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yellowocaballero · 4 years

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Not Your Queer-Coded Disney Villain: Annabelle & Web!Jon Ficlet

Got bored again today and forced myself to write something that wasn’t gratuitously long. Set in the same universe (or, one of the universes) as The Convention on Chronographer Lane, but it’s completely unnecessary to have read that one before this.

Content warning for (apparent and fake) predation of a student by a teacher, body horror, and spiders. REVERSE content warning for A PSYCH 101 LECTURE WRITTEN BY SOMEONE WHO WAS A TA FOR PSYCH 101. ACCURATE SCIENCE, BITCHES.

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

Annabelle was sleeping through Psych again.

In her defense, she was really tired. The nightmares had been getting worse every day, and yesterday she hadn’t gotten more than forty minutes of sleep without jolting up in the middle of the night. She had flipped on the light five times during the night, hysterically convinced that bugs were crawling over her and earning the eternal ire of her roommate. Whatever - Irene would forgive her once she bought her an iced coffee from that campus shop she liked. If Annabelle gave it to her later at night, she’d stay up later and would be less likely to bitch when Annabelle inevitably made a stink at three am again.

It didn’t matter. Psych was tediously easy anyway. Not that everything wasn’t tedious, but there were few things more boring than listening to the drone of Mr. Sims’ voice. She had no idea how that guy had a fanclub. Emmanuela Odugawa had asked her if she thought that he recited Piaget’s developmental stages in bed. Barf.

Thankfully, Annabelle had mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes open in class and barely aware enough to recognize when somebody called her name a decade ago, and she ruthlessly used this skill now. She dropped into a half-doze, and was only startled into awareness when she heard the word that had been running in a nonstop track loop through her mind for the past month.

“Phobia: an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something.” Mr. Sims adjusted his glasses, pressing a button on his laptop that advanced the slides. “It’s an interesting definition, in my opinion. Like many things in Psychology, it is almost infuriatingly vague. How do you define ‘extreme’? How do you define ‘irrational’? Oftentimes, that label is determined by society, science, and our therapists. However, I believe you can argue that phobias are the most rational thing of all.”

Annabelle rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. These auditorium classrooms were always freezing.

“The concept of aversion is heavily rooted in evolution and biology. Anyone here ever eat any bad shrimp?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The smell of seafood probably made you sick for weeks afterwards. Our bodies are primed to detect poison, just as they are to detect danger. Phobias rooted in modern, abstract concepts - clowns, elevators, airplanes - are easy to extinguish. But phobias rooted in real, present, perpetual dangers, the sort of dangers that threatened the lives of cavemen, are far more difficult to ignore.”

Despite herself, Annabelle found herself awake. She found herself listening.

“Snakes. Heights. The Dark. Dogs, bears, large animals. Storms, driving, insects.” Mr. Sims’ looked up at the auditorium, and Annabelle could have sworn that he was looking right at her, he was looking at her. Annabelle’s breath caught, her heart thumping in her chest - a little differently than it used to. “Spiders.”

A horrible clicking echoed in Annabell’s ears. She was afraid that it was her.

Then he looked away, and the spell was broken. “Phobias are one of the most powerful and motivational forces in human evolution. Like mental illnesses, pack bonds, and emotional needs, the perceived weaknesses of the human mind can frequently be some of the most powerful forces that allow the survival of the human species. It isn’t a bug, it’s a feature. I find that a useful way to think of humanity, and of ourselves: that our weaknesses can make us very strong indeed. Next slide…”

If Mr. Sims said anything after that, Annabelle didn’t hear it.

She didn’t pay any attention to anything he said until the end of class, when she shrugged on her cute little silver backpack and merged into the stream of students filtering out of the classroom. A few students had stayed behind to talk to Mr. Sims, and he appeared wrapped in conversation with the giggling girls, but somehow he picked her out of the thick crowd.

“Annabelle?” Mr. Sims asked. “Stay after, please.”

So she leaned against the long sweep of desks, left with nