, Pucey, or even Pansy. Deciding there was nothing better to do I just got in the shower remembering his instructions. 

After a decent amount of time passed I figured coming out would be okay. I walked out and to his closet once more grabbing sleeping attire. He was putting away his supplies. On his bed, he had parchment, ink, a quill, and some wax to seal his letter. He also had left his window open, presumably to allow the owl to hunt. It was customary to make sure the owl was in good condition before sending your letter. 

Once I was dressed I reached inside my bag. I sat on his bed and placed his presence behind me. He looked at me suspiciously, although he seemed different. He wasn't in as good of a mood as he had been when we arrived. It was very easy to pick up the change in his behavior. "What do you have there?" He tried peaking behind me. He had to be the most impatient person I've met. I moved to make sure he couldn't see or reach for it. "I'm getting to that in a moment." He stopped being restless and sat up, anticipating I was going to speak further. He shifted his attention to me. "It's been a week and I just wanted to say thank you. For a lot of things, but mostly for your company. It's been a pleasure Draco." He looked concerned, "Why does this sound like a goodbye?" 

"It's not. I just wanted to get you something so that you know I appreciate everything." While we were out I had gotten little trinkets from the shops we visited. From the bookshop, I had gotten him the book he began to read when the old couple complimented us. I saw a ring at a jeweler that made me think of him. Whenever he touched me, I felt the cold metal of his rings. We went into a clothing shop and I saw a scarf, remembering how he's always making sure I'm warm. I grabbed the bag and handed it to him. He looked surprised as he looked inside it. As he pulled out the contents I explained why I got each one. By the end, he looked up at me, a sad look on his face. "I didn't-"

"Don't you dare say you can't accept because you haven't done anything for me." His mouth closed, and he sighed. That was exactly what he was going to say. He was stopped dead in his tracks. "I appreciate this. I just wish I would've done something as clever." I rolled my eyes, "You've done enough for me through gestures, let me do something for you." He seemed to be comforted by the answer. He didn't press further. Instead, he just pulled me in for a hug. "This was very thoughtful of you." He laughed, "So this is where you kept sneaking off to." I had tried to pace my disappearances.  It was hard, he wasn't easily led astray. He was very quick to realize I wasn't in his presence. A few times I was worried he would catch on. 

He needed the distraction. All his problems were put on pause. He didn't think about his mission, his father, or even his quidditch match. All stress was relieved for most of the duration of their time together. They stayed up late and talked about everything. After a few hours later, they fell asleep, neither of them aware of how tired they really were. 

The second week seemed to go by even faster than the first. They spent their time with afternoon walks, picnics, & more activities not centered around the manor. In this time Narcissa really came around. She realized her son was actually happy. It didn't seem like it because most of their time was spent in the argument. But she heard it, their late-night laughter, their breakfast talks, and she had even been told by people who saw them outside the manor. Everyone spoke of a different Draco, who actually enjoyed himself. Narcissa, in turn, decided to apologize for Draco, but for genuine forgiveness most importantly. She gave them both an apology things changed for the better. Slowly she joined them for breakfast and just spent more time with them. At first, Draco wasn't pleased, he was surprised and skeptical of his mother's turn around. he thought she was trying to see how focused he was. But he got used to the idea and everyone was more comfortable. 

Two nights before we were set to go back to Hogwarts, Draco received a series of letters. virtually no one could talk to him all day. The letters were sent back and forth in very quick succession. I was sitting in the kitchen when Narssica came to me. "Draco's still writing?" She asked if had been hours she expected him to be done by now. "All day," I confirmed, not seeing him leave for anything. He was confined to reply to the letter. Narcissa put her hand on my shoulder, "I'm sorry dear, I'll see if I can help at all." 

She walked into his room and closed the door. I could hear muffled voices, I had no idea what they were saying but I knew it couldn't be good. She didn't leave for almost an hour. Once she came back she was pale and even looked sickly. I figured there was nothing I could do. I went back to my textbook, I managed to get it off of Draco's shelf before leaving. I managed to get through everything I was supposed to for my lesson, although I was sure it was going to have to wait. It wasn't happening today, and tomorrow we had to pack. Draco didn't speak for the rest of the day.

We packed in silence for most of the morning, Draco obviously not wanting to talk about whatever happened. Even Narcissa was still unsettled. I grabbed the last of my things and shut my luggage. I sat on the bed as I waited for Draco. I don't know if it's best to let him have his silence, or if I should try and speak to him. Even the sky seemed to reflect the mood, outside rain clouds formed and there was the anticipation of the rain. I looked out the window, just trying to take everything in. Within just a few hours the mood had entirely changed even dragging it into the next day. He didn't take much longer. Once he finished he looked at me and sighed. "I'm really sorry." I shook my head and sat up. The first words out his mouth in almost 24 hours, and he was apologizing.  "You have nothing to be sorry for." He sat next to me and just looked at me. "What is it?" 

He looked down. he was scared for what was to come. He didn't know what was going to happen next. He didn't know how fast it was going to spread and how much time he had left. He figured he needed to spend the remainder of it as best as he could. There was a change they wouldn't speak anymore if word got around. He needed to delay the word getting around, and he needed to make an excuse. It would be too suspicious if he didn't. Normally lying didn't phase him too much. But now he really didn't want to lie. He wanted to be honest more than anything, but the truth wasn't safe. So, for now, he had to figure out something to say.  

"My father is ill." 

REQUEST HERE  MASTERLIST 

DRACO MALFOY SERIES 

Part 1 The Deal Part 2 Charming Part 3 The Train Part 4 Dinner Part 5 Malfoy Manor Part 6 The Return

[oharaswife]

Blue Eyed Beauty - Alex Morgan Imagine

A/N : This is my first USWNT imagine and since i haven’t written anything in a while i really hope you’ll like it. Also i’m not very familiar with this whole woso universe, but i’ll do my best to keep it as realistic as i can.

Tbh i was inspired by all the wonderful works by @imaginesforyourfandom and they made me want to write again, so thanks for that!

Friendly reminder that English isn’t my first language so i apologize in advance for any mistake.

PAIRING : ALEX MORGAN X READER

WORD COUNT : 3.2K

Warning: LIGHT SWEARING

Enjoy ❤️

ALEX POINT OF VIEW

After weeks of relentless training and traveling around the world to prepare for our next big competition with the national team, it was finally time for us to be lazy and catch up on some sleep, or catch up with each other considering we barely spent time off the field lately. I, for one, was exhausted so these two days off were unsurprisingly most welcome. I barely tried keeping track with whatever the others had planned, knowing very well that i’d be spending the next two days in bed, sleeping for 48 hours straight preferably. But of course, I realized it was too much to ask for when I heard Kelley, whom I was rooming with, barge in the room loudly, followed closely by Allie.

“ Do you guys have to be so loud?” I asked annoyance evident in my voice.

“We do when our goal is to get you out of bed.” Allie retorted, her eyes somewhat mischievous, earning a groan from me.

“No. I warned you guys yesterday. I’m not leaving this bed.” I pointed out before burying my head underneath my pillow, hoping that would be enough to get them off my back. I really needed to get some rest if i wanted to bring my A game to our game against France in a few days.

“Come on Janice. It’s 4 p.m already, you’ve stayed in bed long enough.” I barely moved at Kelley’s words. We had all gone to bed really late last night, or more like really early this morning so to say that i didn’t feel rested was a euphemism. Plus i needed my beauty sleep. “We’ve been working non stop for the past two weeks. It’s time for us to just go out and chill.” As she said that i felt her come closer to me, before she lifted my pillow just a little bit so that i would be able to see the pout on her face and the puppy eyes she was giving me.

I loved Kelley, she was one of my closest friends, but at the second i just loved sleeping, more. Before i could say anything though, Allie suddenly jerked the blanket from my grip, throwing it across the room, as Kelley just laughed seeing how i curled up in a ball at the sudden contact of the cold air to my skin.

“Get your ass up Janice, we’re out of here.” She ordered, her phone in hand, probably filming me as she enjoyed torturing us for the world to see.

“Ugh, i fucking hate you.” I grumbled throwing the pillow at her, hitting her right in her face, causing a little chuckle to escape from me as Kels giggled.

“So you coming?” The latter asked, eyes hopeful.

“Fine.” I gave in at last. “But don’t be surprised if i start complaining the second we’re out.” The two girls laughed, knowing that i would for sure.

“Come on you have 30 minutes to get ready.”

“Don’t rush me.” I exclaimed as i finally sat up on the bed. “Where are we going by the way?” I asked, rubbing the tiredness from my eyes.

“Shopping of course.” Kelley chimed in before i finally got up and went to the bathroom for a quick shower, dragging my feet of course. This better be worth it. I thought before closing the bathroom door behind me.

—-

Shopping it was indeed. After almost an hour and a half of running around in various stores and a lot of complaining from me of course, we finally sat on a bench, to eat the ice cream they’d just bought, as a peace offering for dragging me out of bed. It did help soothe my bad mood that the mint chocolate chips ice cream was delicious.

“Still hate us?” Allie asked an amused smile on her face, to which i just answered with a laugh, shaking my head slightly. The girl knew the way to my heart was food. After some more talking with my girlies, our attention was drawn to across the street from where we could hear some people yelling.

“Just fucking kick it!” We heard, quickly followed by another voice yelling “Don’t let her take...FUCK!” And some more screaming. Intrigued, we decided to get up, and get closer to the source of the chaotic screaming. As we got closer to the fence, we caught sight of several women running around what seemed to be a small soccer field.

“We’re screwed if you don’t TACKLE HER NOW!” I saw one of them - the only one who wasn’t playing but was standing by the bench - yell at the top of her lungs. I brought my attention to the woman who was in possession of the ball, curious to see the reason why the girl by the bench was so sure they were “screwed”. The girl’s back was to me, making it impossible for any of to see her face. But what we all could see was how she was driving her opponents - her friends most likely - crazy with her dribbles, stringing together step-overs and hook turns faster than i’d ever seen.

“Do you guys see that?” Kelley spoke finally, eyes wide.

“It’s insane how fast she is.” Allie shot, an incredulous look on her face.

Following the woman’s on the bench advice, one of the opponents tried tackling her, although doubt was all over her face, as if she knew already it was no use because there was no chance she’d take the ball from

the extra talented woman. And she was right. The latter easily dodged the tackle, turning around, facing us at last. My eyes widened slightly as i took in her features. She had a huge grin plastered on her face, clearly enjoying putting her friends to shame. She was radiant, her eyes felt like they were sparkling, probably capable of hypnotizing anyone, me first. She was the kind of beautiful that you didn’t see all the time, the kind that was so rare that you’d want to engrave it in your mind forever.

“She is really gorgeous on top of being a good player.” Kelley pointed, a smile on her face, clearly liking what she was seeing.

Back off. I heard myself think, looking at her with a glare, that she obviously didn’t notice, too busy looking at the woman. I shrugged off the jealousy that was building in the pit of my stomach. Why would i be jealous anyway? It’s not like i actually knew the girl. I brought my attention back to the game and saw the girl switch the play, passing the ball to her friend that was on the other side of the field before she started running forward. As everyone’s eyes followed the ball, mine unconsciously followed the girl, not being able to tear my eyes away from her.

——

READER’S POINT OF VIEW

Driving my friends crazy on a soccer field was probably my favorite thing to do in the world. For the past 6 years, ever since i moved back to the US, after living in France for 10 years, we’d come to this very park to play at least twice a week. We’d play as if our life depended on it, even though, most of the time, the only stakes there were to these games were which team was going to pay for drinks on our next night out. After dodging a tackle i finally passed the ball, switching the play before i went to position myself up the field. As if she read my mind, started running forward as well, before lobbing the defenders with perfect timing directing the ball straight at me. With one swift move, not even taking time to control the ball, i kicked it with full force, making it impossible for the goalkeeper to do anything to stop it. She didn’t even move as the ball made its way to the back of the net in the top right corner of the goal. Cheers erupted from my teammates while our opponents groaned and swore, hating that i was this good with a soccer ball. I was about to do my usual little celebration dance when my eyes fell to the fence, or more like to the women that were standing behind it. They were cheering and applauding loudly, to which i answered with a bow. They were undoubtedly beautiful, but the second my eyes fell on the blue eyed beauty, i froze completely, unable to breath or move suddenly. I was getting massive Greek Goddess vibes. She looked like she came straight down from Olympus or whatever. It was like i was starstruck, lost in the deep blue see that were her eyes, not even noticing how her friends were looking at me with frowns upon their faces before they giggled, whispering something to each other. The blue eyed beauty didn’t move though, she just looked back at me, not that i realized that either.

“Dude, are you still here?” I heard coming from next to me and that seemed to bring me back to myself even though i could’ve stayed there, willingly drowning in her eyes forever and i would’ve been content.

I focused on my friend, Jessie, for a few seconds before my eyes drifted back to the girl. They were still there, looking at us, probably waiting for the game to resume, i thought.

“Oh. Okay, I get it.” Jessie said, earning a frown from me as i tilted my head in confusion, looking at her. She looked at the fence, before bringing her gaze back to me, wiggling her eyebrow. “I got this.” She added.

“Don’t you fucking dare d-“ i tried but before i could even finish my sentence, she was off running to where the three women were standing. I turned around instantly, not wanting to see how she’d embarrass me, or make fun of me in front of the women. I didn’t even know why Jessie was my best friend, the only thing that girl ever did, was embarrass me all the time.

It wasn’t after a few minutes that i heard her coming closer again. I was ready to kill her for whatever she had done the second i’d turn around, but stopped dead in tracks when i did so. The three women weren’t behind the fence anymore, but right in front of us, on the field.

“Alright guys, meet Kelley, Allie and Alex.” Alex, probably short for Alexandra i thought. That was a nice name. “They’re gonna be joining us for a game.” My eyes widened for a second. WTF i thought but quickly came back to myself as my eyes met the blue ones again. God she was even more gorgeous up close. She shot me a small smile, and i was sure my heart stopped for a full second. I gave her an awkward smile in return, never knowing how to behave around beautiful girls. I groaned internally knowing i’d end up making a fool of myself in front of her, as it was what i always did around potential crushes. We quickly introduced ourselves to the girls, exchanging names and just like that we were ready to start a new game. Kelley ended up being on my team which seemed to please her as she shot a quick “No way i’m gonna lose if i’m on your team.” wrapping an arm around my shoulders, a quick but awkward laugh escaping me. If only she knew how hard it was going to be for me to focus now she would’ve asked to join the other team. Allie decided she’d stay by the bench and cheer on the girls, honestly not wanting to play soccer on her day off.

“Alright, let’s raise the stakes a little bit.” Jessie said. I strongly shook my head no, not liking the mischievous look in her eyes. “Player with the most scored goals gets to go on a date with the person of her choice.” Jessie shot making my eyes widen. I glared at her which only seemed to make her laugh more. I secretly hoped Alex or Kelley would say no to that, because even though i could kill to spend time with Alex, i knew that if i were to spend time with her, especially alone would her, i’d just end up embarrassing myself. Unfortunately none of them did. Kelley even seemed pretty happy about the new stakes as she wiggled her eyebrows at me, which only caused me to look down, a blush creeping on my cheeks. Jessie walked past me whispering a quick “You’ll thank me for this later.” before jogging to her position on the field, ready for the game to start. Clearly, she thought i was going to score the most, and i usually did, but i never had a distraction quite like today before. And i was pretty sure that was going to make it impossible for me to focus on anything but the blue eyed beauty that was standing a few meters away from me. The game eventually started and within a matter of minutes, a good opportunity to score presented itself to me. I was alone in the box, ready to kick the ball, but completely failed my shot as when i did kick it, it went so high over the cross bar it, i could’ve hit a bird. Instantly, complaints from my teammates started flying around.

“What the fuck, Y/N?” One of them shot. “I’ve never seen you miss a shot, especially an easy one like that!” She added making me roll my eyes.

“Yeah well i’m kind of distracted in case you haven’t noticed!” I yelled back, a hint of annoyance in my voice. I hadn’t really paid attention to my surroundings to check whether Alex was able to hear me or not.

“Look we know we’re hot, but you gotta focus, i don’t wanna lose.” I heard Kelley say from behind me, making everyone laugh and earning a slight chuckle from me as i turned red.

“Easier said than done! Have you seen you?” I shot back, suddenly flushed with confidence. Kelley answered with a whole hearted laugh before my eyes scanned the field for Alex. I was shocked when i noticed she was just a few meters behind me, but the grin on her face, probably amused by the little banter between Kelley and I, was enough for me to swoon again. I shook my head, realizing i did need to focus. And i did for the rest a game, but it unfortunately wasn’t enough. Plus, no one had warned that Kelley and Alex were such great players, the control they had over the ball was incredible and their technique amazing. Allie was the loudest cheerleader i had ever seen probably, yelling at the top of her lungs every time Alex or Kelley would score, cheering for both her girls regardless of their teams, which i thought was cute. The game finally came to an end after 45 minutes, as Allie and Lena, her new friend from the bench, blew the final whistle, or more likely yelled that it was over. We had won the game which caused Kelley to jump around like a freaking squirrel as if she had won the World Cup, before hugging us one by one. The final score was 6-5 but unfortunately i only scored 3 out of the six goals, Kelley being responsible for 2 and Jessie for the last one. Alex on other hand was responsible for 4 of the goals her team scored, making her the ultimate winner of our little competition. I couldn’t help but be disappointed because even though i was afraid i’d screw the date up, i wouldn’t have minded spending time with her. I walked to the bench, disappointment obvious on my face, as the others started congratulating each other for the intense game. Picking up my water bottle, i felt an arm wrap itself around my shoulder. I turned to the side, ready to cut Jessie’s head off, but froze when i saw Alex by my side, a grin on her face.

“That was a very entertaining game. You’re very talented.” She pointed before pausing as if to think of what to say next. “Even when you’re distracted.” She finally added a smirk making its way to her lips. And damn those lips. I could’ve sworn i turned as red as a tomato, which only seemed to amuse her more. I didn’t get the chance to speak before she continued. “So how does tomorrow at 8 sound?” I stared at her, confused, not quite believing what she was implying, because how could someone like her want to go out with someone like me? It didn’t make sense. I looked at her my frown creasing.

“You mean...” i trailed off, afraid of saying something stupid, or of having misread the situation somehow.

“I mean i did win a date with whoever i want, right?” She questioned, positioning herself right in front of me this time, her eyebrow arching a bit.

“And you want...” i tried but trailed off again, this time not trusting my voice.

“Yeah, I want you.” She shot shamelessly. I’m pretty sure i wasn’t just blushing anymore, i must’ve looked dumbfounded at that. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow at 8 p.m” she added before stepping closer to me, way to close for my heart not to react by increasing its rhythm , and for my breath not to catch in my throat. She was so close that i could see every shade of blue in her eyes, i could see the way they were sparkling, like there was a whole unknown galaxy hidden in there, waiting to be explored. She slowly leaned in and pressed her lips softly against my cheek, making a shiver run down my spine. She made it last slightly longer than necessary before she finally pulled away. “See you tomorrow.” She whispered with a wink before she started walking back to where her friends were waiting for her.

As realization hit me, a huge grin made its way to my face. I had a date with the most beautiful and enchanting woman i had ever seen. The three girls turned around one last time as they walked away, waving at us, and i took that opportunity to shoot a quick wink to the girl i knew was going to haunt my thoughts until i saw her again. I could’ve sworn a small blush appeared on her cheeks this time, before the three of them disappeared around the corner of the street. Within a second, Jessie was in front of me, her eyebrow arched expectantly.

“Where is my thank you?” She asked, crossing her arms on her chest, causing me to burst out laughing, letting out a breath i didn’t know i was holding.

See you tomorrow, Alex. I thought as the images of the blue eyed beauty engraved themselves in my mind, for me to cherish.

THE END (maybe...)

A/N: Okay guys i don’t know where i’m going with this, maybe it will just stay a one shot, but i could write a second part or even turn it into a full fic. I guess it all depends on how you guys respond to it.

I took so much pleasure writing it that it ended up being Longer than expected. Anyway, hope you liked it!!

Also i have some ideas of my own for future works but if you guys have any requests, i’ll happily oblige.

-Kat

[bts-svt-mx]

Maid For You (Part 5) Taehyung x Reader (M), Jungkook x Reader

Author: bts-svt-mx

Taehyung x Reader

Jungkook x Reader

Rating: Fluff, M, slight smut

Tags: Enemies to Lovers AU, slight smut, slight exhibitionism?, Idol! Taehyung, Taehyung x Reader, Jungkook x Reader, Hoseok, mentions of other members

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (M), 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Word Count: 3,600

Description: Wanting to get out of your parents house and experience what the world had to offer is way more expensive than people tell you it will be. So when your glamorous “manager to the stars” cousin Hoseok hooks you up with a  job as the live-in maid for a hillside, massive mansion, you feel as though life might actually be looking up. That is until the mansion’s absentee high profile celebrity owner surprises you by moving back in leaving you to wonder if this mansion is big enough for you and his huge ego. 

previously...

Your words are firm and strong. You will not let him take advantage of you. “Go ahead. Get me fired. But I have never and will never tolerate being treated like this. Goodnight, Taehyung.”

And with that, you push past him walking straight back to your own wing of the mansion. Far, far away from that despicable man you left behind you.

The third thing you had learned about Taehyung: He truly had no boundaries.

Chapter 5:

It may have been the fact that Taehyung has been in and out of the house for the past few weeks for days at a time. It may have been the fact that you had yelled at him for treating you like his own personal slutty slave. 

Or, it may have been the strongly worded 3 page contract you wrote up after the day you denied his little “gift” outlining the boundaries you were setting up for yourself, the tasks required of you in this job, and what was ‘his space’ and ‘your space’ complete with a map of the house and everything. It honestly could have been a combination of those things but you really didn’t care because Taehyung had finally ceased all of his frivolous requests for you.

No more stupid errands of his to run, no more pointless deep cleaning of rooms no one ever goes into, and most importantly, no more of his demeaning words and poorly veiled come-ons. You had successfully returned back to your normal routine around the mansion of doing what you were actually paid to do.

Everything was all quiet again. Or so you thought.

Though Taehyung was absent throughout the week days, he had traded in his relentless requests of your aid for weekly Friday night raging parties hosted in the grand foyer and subsequent kitchen, dining room, living room, lounging areas, game room, and main balcony of the mansion.

It was the 4th week in a row now that Taehyung has thrown a party. And not just any type of party. No, these parties were just short of a full on Las Vegas nightclub with the amount of people and alcohol present. Celebrities, groupies, management companies, socialites, and of course the random people who had managed to weasel their way in were all present at these shindigs.  

And these parties would last all night long. With the last people still passed out on the living room floor at 6AM the next morning.

Though the party was always contained to the 2nd floor of the mansion, since that was technically the ground level of the house, the clean up was still a multi day process with how huge this place was. But your personal wing of the mansion was off limits. And Taehyung knew that. In fact, it was one of the requests of yours that boy had always actually respected even before your self written contract.

You always took careful precautions to make sure that no one could disturb you or your things. And if anyone dared to enter that area of the house… you couldn’t even think of the hell you would unleash on Taehyung and his stupid “guests”.

------

“I really don’t know how much more I can take, Minjee,” Letting out a huge sigh, you complain to one of your dance class friends on the phone. You had managed to make friends with a decent amount of people during your classes and explorations throughout the city but never told them too much about your life at the mansion. In fact, Minjee was really the only one out of all of them you trusted enough to tell where you lived and who you worked for. That was because she was pretty much like your sister and you knew you could trust her with anything.

“Well if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em! Come on, Y/N, you need to let loose. Taehyung has practically cornered you in your side of the house with these parties. Show him you’re not the stiff he thinks you are! Besides, think of all the celebrities that could be there!”

Well she wasn’t wrong. This place would definitely be crawling with high profile, young celebrities. Not that you truly cared about famous people anymore now that you’ve seen how pretentious and rude they can be thanks to Taehyung. But Minjee definitely hit it on the nose with the part about you needing to let go.

Taehyung had made you so tense and anxious and stressed these past couple of weeks that you needed to be free. To drink, to dance, to have fun. And if Taehyung wasn’t going to respect your right to a good night of sleep then you might as well utilize everything this stupid party has to offer right?

Plus, who would turn down free alcohol?

So you decided to get your butt out of bed to get ready to head out. Using your adequate makeup skills, and picking out your favorite clubbing dress hugging your body in the best ways, you step out of your room and make your way out of the door to your wing of the mansion.

As soon as you open your door you’re greeted by the back of a bulky man dressed in a nice black suit. Umm who is this guy? Tapping lightly on his shoulder the man turns around in front of you and gives you a polite smile. He doesn’t say anything but you notice he’s wearing an earpiece with a clear wire connecting it to the lapel of his suit jacket. He nods to you and you think you can hear what sounds like security updates coming from his earpiece. 

In front of you and across the hall from him stands another man dressed identical to him. Well that explains why no one has even tried to get into your wing of the mansion during the past couple of week’s parties. There are security guards posted everywhere.

You could say a lot of bad things about Taehyung but at least you knew he was responsible as to making sure nothing really bad happened in his house. Locking your bedroom door and brushing past the unfamiliar guards you take a deep breath and walk towards the booming music.

Downing your third shot from the bartender in the great hall of the main living room, you look around taking in the transformed rooms. Colorful strobe lights swirl around you as an almost full room of young famous singers, actors, groupies, and completely random other party goers grind on each other on the dance floor, each of them trying to forget the struggles and pressures of their everyday lives. Just like you were.

You honestly could barely recognize the place. You had seen it go unused for so long. You had once wished this place would be used to its full potential but not like this. You were thinking more along the lines of nice dinner parties and benefits for charities. You know, grown up stuff. But instead, it was filled with people who only cared about being seen, hooking up, and getting wasted.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but this new setup confused you. How did that dance floor even get here? Who set this all up? And who is paying for all of this shit?

As if to answer your question, a bunch of squealing girls catch your attention as they all flock around Taehyung at the other end of the large living room/night club. His hair is a half bright pink and half bright yellow combination now. It had been a few days since you saw him last with his normal blonde hair around the house and for some reason the fact that he was glowing like a glass of strawberry lemonade made you even more annoyed by the aura he was exuding.  A lazy, cocky smile flashes across his face but it’s soon replaced by that distant stare you had seen him wear many times before. He’s sat on the edge of one of the nicest couches in the whole mansion along with about 5 other random people you have never seen before in your life. Not surprising since you don’t actually really know anyone here besides Taehyung and the random celebrities you have only seen on TV and magazines.

One of the five people sitting on the couch drunkenly spills their red cup all over themselves and the couch earning a cheer from those around him and a severe grimace from both you and Taehyung simultaneously across the room. Ugh, you’re going to have to hire someone to clean that thing tomorrow. There’s no way you could get that stain out yourself. You suddenly feel the need to drink enough to forget about all of the cleaning up you’ll have to do in the morning. You flick your hand towards the bartender with a sweet smile beckoning him to pour you another shot. 

Just barely finishing the last drop, suddenly a hand lands like a clap on your shoulder causing you to almost choke on the sickening taste of the vodka.

Oh hell no, you did not come out here to be manhandled by some random man. Who the fuck does this person thi-

“CUZZZZ!!! Man, am I surprised to see you here!” A beaming smile meets your scowling face which instantly softens when you see Hoseok's twinkling eyes in front of you. Of course. You should’ve expected him to be here. He is Taehyung’s manager after all, and to be honest, he might have actually organized part of this party.

Turning around in your swivel chair, you flash a happy grin at your cousin who’s actually physically standing in front of you. Instantly, he grabs you out of your chair spinning you around and hugging you tightly, giggling with you as you let out a tiny squeal of happiness.

It has been almost a year since you had last seen him in the flesh. Sure you pretty much talk to him on the phone or over facetime every other day but there’s something different about seeing a person actually in front of you. You truly hadn’t realized how much you missed the dumb idiot. But he was your idiot, your family.

Hugging him tightly back, you realize this is the first real laugh you’ve experienced since- Well, since before meeting Taehyung. Hoseok eventually puts you down after making somewhat of a scene to those around you at the bar but he doesn’t let go of your arm.

“Y/N I want you to meet some of my friends!” Pulling you away from the bar and out the of the wall to wall glass paneled exit to the balcony overlooking the garden and pool, Hoseok lands you right in front of a group of laughing guys talking amongst themselves. Some you vaguely recognize from pictures of Hoseok’s he’s always showing you but most you don’t know.

You stumble a little at his abrupt stop and also due to the fact that you rarely ever wear heels. They hurt a little bit when you first put them on earlier, but at this point, you were too numb from the alcohol to care.

Hoseok greets his friends and gestures to you. “Y/N meet the boys! This is Yoongi,” He points to an intimidating shorter, silver haired man on his left with a shy smile. He nods in acknowledgment in your direction before continuing his conversation with someone next to him. “He’s one of the two main producers on Taehyung’s label.” You try to hide the instinct to blanch at the mention of Taehyung’s name. Yoongi seems chill enough though, maybe not the friendliest, but he seemed like if you got to know him he’d be cool.  

Next, Hoseok turns to a tall, handsome, and authoritative looking man to Yoongi’s left whose gaze is already on you. His face lights up with a comforting smile and he extends his hand out to you which you take with a warm smile back. “I’m Namjoon, Taehyung’s other main producer,” His low voice speaks. Woah his hand was so big and soft.. And his dimples were a mile deep. He exuded confidence and comfort. You imagine he would be the perfect man to settle down with if you lived a different life than you do. If you were actually someone in this world...

Pulling you out of your thoughts, a shorter, attractive, dirty blonde haired boy in front of you pulls you into a tight hug. “I’m Jimin! I’m Taehyung’s choreographer!” His grin is so wide and bright white as he pulls back from the embrace, he’s almost blinding. Looking at him was like looking at the sun. Or a field of bright sunflowers on a cloudless day.

Finally, Hoseok turns to the smiling boy on his right, clapping a hand on his shoulder much like he did earlier with you. “And this is the Golden Maknae of the label, Jeon Jungkook! Y/N, Jungkook. Jungkook, meet my super great, super single cousin Y/N,” At that Hoseok raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oof!” Hoseok gasps as you send a direct elbow to his stomach knocking the wind out of him before you flash your flirtiest grin and extend your hand out towards Jungkook. You didn’t notice him when you first walked up because of the new firey red hairstyle he was sporting probably for his next comeback. In contrast to his hair, his features were so soft and handsome, young but dripping sex appeal at the same time.

Oh if last year’s version of you could see you now. Staring right into the dreamy eyes of the newest and hottest artist in the country.  “Nice to meet you Jungkook,” The words come out from your mouth like sugar, the alcohol making you more bold than you would usually be in this type of situation as you slink your dainty hand out in his direction.

Catching your gaze fully, you notice Jungkook’s eyes grow slightly more intense and his smile turn into a full on smirk as his arms extends towards yours. His muscles straining all the way through his tight leather jacket. The way he slides his hand into yours sends shivers down the pads of your palm and fingertips, through you arm, and down your body.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Y/N,”

-----

The music flows through you involuntarily making your hips sway in time with the beat. Around you in the middle of the dance floor, you can feel a few pairs of eyes on you as you start to get more into the music, letting it take over your senses. Blood pumping in time with the beat, alcohol surging through your veins after you had taken a few more shots with Hoseok earlier. Nothing mattered right now and nothing could bring you down. It had been such a long time since you last felt this way and you weren’t about to let that feeling go.

You knew you looked good and you knew you were attracting attention. It was clear that the sexy dress you picked out earlier was successful in doing its job and that fact only made you enjoy yourself even more. Stumbling again on your heels during a particularly good part of the song now blasting through the speakers, you fall slightly backwards regaining your balance but in doing so you bump into a hard body behind you that catches your arm.

Oh jeez, you were already clumsy sober, adding in a lot more drinks and dancing into that equation definitely did not help.

“I’m so sorr-” Your head whips to look behind you at who you just bumped in your drunken state and you’re met by Jungkook’s soft smile as he chuckles slightly. The room around you doesn’t seem to stop spinning in circles but Jungkook and his beauty remains clear in front of you.

He looks so hot in these multi-colored lights. Green, blue, red, purple, orange. Each color that flickers over his face makes him look even more attractive than the previous color.

“On second thought, I’m actually not that sorry,” You beam with the flirtiest smile you can manage.

Making no moves to separate yourself from his hold, you turn back around in place to resume your dancing, hoping he would get the message you were so clearly not trying to hide. Jungkook was cute. Scratch that, he was incredibly sexy. In his tight black shirt showing off his strong arm muscles and skin tight black jeans making his thighs bulge in all the right places. You vaguely remember him wearing a leather jacket earlier but you don’t blame him for shedding it at some point during the night. It was so hot in here and it wasn’t just because of the close proximity of the many sweaty dancing bodies around you.

Muscular hands land on your hips from behind, helping them return back to the rhythm you just had going as Jungkook pulls you towards him. Your backside lightly pressed against his front. Ah, there we go. You knew he was smart enough to pick up on your flirting earlier when Hoseok first introduced you two. To be completely honest, you had only really wanted to dance by yourself tonight, but you saw the way Jungkook was looking at you earlier and his hands… Oh god, his hands were working magic as his thumbs lightly rubbed your hips through your thin dress.

You welcomed your new dance partner, finding that the dancing skills you’ve seen in the few videos you’ve watched of him did not disappoint. Mentally you thank yourself for the dance lessons you’ve been going to as you begin to gain more confidence in your movements with him.

Both Jungkook and your hips sway perfectly in time but you want more. No one has touched you in so long, save for that one night a month ago when Taehyung had deviously put his arms on you and whispered in your ear and we all know how that turned out. But you didn’t want to think about Taehyung’s stupid attractiveness and douchebag-ness right now. Jungkook is right where he needs to be here and now and he’s doing all of the right things.

The need to be closer to him grows inside of you and it could only be the liquid courage in you that wills you to push your ass closer to him. You didn’t care if you would regret this in the morning. This felt way too good. And who in their right mind would give up the opportunity of dancing with one of the hottest boys in the world?

Your hips follow the beat of the music, first to a faster pop song then you slow it down with more calculated moves when it transitions to a slower, sexier song. Jungkook’s hard breathing matches yours and if there was any indication by the way Jungkook tightens his grip on your hips and moves his head to slip into the crook of your neck, he was definitely enjoying this too.

Following a particularly slow grind of your hips, Jungkook’s low groan against your neck and the light touch of his lips to your skin spurs you on to continue the movement every so often as you tilt your head lightly back inviting him to suck on the most sensitive part of your skin. You had always been a neck girl and god did it feel good with his lips moving against yours.

Jungkook’s hands slide down your soft, red dress, rubbing lightly along your thighs. One hand running back up past your stomach just barely reaching the underside of your breast, the other hand staying closer to the inside of your right thigh, kneading the sensitive spot so close to where you wanted him so desperately. He pushes you closer with the hand pressed against your thigh, which adds more pressure to his hardening bulge behind you.

Jungkook’s hips thrust perfectly behind you in time with the music. Before you can stop yourself, you let out a low moan surprising yourself as Jungkook leaves more of his sloppy kisses and no doubt a hickey or two on your neck. “God, Y/N you’re so beautiful,” Jungkook whispers next to your ear in between his assault on your neck. You can’t help but moan again, louder this time at a particular hard grind of his hips paired with his own low groan against you. Your eyes snap open. Did anyone hear that? And is anyone else here noticing that you’re basically one step away from having sex on this dance floor?

Looking at the other couples and strangers around you, too occupied in their own affairs and dancing, you realizes no one was really paying attention to you or Jungkook. There wasn’t anyone here taking pictures, seeing as most of the people that came here were celebrities that didn’t want their dirty dancing escapades and hookups broadcasted on every gossip site. Everyone here was too busy reveling in their own sinful ways to notice yours.

Indulging in the fact that no one is looking at Jungkook and you, you move one of your hands to rest over Jungkook’s hand that is still kneading your right thigh. Taking control, you move it towards your center where you need him the most and let your other hand slide in between your two bodies, squeezing Jungkook’s own muscular thighs behind you, earning a low groan and a barely audible “fuck” coming from Jungkook.

You don’t have to guide him anymore as Jungkook gets the hint of what you wanted him to do. His fingers graze your bundle of nerves at your center tracing the same circular motion in which your hips are swaying. Slow and teasing as your hand moves from his thigh to his hard member behind you. Both Jungkook’s and your breathing growing fast and shaky as you work your hands on each other.

You turn your head towards Jungkook once more, lips so close to one another, you could smell the expensive whisky in his breath and he could probably smell the vodka in yours too. Jungkook’s lustful eyes lazily graze over your face finally landing on your lips. His hips and hands still moving with skill to the beat of the song as you palm each other over your clothes. Being this close, you realize how this boy really deserves to be one of the up and coming hot new pop stars. He’s so attractive. Sexy with a hint of innocence that you’re sure makes women of all ages keep coming back for more.

Girls must be falling all over him.

You were falling all over him.

Your eyes land on his lips soon after you’re done exploring his beauty in your drunken state. He’s so close, one slight move towards him and finally your lips connect with each other. First slow and gentle but soon turning into a more needy kiss. And you swear. You swear you’re one minute away from taking him back to your room and just having your way with him. Finally being able to properly hear those sweet moans he’s been spewing in the privacy of your own room in your big bed as he peppers those soft lips all the way down your body to your-

“WHERE DID IT GO?” A deep, exasperated voice booms so loud you can even hear it over the music filling the room making you break your kiss with Jungkook. Was that someone yelling? Was there a fight or something? You look around to see if anyone was reacting to the strange yell you just heard but almost everyone is still lost in their own world. Including Jungkook who doesn’t seem to notice your distraction as he continues kneading his hands on you and swaying to the music. 

“WHERE DID IT GO?” The voice booms again.

This time you’re sure you hear it. You would know that voice and that tone anywhere but you hoped that maybe just maybe he wasn’t talking to you. You don’t see the source of the yell so you turn your gaze once more back to Jungkook and lean in again before-

“Y/N!”

Ah, shit.

<-- Previous Chapter | Next Chapter -->

[alliebruns-blog]

Races, Recces and Adventures for 2019

First off SORRY FOR NOT DOING BLOGS (to the 3 people that read them)

2019 has already been quite the year. Let’s get the excuses in, shall we? I have finally moved out of London to lovely sleepy Somerset – home of the Mendips, hills and lots of cows. The running here is ace and I feel like I have finally shaken off the horror of 23 years in London. But it’s a big change – the first month I felt like I was on a different planet – then I had to find work (you know that thing that actually pays you?) So I took a step back from internets for a bit. 

Another reason for lack of bloggage. It seems I have been writing them for everyone else but me this year. For some reason my inbox went a bit mad and I’ve been asked to write pieces, blogs and interviews for a Bulgarian Travel and Adventure Magazine (apparently I am going to be on the cover?!), Run Deep, Precision Hydration, Lessons in Badassery, Dure, Red Bull and Trail Running Magazine. Plus, I have to do my day job. And look after 4 dogs. And a 9 year-old (not mine but sort of is mine now….) and a man human. Jokes. He’s looking after me. 

 So what’s been going on? EVERYTHING HAS. 2019 started with BBR trotting over the The National Running Show in Birmingham where we had a stand and I gave a couple of talks. I was I the throws of a horrendous depressive episode and had to attempt to put a face on. I still wasn’t over Panama really. I think it took me about 3 months to get over it in the end. I had to do a talk on a panel about mental health and running (oh the irony) and then my own talk about running across deserts, jungles and that.

It was very difficult attempting to inspire people when I actually felt like a piece of shit. The show itself was ace and weirdly we have been asked to come back – but more on that a bit later.

I got out in January and February to do a couple of reccees for White Star Running. The weather was JOKES bad. 60mph winds and rain made for a very interesting trot along the coast.

We were checking the route for Septembers Run Jurassic races which are going to be amazing. Have a look at what’s on offer here - and rest assured that it shouldn’t be weather like this on the day…..

Then came the first race of the year - Larmer Tree Marathon in Dorset. Lest gusty with 40-50 mph winds making for another interesting run, and it was also Pickle the ultra dogs first official marathon – she loved it. Look at her little face! 

Then it was off to Bulgaria to do some talking about running. Myself and David from the Bad Boy Running Podcast were asked to go and do a talk at a running expo they had there and it was MEGA fun – defo returning nest year to do the 100KM ultra they are organising – it’s BEAUTIFUL in Sofia.

Back home and it was off to Rat Race’s Ultra Tour of Arran for the second year. 62 miles over 2 days with “some” elevation (A LOT) and some demons to slay. As you know I did NOT enjoy this last year - my fear of heights and ledges almost got the better of me, but this year was different. We had about 10 Do-Badders with us and some of them were first time ultra runners, so I felt a bit like I had a duty of care to them.

As part of my role with Rat Race, I did a little talk to people about the Bucket List which was great and I managed to get round the course with the whole squad without crying. Only issue was I ended up with an eye infection that meant I couldn’t wear my contacts. This is not recommended on mountainous trails. I fell over 3 times - my knee looked like someone had gone at it with a rifle. It really knocked my confidence for trails and I have been super careful ever since. I really hate falling over.  

Arran was beautiful and epic as always. I cannot recommend this race enough. Its otherworldly out there. Here are some pictures – the weather was so kind to us. If you get booking it now it’s pretty cheap – or even better register for a rat race season ticket and it sort of pays for itself! 

Next up was London marathon. It was my sixth year and I wasn’t looking forward to it having only just really moved away. I used to love this race, but I had done so little in the form of road running I was dreading it a bit. So I decided to spice it up by running it in reverse to the start and then running it the right way round.I need some night running experience for later I the year so why not?  I also wanted to raise money for my old friend Scott who we lost to suicide last year. If you want to give a few quid, the charity has been set up now and you can find it here.

We got up at 12am after 3 hours sleep and got our stuff together – we were running with a couple of friends starting at Birdcage walk. We decided on a 5-6 hour time as I had the real thing later on, and this was a training run ultimately. That didn’t go to plan and we ended up smashing out 20 miles in about 3 hours – meaning as we came into Greenwich everything was shut. ARGH! I need coffee! I’ve never waited for a Macdonalds to open, but that day I did! We decided to march out the last 6 miles as we had the time and my legs were already staging a protest about the relentless road pounding they were getting. Once we reached the start we headed over to a hotel on Blackheath where my amazing friend and Head of Crew™ was staying.

We had the BEST BREAKFAST EVER and got I got changed into fresh kit and then it was time to do it all over again. I forgot how much waiting about there was at London. I think I stood in the pen for about an hour, little legs seizing up, feeling cold for once. London is usually boiling. I took a minute to look around at the people running. Lots of them were doing their first and only marathon. Some of them made me want to cry. I saw a guy dressed in a bin bag looking nervous, fiddling with his headphones. He has  a message scrawled on his arm in sharpie – obviously written buy one of his kids. It said “I love you daddy and I am proud of you”. He kept looking at it. It made me want to cry. Sometimes humans can be wonderful. I bumped into the legend that is Anna Mcnuff in my start pen. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. Brilliant. She’s running the length of Britain barefoot so was a training run. I had SO MANY QUESTIONS but she seemed very cool about the whole thing. She really is relentlessly cheerful, that woman. 

 Then we were off. I felt pretty good considering the fact I had already done it once that day. As always there were huge crowds and bottlenecks and I was running a lot faster than I had done in a while. You can’t help it at London. You kind of get swept along. I was very wary of eating and drinking – I hadn’t eaten much during the night run and I am used to picnics on ultras now. I tried to take it easy but it felt easier to run at pace so I did what felt good. For once I wasn’t wearing a pack and it’s amazing how much that frees you to go a bit faster. I was relying on the water stops for all my hydration and that worked. 

One of the things I really noticed about the marathon this year is the aggro. I am so used to the chilled nature of trail runners that I totally forgot about what happened in New York. Road runners can be total arseholes. There were points when I ran over to the water station, signalling I was doing so, only to be physically bashed on the shoulder by other runners and told to “move out of the fucking way”. When I take water I tend to slow down, walk at pace, finish the water and then run on. It’s pretty obvious. I walk close to the edge so people can pass me. I’m sorry but people need to have a bit more patience. Fucking idiots. ANYWAY I managed to finish in a pretty OK 4 hours 10 mins. Getting out of the mental finish area was awful as always, and I had to meet up with a couple of people because my personal hell wasn’t ending there. I had signed up to help out on a Rat Race private event for the next two days and needed to get to Richmond to drive up to Cirencester. No boozy celebrations for me! So off I went to work with 300 bankers who were out on a jolly for 3 days running, cycling and kayaking 165 miles along the Thames. Wednesday came and I had never been happier to see my bed! 

Turns out road running smashed your body up a lot – especially 53 odd miles of it. My back was killing me, my legs hurt. So I did something I am not very good at – I had a bit or a rest. A few days off, runs at the weekend, went to physio. And then, two weeks later, it was time for The Ox Epic.

This is one of my favourite races of the year. Set on the Rushmore Estate in Wiltshire, its a whole weekend of camping and running courtesy of White Star Running. You can choose what race you do. Theres a 10km in the dark, a 10km in the morning, a half marathon and a 50 miler. So what did I choose? I CHOSE THEM ALL. Last year I managed to accidentally win the Epic - this year was a different story. This was a training run for something much bigger.

Once again White Star pulled it out the bag - a beautiful weekend and everything went like clockwork for me and him indoors, despite the fact we had all four dogs on site plus a 9 year old to look after. I managed to keep the same pace for all the races and not feel broken, plus I had a really nice weekend! We ran some laps with the dogs, some without, took out time at the aid stations, walked the hills and ran the flats. All in, we managed to get 76 miles in the bag over the weekend and finished knowing that we could do more. It was a chance to practice fuelling and hydration and catch up with old and new pals. Highly recommended and I will definitely be back next year - perhaps with my eyes on the prize again.

Pretty much everything that I have done in the first part of this year has been pointing towards my one A game race of the year which is happening this weekend (18-19 May). The Climb South West Devon Coast to Coast Ultra. I signed up last year on a whim. It’s 117 miles from the south coast to the north coast of Devon non-stop. This is the furthest I have run without a break, so it really is a huge deal to me to get through it. We’ve been out and about doing a couple of back to back weekend recees to see what the route is like. It’s self nav and we will run a lot of it in the dark. It runs along the Two Moors Way, across Dartmoor and Exmoor, through some horrendous terrain. There are a lot of muddy bridleways, fields and hardly any markings.

Elevation is mental – it literally feels like your going up hill all the time. It’s a really important race for me because it’s one I am not sure I can do. I have a plan A. B. C and D in place but I can’t see myself finishing in under 39 hours. Will I finish at all? Dunno. Stay tuned I guess….

So yeah, a lot has gone on so far this year, and there are some awesome plans in the pipeline for the rest of the year. 

Adventure time! AGAIN! 

I am resurrecting my position as Rat Race Test Pilot for 2019-2020 and doing 4 big recees this year, as well as pretty much all the events.  

June sees me travel to Spain for the Sea to Summit test pilot outing. The highest mountain in mainland Spain is 80km from the coast. Our route connects a start line on a beautiful beach on the Costa Tropical to the summit of Mulhacen (3482m) via a tough 2 day running route, giving 2 marathons back to back and nearly 4000m vertical height gain. No biggie. Plus it’s going to be BOILING and we start at 2am to try and avoid the sun. This is Ben Nevis twice in a day. Fun. 

August sees me trotting off to Malta for The Maltese Falcom. There are 3 islands that make up Malta. This ia a full traverse of the island chain. 3 disciplines. Run across Gozo. Kayak to Comino. Swim from Comino to Malta. Run across Malta. Hot. Historic. Warm sea. An island totally geared up for Endurance sport.  And all in one day. Another world first. 

In September I am off to Scotland to do something I have always dreamt off. A full coast to coast traverse of Scotland on foot. This is a west-coast-to-east-coast outing, n foot, over 6 days. The difference here is that Rat Race have devised a route that encompasses crossings of water and the use of some rivers and lochs, for which we will carry and use pack-rafts. This very unique route means we will hike or run, get to a body of water, use the raft to cross it or traverse it and then carry on by foot. An insane format in a simply stunning setting and incredibly remote area. The route goes from a starting location at Mallaig to finish just north of Inverness. This is the wildest country in the British Isles. We will be vehicle supported for some of the outing; and then self-contained (pack on back) for a significant portion of the rest. Almost 100% off-road. And in September. Be kind, weather! 

October I will return to Scotland for a multi day traverse of the Outer Hebrides. Another dream event. It is around 150 miles from the bottom to top of this rugged island archipelago off the West Coast of Scotland. We will attempt this journey over 6 days. We’ve not quite worked out the logistics on this (have I not learnt anything from Panama??) But I am SO EXCITED TO DO IT! 

In November I am travelling back to Namibia to crew for the Race to the Wreck event. That means I get to see the beauty of the desrt from the crew vehicle with a bit of running, but most importantly, it means I get to encourage, help and inspire people to complete the crossing. I would like to thank Rat Race for constantly believing me and allowing me to do these awesome things. I am one lucky piglet.  

Also here’s a thing – if you fancy joining me on any of these funtime recees then you can – just drop me an email here for more details. 

I am also doing a few other things in between mega adventures to keep up the training and fly the flag for Rat Race and White Star. There’s the Dorset Invader Marathon, the Man Vs Series, the Run Jurassic Series, Ultra Tour of Edinburgh, not to mention my first Threshold event at Race To the King. Basically it’s BUSY. But I am happy. And that’s the most important thing. 

Finally – big announcement – Bad Boy Running are thrilled to have been asked to curate a new section at The National Running Show 2020. We have been given the honour of curating the Ultra Zone – a brand new zone that focuses completely on Ultras. We have our own stage, our own guests and our own talks and panels, We are in charge. We will be announcing out line up in the next month or so but if I were you I would get your tickets NOW because you DO NOT want to miss this. You can get your free ones here using my code AMB18. We have some of the biggest names in Ultra running confirmed and it’s going to be mega. You can register for your free ticket here. Massive thank to Mike for believing in us (and trusting us – he may regret this….)

I’m also going to try and bet better at this blogging thing – I have a lot to write about so not short on material – it’s just the time. Having said that I am happy to write for anyone else that fancies it. Just drop me a line and I will take a look at it. So yeah. That’s it. Whirlwind update done. See you next week. If I survive.

[toomanysinks]

Tesla to cut workforce by 7% and focus on Model 3 production

Tesla is cutting 7% of its full-time workforce. The company disclosed the headcount reduction in an update emailed to all employees and also posted to its website.

In the email, CEO Elon Musk says the focus must be on delivering “at least the mid-range Model 3 variant in all markets”. He also warns those employees not set to be axed that there are “many companies that can offer a better work-life balance, because they are larger and more mature or in industries that are not so voraciously competitive”.

“We unfortunately have no choice but to reduce full-time employee headcount by approximately 7% (we grew by 30% last year, which is more than we can support) and retain only the most critical temps and contractors,” he writes.

“Tesla will need to make these cuts while increasing the Model 3 production rate and making many manufacturing engineering improvements in the coming months. Higher volume and manufacturing design improvements are crucial for Tesla to achieve the economies of scale required to manufacture the standard range (220 mile), standard interior Model 3 at $35k and still be a viable company. There isn’t any other way.”

Last October Musk tweeted that Tesla’s headcount was 45,000 — suggesting some 3,150 jobs are set to go.

The move follows a number of cost-cutting efforts at the electric car maker, including an announcement this week that a long-running buyer referral program will end this month. Musk said the program was adding too much cost to the cars.

Three months ago Tesla also announced a new, cheaper mid-range battery version of the car — starting at $45,000; though still not the $35,000 base-spec Model 3 (before incentives) that was originally promised.

His full note to employees is pasted below.

CNBC reports that Tesla shares fell almost 6% in premarket trading following the news.

Company Update

January 18, 2019

This morning, the following email was sent to all Tesla employees:

As we all experienced first-hand, last year was the most challenging in Tesla’s history. However, thanks to your efforts, 2018 was also the most successful year in Tesla’s history: we delivered almost as many cars as we did in all of 2017 in the last quarter alone and nearly as many cars last year as we did in all the prior years of Tesla’s existence combined! Model 3 also became the best-selling premium vehicle of 2018 in the US. This is truly remarkable and something that few thought possible just a short time ago.

Looking ahead at our mission of accelerating the advent of sustainable transport and energy, which is important for all life on Earth, we face an extremely difficult challenge: making our cars, batteries and solar products cost-competitive with fossil fuels. While we have made great progress, our products are still too expensive for most people. Tesla has only been producing cars for about a decade and we’re up against massive, entrenched competitors. The net effect is that Tesla must work much harder than other manufacturers to survive while building affordable, sustainable products.

In Q3 last year, we were able to make a 4% profit. While small by most standards, I would still consider this our first meaningful profit in the 15 years since we created Tesla. However, that was in part the result of preferentially selling higher priced Model 3 variants in North America. In Q4, preliminary, unaudited results indicate that we again made a GAAP profit, but less than Q3. This quarter, as with Q3, shipment of higher priced Model 3 variants (this time to Europe and Asia) will hopefully allow us, with great difficulty, effort and some luck, to target a tiny profit.

However, starting around May, we will need to deliver at least the mid-range Model 3 variant in all markets, as we need to reach more customers who can afford our vehicles. Moreover, we need to continue making progress towards lower priced variants of Model 3. Right now, our most affordable offering is the mid-range (264 mile) Model 3 with premium sound and interior at $44k. The need for a lower priced variants of Model 3 becomes even greater on July 1, when the US tax credit again drops in half, making our car $1,875 more expensive, and again at the end of the year when it goes away entirely.

Sorry for all these numbers, but I want to make sure that you know all the facts and figures and understand that the road ahead is very difficult. This is not new for us – we have always faced significant challenges – but it is the reality we face. There are many companies that can offer a better work-life balance, because they are larger and more mature or in industries that are not so voraciously competitive. Attempting to build affordable clean energy products at scale necessarily requires extreme effort and relentless creativity, but succeeding in our mission is essential to ensure that the future is good, so we must do everything we can to advance the cause.

As a result of the above, we unfortunately have no choice but to reduce full-time employee headcount by approximately 7% (we grew by 30% last year, which is more than we can support) and retain only the most critical temps and contractors. Tesla will need to make these cuts while increasing the Model 3 production rate and making many manufacturing engineering improvements in the coming months. Higher volume and manufacturing design improvements are crucial for Tesla to achieve the economies of scale required to manufacture the standard range (220 mile), standard interior Model 3 at $35k and still be a viable company. There isn’t any other way.

To those departing, thank you for everything you have done to advance our mission. I am deeply grateful for your contributions to Tesla. We would not be where we are today without you.

For those remaining, although there are many challenges ahead, I believe we have the most exciting product roadmap of any consumer product company in the world. Full self-driving, Model Y, Semi, Truck and Roadster on the vehicle side and Powerwall/pack and Solar Roof on the energy side are only the start.

I am honored to work alongside you.

Thanks for everything, Elon

  source https://techcrunch.com/2019/01/18/tesla-to-cut-workforce-by-7-and-focus-on-model-3-production/

[thesinglesjukebox]

LAURA JEAN - GIRLS ON THE TV [8.27] Melbourne singer goes back to high school, discovers synths...

Jonathan Bradley: Laura Jean's self-titled album, her fourth -- it is now four years old -- is a skeletal folk record: it sounds like an Australia I don't often hear in pop song or mass media. It draws wintry charcoal sketches of Melbourne city parks and lonely stretches of national highways. The gothic domesticity acted like blotting paper, pressing against the natural rhythms of life and recording them in irrupted detail. Against this backdrop, "Girls on the TV" is a new single awash with astonishing colour: pastel synth swirls and a disco bass pulse pushing through the mix. Removed from context, this pop impulse might not be so unexpected, but I hear in Jean's airy, wavering tones an artist reinventing herself as the introspective rejoinder to the vivant throwback fervor of Betty Who or Catcall. And yet even in this new guise, Jean's bleak folk endures, with an anecdotal lyric that carefully and precisely narrates the drawn-out process of a girlhood destroyed. Ricky, who can "dance like the girls on the TV," is a childhood friend whose joy in the physical possibilities of her body is commodified and contaminated: by demanding teachers who ask her to perform feats she cannot, by cruel classmates who tease her for her weight, and by adult men who make sexual demands upon her. "Girls on the TV" is a sad song of youth that is made sadder by how keenly aware it is of the libertine and evanescent possibilities of the pop it embraces. [9]

Rebecca A. Gowns: "Girls on the TV" falls into that tricky vein of narrative pop songs; telling a full story can be hard to pull off without coming across as maudlin or pretentious or just clunky, but Laura Jean executes it perfectly. It's a story about a woman extending compassion to her sister -- or friend, or possibly even an old lover/crush -- but it tugs at me the most when I think of them as siblings. It's got to be, right? This kind of bittersweet, constant reminiscing reminds me of the pangs I get when I think about my little brother. We grew up so close. We're so different today. We keep reaching out to each other, grasping each other's hands through gaps in a wall that keeps building then falling down then building up again. But every time I see him, no matter the year, no matter the occasion, I'll think of the way we danced when we were kids, singing along to music videos, pulling faces, promising each other we'd be in a band together someday. "Someday" -- and then time flies, and people change -- but the memory remains. This is that feeling in a crystal bottle. [10]

Will Adams: "Girls on the TV" plays like a memory you visit while idly passing the time. The vault you access in your mind safe and warm, bordered by storybook clouds and soundtracked by dreamy synthpop. But, as always, the details that pierce through the most are the ones you want to remember the least: authority figures pressuring you to overexert yourself; peers excavating your every flaw and parading them about; parents imposing their austere lifestyle on you; abusers reducing you to a vessel for their pleasure; the eventual realization that everyone around you has moved forward, gotten hitched, settled down, while you remain stuck in place, feet swamped with the mud of an unkind youth. But those dancing girls are still there, as is the lingering promise that, one day, you could be one of them too. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: A tale of dashed female friendship akin to Who Will Run the Frog Hospital or Cat's Eye; what it loses in prose it gains in a kaleidoscopic, wistful arrangement. It fills its six minutes well; like memory itself, it's alternatingly immediate and almost photorealistic (that one deep synth around 0:30), then languid and ungraspable. [9]

Alfred Soto: The rare single whose insistence on taking its time pays off, "Girls on the TV" sparkles like distant stars, its synthesizers a platform instead of hoping to get noticed. The pace and arrangement suits Laura Jean's remarkable performance: a damaged meditation on loving someone you can see and hear but can't touch and all the better for it -- "Space Age Love Song" and "TVC 15" without the spritz. "She could always dance better than me," Jean repeats: a statement of fact, mild complaint, and prayer. [9]

Vikram Joseph: A languorously paced, well-written coming-of-age story about female friendship and crushed dreams. The airy, breathy pre-chorus is a particularly good showcase for Laura Jean's vocals. It's unlikely to get the blood racing -- sonically, it's undeniably a bit adult contemporary -- but it owns the middle of the road better than 95 per cent of the stuff you'd hear on drive-time radio. [7]

Julian Axelrod: An immersive, deeply felt meditation on ambition and destiny, sung with the resignation of a woman long since disillusioned with both. The longer I sit with it, the more its faults feel like strengths: Its leisurely runtime reflects time's slow and relentless march, while its dourness finds balance in its faint glimmers of hope. After living within it for a week, it already feels like I've carried this story with me my entire life. [9]

Peter Ryan: The languid quality is perfect misdirection, masking what's going on until the chords break open at the chorus. What emerges is an unflinching sketch of a web connecting childhood pain, coping attempts, and "contemporary adult life." There's no glib gesturing toward resilience, and instead of pity or judgment I hear an indictment of actual and would-be tormentors. Laura Jean brings a sibling's testimony, one that doesn't seek to bridge the gulf between shared upbringing and shared experience, and is all the more potent for it. The wrapping is more chiffon than velvet, but underneath is still an iron fist. [9]

Jonathan Bogart: A folkie's idea of dance music, muted and unflustered, with warm electric bass and polyrhythms played by actual hands rather than programming. Sweet, certainly, and the lyrics' sketch of childhood and adolescent friendship are well-observed and touching without being sentimental. Which is the trouble: the whole production is an exercise in keeping vulgarity, of which sentimentality is one expression, and actual dance music that makes you sweat another, at arm's length. [6]

Alex Clifton: Like if Belle & Sebastian's "Expectations" was twice as long with more disco. Laura Jean has the same gifts for both character and melody Stuart Murdoch has. The dreamy backing helps it go by as quickly as my teenage years did, and her falsetto for the chorus haunts the rest of the song like a memory. It's steeped in nostalgia, but is there any other way to write about adolescence? [7]

William John: Like half the Internet, I've been preoccupied with Hannah Gadsby's Nanette for the past few weeks: a subversive, quasi-TED Talk comedy special that blew my mind when I first saw it in a theatre late last year. Now on Netflix, Nanette is hard to distill succinctly, but central to its significance is its blunt presentation of the devastation rapacious men can effect on others. That devastation lingers in those victims and continues to humiliate them for years -- decades, even -- afterward. In "Girls on the TV", fellow Australian woman Laura Jean presents an unvarnished picture of friend Ricky, a bullied, vulnerable, talented tap dancer, and reminisces wistfully upon the relationship they formed as members of the high school concert band. In the fourth verse, a new character is introduced -- Jean's mother's boyfriend, a violent, young, and predatory 21 year old. In a line excised from the video edit of the song, Jean notes that after Ricky's encounter with this man, she felt like she "didn't know her, or how she got that way"; there is no explicit cause-and-effect drawn, but the implication for the listener is that this incident had extensive ramifications for Ricky, that included cocaine addiction and relationships with married men. It's a sad story that demonstrates the way the action of a third party can destabilise and dismantle a friendship, but it's told with a compelling breathiness by Jean that seems to gather more and more momentum with each passing second. I'm unaccustomed to hearing such brusque, direct, and yet tender third-person storytelling in modern synth-pop. The importance of storytelling is central to Gadsby's Nanette -- stories "hold our cure," she says, and have the power to forge connection. Jean's memories of sitting in front of rage on a Saturday morning when young serve as an access point into an important story that deserved to be recounted. [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[fadedstarlight]

the stars will sing for you, one day. hope is what dreamers rely upon, so don’t lose it. even if it means the end of everything you know.

a crumpled tee shirt, plastered directly to her face. an exhausted arm brushes it aside with a disgruntled moan, the moan of someone who was having a terribly nice dream and was woken up by the most inconsiderate rays of morning grace. thanks, morning, she mutters to herself. comforter pushed aside, beads of sweat rolling off the bangs matted to her temples, may allows her body the respite of cool floorboards, chilling her aching body. wait, why is my body aching? where is my home? where am i? startled eyes, dizzy from the relentless waves of heat, burst open with fervor known only to the insane and the driven. there were a lot of questions, of course. that’s human nature. staring up at the ceiling, a small fan twirls daintily. this isn’t right, she keeps saying to herself. this can’t be right.

no answers can be fulfilled lying face-up on the floor, so in a flurry of movement, may was upright at last. tenatively, she made out the visage of fate that lay before her:

a half-eaten pizza. thrown lazily over a laptop.

why is there a pizza here?! i don’t even like pizza!

may took this opportunity of pure speculative confusion to observe the furnishings around her– a bed with no frame, laid at the end of the room with pastel flowers adorning the comforter; a small, yet thoughtful rug that looked incredibly soft if layed upon, if there weren’t a black cat sitting directly in the center of it, enjoying the sun; a desk with the aforementioned pizza laptop at the other end of the room; and a communist flag pinned to the wall with two small knives.

cool.

i need to find a fan.

PROLOGUE

1 maybe this is the beginning of something new.

maybe this is the end of something ancient.

maybe this simply is.

2 she can’t do it alone.

be strong, may. be strong. run fast, head high, legs pumping– as long as you are going away from what you once were. that, dear, was a fate worse than death.

i don’t think death itself envies you, to be honest.

3 if you keep walking, maybe eventually possibly you can wake up from this and it will all be better.

but you know, you can’t outrun fate.

fate has its own tendrils that operate on their own terms and own laws and own everything and it doesn’t give a shit if it hurts you. because it has a job. and it’s doing a pretty great job at that job, and it probably doesn’t like that job but it doesn’t have a choice because its fate bosses tell it to do that job or else it’ll lose its fate job in its fate cubicle making a fate wage so it can feed its fate family. and they have their own fates, too, forcing them into this fate paradox that never seems to pause or contemplate why it does that, as if that too has a fate that it was predestined for.

my head hurts,

i really need some coffee. when was the last time i had something to drink? it was a day ago, probably. it’s not like, out here, i have much to go off of in terms of resources. if the winter chill nipping at my fingertips could be as filling as they are annoying, i’d never have to eat or drink anything again. now i’m hungry too. i am kind of wandering the wilderness, so i suppose i’m not too surprised. but i still am. in an apathetic kind of way. like, i will be conscious of what is happening, think to myself, oh, well i should do something about this, and never actually act upon it. even now i feel like im just watching a movie of someone else who just so happens to be traversing the alaskan landscape in search of something that isn’t there, wondering what their motivations are. gnawing on popcorn, sucking down heaven’s nectar and in the calming embrace of separate souls, lapping up the emotional buffet such a connection offers to one so malnourished. certainly sounds good right about now.

but i’ve accepted that, after about the nineteenth mile of uninterrupted walking, i understood that my entire existence was to never be ‘good’. good is the term that people never meant for anything say to quantify their meaningless lives by trying to find purpose in purposeless things. they have to do something for 80 years before they kick the bucket, right? grass doesn’t have things to look forward to, to aspire to be, to discuss, yet here it is, frozen and pale in the face of winter’s countenance, tenderly caressing its neck with its white-hot temptation. and grass doesn’t hurt anybody, either. all grass ever did was be green and be eaten by things who like hurting other things. grass has feelings, too, but no one cares. because it’s grass. and we are people, but honestly, we’re so much worse than grass. grass deserves more good its life than we have ever had. grass hasn’t killed other grasses. grass just wants to be the best grass it can be and it tries so fucking hard to be that. its grass parents must be so proud of it.

i wish i were grass.

4 stars wink at me sometimes. their flirtatious personalities are intoxicating, which makes it all the more heartbreaking when i realize the distance between them and i. i wish i could be up there with them, and succumb to their allure, be subject to the countless stories and thoughts, their transcendental banter, their flaws and fears and fate all lined up for me to gorge upon with all senses in wide-eyed stupor. the stars have their qualms about the universe too, i’m sure. but to be a celestial body must have its perks, too. for one, you never have to worry about not having enough time. you’re the largest measurer of time, only trumped in its universal dominance by the ones who set them there at all. also, you’re friends with other stars, whether they like it or not. your galaxy would be, essentially, a set of unbreakable friendships. you’re all orbiting each other, invariably destined to meet in a cataclysmic reuniting. it’s poetic: tragic and moving and short-lived yet unmistakably important to those involved, for they are foreverchanged with unmistakablelove. those were books i was writing on before i began this wandering journey into eternal oblivion. i doubt they’ll get finished, but it’s the fact that i tried at all that makes it powerful.

5 now, as i wrap my cardigan around my knees and crush the life out of these frozen leaves with my weight it must bear, i contemplate the purpose of my existence as an individual among individuals. is it true that some are destined to live in the solitary confinement of their shadow, as a mere instrument of mimicry? that is all i have become. to serve the whims of another, willing to destroy the whole of my being just to catch another glimpse of him, to prove i have life worth living, pulsing throughout my chest. but now i sit, cracked, with my split soul, breathing life into these leaves, similarly cracked, and similarly dead, and similarly subservient to me. this is hope leaving my body. i can feel its warmth pour in drops at first, yet slowly collecting into a technicolor pool, paled slightly by my tears added to the mixture. i like pastels anyway.

it has been pouring since the encounter. whatever it touches lives again. my goal is to find the man. and hug him. and let the torrent of tears stain his jacket, and my soul to drench him in his ignorance, to heal him, for he is the broken one, not i. i am not cruel. i am not beyond help. neither is he. no one is evil. he is confused. i am confused. we are confused. i will heal him.

6 you ever have those dreams that seemingly go on for decades, that build their own narratives and relationships and struggles that become all the more important than your own as you reside within them for those few brief hours of rest? where you remember every detail of your fictional love’s morning routine, as it was your favorite part of waking up, watching them dance while brushing their teeth, and sing in the shower way too loud letting yourself join in and not caring about the fact that both sound like a duet of cats dying in the rhythm of california gurls? where you remember the pain of losing imaginary loved ones, those ones whom your entire being was poured into, that made you the best fictional person you could possibly be. where you wake up in tears because you died crying, in a hospital bed, not sure what would be on the other side, and it just so happens to be that this actual, tangible life was the alternative, even though you would probably prefer a legitimate death without this purposeless, lifeless existence you actually inhabit being a purgatory for the next 60 years. those dreams have been appearing to me more and more recently, and i’m sure there’s a reason for their occurrences. maybe its because of this crisp wilderness air constantly barraging me with endless strokes of its mighty wind, or the fact that i haven’t seen another person in three days, or eaten in almost two, or the fact that i’m kind of disintegrating before my very eyes. the puddle my heart has left keeps a nice warm patch on the ground where the grass has been reborn, but aside from that i am cold. very cold. i can see some lights in the distance, kind of like a hazy sea of distant fireflies, gracefully following their own solo lines while maintaining the integrity of the whole symphony simultaneously. it’s rather pretty. if it weren’t for this hypnotic flurry of flickering, i would pass it. but i am intrigued. what stories will lie here, who knows. i can only pray they will leave me more answers than questions.

7 as my eyelids rush to meet each other as soon as those faint, flickering lights form distinct rectangles, i find myself feeling oddly at peace with everything. as i give in to gravity and the earth whispers my name, may, may, lay your weary head upon my shoulder and allow me to bear your burden, all things become so very obvious. alike the situation that placed me here, skull against skin against upturned earth, i succumb to alluring temptation once more, with the knowledge that my limbs, although leaden, have lead me farther in this time alone than they ever had in the life i lead before, and that was a comforting thought. maybe this all was a worthwhile endeavor, as the crash of footstep berates my sensitive ears with their screeching calls.

if i had known he would be the stars, and the grass, and the earth, and all other things, maybe i wouldn’t have come here. it’s all intertwined, there’s no escaping this or that or anything or nothing because even absence leaves a gaping hole in my chest that leaks out like a starving child begging for sustenance, as tears flow and fears grow and lives are snuffed out, one by one. i would rather take their place, there. some of those starving people who will never have a chance could have a chance if i allowed them to have it. i’ve wasted my life, on things that never really mattered or cared, but they could have done something amazing, gone on to change the world forever, instead of having the soul sucked out of them as life pours out of their eyes like tears so similar. i wonder if anyone feels the same way about me, that i could be something great if i were only capable of and given the chance. i think about that a lot. the possibility of something else, of renewal, of happiness. it’s simply a thought, but it’s a thought worth thinking of.

8 i was asleep for a day, i was asleep for a thousand days. time is a petty quandary anyhow.

what was true was the tears – millions upon millions of tears begotten by the tortures of millions upon millions of demons locked away in one solitary skull. sleep was never my friend; sleep never attended birthday parties or called late at night to make sure arteries were intact or laughed at dumb jokes or anything like that. sleep was the listless vixen that cloyed at my mind, always tempting me to the brink of exhaustion but ever allowing me to partake, never allowing me anything but the utter agony of lack of control. but this was especially horrid, as the role had been reversed. now lady list had her tendrils firmly secured, her jaw relentlessly locked on my consciousness. left to her mercy once more, the agony poured from my eyes in steamy globs one after another as the pain throbbed in my temples because the temple of solitude within my mind had been breached ad neverendum. i was forced to play out the pain of my past as her poison passed through my porous brain, a catalyst for the horrors of the may that once experienced them to be rejuvenated with enthralled vigor once more. i was worse than dead. it should have left me there, to die in my own pity, convulsing and confused and scared. but that would be too convenient. eventually, her poison drained from the wounds i had inflicted myself, numerous and agonizing in their own right. i had to. it was required. i couldn’t stand the thought of it all anymore. you can only handle so much.

we’re only human.

well, most of us.

9 my eyes, shrouded with glistening stars that swirled around nauseously as i took in my surroundings, danced across this unfamiliar environment. scuttling feet enveloping my senses, in all senses but sight: no matter how hard i tried to focus on the brittle tile that sent shivers cascading through my body, no clarity ever emerged. i was left with a vague sense of the location i was residing within: the floor of a tavern. freezing, filthy. i was apparently dragged inside with no real thought as to my condition or situation: for if these fumbling buffoons were to realize the seriousness of my predicament they would surely be healing my every wound and bowing their head to the bobbing of mine, attempting to raise my upper body. neither of these conclusions were to be fully realized, though i thought myself a queen for a time: to control all things with but a mere breath, to flaunt one’s ability and status with crooning grace and fullness; capable of destroying the lives of those around me but being empathetic enough to allow their lives sustenance for another day, and letting the reaper grow thin and his scythe rusty due to my own diligence. i would be the master of mortality, able to move any single, simple soul to accomplish this countenance’s humble requests. one could actually compare these actions to those of

UP. AWAKE,. I, I FEEL, COLD. . WHERE IS MY HEART? ? IT’S BEEN BLEEDING ALL OVER THIS DAMNED FLOOR. MUDDYING UP THE BOOTS OF THOSE UNACCUSTOMED TO SUCH LOWLY TRIBULATIONS THAT ONE OF MY OWN STATURE MUST ENDURE. SO SORRY, , MADAME, MISTER, I SHALL ALL AT ONCE CLEAN MY PLACE AND PERSON AS TO BE AS TRIFLING OF A INCONVENIENCE AS POSSIBLE, I MOST WHOLEHEARTEDLY ASSURE YOU THIS IS COMMONPLACE FOR PEOPLE WITH ISSUES SUCH AS MINE OH YES PLEASE DONT TOUCH IT YOU’LL BURN YOURSELF. YOU’LL BE DAMAGED. WHYA RE YOU STARING/? AT ME LIKE HTAT? OH I MUST HAVE BEEN INTRUSIVE MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES I SHALL PACK MY BELONGINGS AND GO PLEASE SIR FINE SIR MOVE ASIDE, ,,, WHY ARE YOU STANDING THERE, UNMOVING AND UNBLINKING AS IF THE WORLD HAS NEVER GRACED YOU WITH AN IMMOVABLE BEAUTY SUCH AS I? HOW RUDE OF YOU, I SHALL

run run run. run. run run? run, yes, yet my legs waver and mind shakes at the onset of actuality. this is not good. i must change course, find solace in the upstairs rooms, where i will surely pay for my intrusion into somehow. these awestruck peoples have been stagnant since my arousal, how peculiar– and this is coming from me! each step is as if my whole soul is to be thrust into the heat of a battle, and each cell inside my body are the unwavering yet unwilling soldiers who understand their demise is necessary and inevitable in order to protect those who admonish them on home soil as their greed stockpiles as quickly as complacency grows. i have been here for hours, it seems, attacking these cursed slopes that haunt my every movement, as i clamor up their taunting, unnervingly pearl-white faces. my chest heaves and my screams are apparent, but they are wholly necessary for the process at work here: yet still oblivious onlookers seem more interested in the past than present. the solid oak door moans as loudly as i: please, come inside me, come in and never leave, you are mine and always was. i was always one to give into temptation. the door swings with greased hinges, carrying me as momentum forces me to land on the bed directly in front of m-

ow. now i’m unconscious again, aren’t i? who knows how long i’ll be trapped in here. it’s pretty rank, too. i never much cared for it. i’d trade it out for a new one in a moment if i were able to, but those sorts of things are only what can come true in fantasy, and not reality, this reality of cracked and flowing hearts and polished white floors and hungry doors waiting to consume their next meal. this is reality. and i try so hard to convince myself that yes, reality is something worth fighting for, and here i am, at its mercy once again.

at least the floor is warm now.

[berniesrevolution]

FML: Why millennials are facing the scariest financial future of any generation since the Great Depression.

Huffington Post Highline

Part II

What Scott remembers are the group interviews.

Eight, 10 people in suits, a circle of folding chairs, a chirpy HR rep with a clipboard. Each applicant telling her, one by one, in front of all the others, why he's the right candidate for this $11-an-hour job as a bank teller.

It was 2010, and Scott had just graduated from college with a bachelor’s in economics, a minor in business and $30,000 in student debt. At some of the interviews he was by far the least qualified person in the room. The other applicants described their corporate jobs and listed off graduate degrees. Some looked like they were in their 50s. “One time the HR rep told us she did these three times a week,” Scott says. “And I just knew I was never going to get a job.”

After six months of applying and interviewing and never hearing back, Scott returned to his high school job at The Old Spaghetti Factory. After that he bounced around—selling suits at a Nordstrom outlet, cleaning carpets, waiting tables—until he learned that city bus drivers earn $22 an hour and get full benefits. He’s been doing that for a year now. It’s the most money he’s ever made. He still lives at home, chipping in a few hundred bucks every month to help his mom pay the rent.

In theory, Scott could apply for banking jobs again. But his degree is almost eight years old and he has no relevant experience. He sometimes considers getting a master’s, but that would mean walking away from his salary and benefits for two years and taking on another five digits of debt—just to snag an entry-level position, at the age of 30, that would pay less than he makes driving a bus. At his current job, he’ll be able to move out in six months. And pay off his student loans in 20 years.

There are millions of Scotts in the modern economy. “A lot of workers were just 18 at the wrong time,” says William Spriggs, an economics professor at Howard University and an assistant secretary for policy at the Department of Labor in the Obama administration. “Employers didn’t say, ‘Oops, we missed a generation. In 2008 we weren’t hiring graduates, let’s hire all the people we passed over.’ No, they hired the class of 2012.”

You can even see this in the statistics, a divot from 2008 to 2012 where millions of jobs and billions in earnings should be. In 2007, more than 50 percent of college graduates had a job offer lined up. For the class of 2009, fewer than 20 percent of them did. According to a 2010 study, every 1 percent uptick in the unemployment rate the year you graduate college means a 6 to 8 percent drop in your starting salary—a disadvantage that can linger for decades. The same study found that workers who graduated during the 1981 recession were still making less than their counterparts who graduated 10 years later. “Every recession,” Spriggs says, “creates these cohorts that never recover.”

By now, those unlucky millennials who graduated at the wrong time have cascaded downward through the economy. Some estimates show that 48 percent of workers with bachelor’s degrees are employed in jobs for which they’re overqualified. A university diploma has practically become a prerequisite for even the lowest-paying positions, just another piece of paper to flash in front of the hiring manager at Quiznos.

But the real victims of this credential inflation are the two-thirds of millennials who didn’t go to college. Since 2010, the economy has added 11.6 million jobs—and 11.5 million of them have gone to workers with at least some college education. In 2016, young workers with a high school diploma had roughly triple the unemployment rate and three and a half times the poverty rate of college grads.

Once you start tracing these trends backward, the recession starts to look less like a temporary setback and more like a culmination. Over the last 40 years, as politicians and parents and perky magazine listicles have been telling us to study hard and build our personal brands, the entire economy has transformed beneath us.

BOOMER: 306

MILLENNIAL: 4,459

Hours of minimum wage work needed to pay for four years of public college

For decades, most of the job growth in America has been in low-wage, low-skilled, temporary and short-term jobs. The United States simply produces fewer and fewer of the kinds of jobs our parents had. This explains why the rates of “under-employment” among high school and college grads were rising steadily long before the recession. “The way to think about it,” says Jacob Hacker, a Yale political scientist and author of The Great Risk Shift, “is that there are waves in the economy, but the tide has been going out for a long time.”

The decline of the job has its primary origins in the 1970s, with a million little changes the boomers barely noticed. The Federal Reserve cracked down on inflation. Companies started paying executives in stock options. Pension funds invested in riskier assets. The cumulative result was money pouring into the stock market like jet fuel. Between 1960 and 2013, the average time that investors held stocks before flipping them went from eight years to around four months. Over roughly the same period, the financial sector became a sarlacc pit encompassing around a quarter of all corporate profits and completely warping companies’ incentives.

The pressure to deliver immediate returns became relentless. When stocks were long-term investments, shareholders let CEOs spend money on things like worker benefits because they contributed to the company’s long-term health. Once investors lost the ability to look beyond the next earnings report, however, any move that didn’t boost short-term profits was tantamount to treason.

The new paradigm took over corporate America. Private equity firms and commercial banks took corporations off the market, laid off or outsourced workers, then sold the businesses back to investors. In the 1980s alone, a quarter of the companies in the Fortune 500 were restructured. Companies were no longer single entities with responsibilities to their workers, retirees or communities.

They were Lego castles, clusters of distinct modules that could be separated, optimized, sold off and put back together.

Businesses applied the same chop-shop logic to their own operations. Executives came to see themselves as first and foremost in the shareholder-pleasing game. Higher staff salaries became luxuries to be slashed. Unions, the great negotiators of wages and benefits and the guarantors of severance pay, became enemy combatants. And eventually, employees themselves became liabilities. “Corporations decided that the fastest way to a higher stock price was hiring part-time workers, lowering wages and turning their existing employees into contractors,” says Rosemary Batt, a Cornell University economist.

Thirty years ago, she says, you could walk into any hotel in America and everyone in the building, from the cleaners to the security guards to the bartenders, was a direct hire, each worker on the same pay scale and enjoying the same benefits as everyone else. Today, they’re almost all indirect hires, employees of random, anonymous contracting companies: Laundry Inc., Rent-A-Guard Inc., Watery Margarita Inc. In 2015, the Government Accountability Office estimated that 40 percent of American workers were employed under some sort of “contingent” arrangement like this—from barbers to midwives to nuclear waste inspectors to symphony cellists. Since the downturn, the industry that has added the most jobs is not tech or retail or nursing. It is “temporary help services”—all the small, no-brand contractors who recruit workers and rent them out to bigger companies.

The effect of all this “domestic outsourcing”—and, let’s be honest, its actual purpose—is that workers get a lot less out of their jobs than they used to. One of Batt’s papers found that employees lose up to 40 percent of their salary when they’re “re-classified” as contractors. In 2013, the city of Memphis reportedly cut wages from $15 an hour to $10 after it fired its school bus drivers and forced them to reapply through a staffing agency. Some Walmart “lumpers,” the warehouse workers who carry boxes from trucks to shelves, have to show up every morning but only get paid if there’s enough work for them that day.

“This is what’s really driving wage inequality,” says David Weil, the former head of the Wage and Hour Division of the Department of Labor and the author of The Fissured Workplace. “By shifting tasks to contractors, companies pay a price for a service rather than wages for work. That means they don’t have to think about training, career advancement or benefit provision.”

This transformation is affecting the entire economy, but millennials are on its front lines. Where previous generations were able to amass years of solid experience and income in the old economy, many of us will spend our entire working lives intermittently employed in the new one. We’ll get less training and fewer opportunities to negotiate benefits through unions (which used to cover 1 in 3 workers and are now down to around 1 in 10). Plus, as Uber and its “gig economy” ilk perfect their algorithms, we’ll be increasingly at the mercy of companies that only want to pay us for the time we’re generating revenue and not a second more.

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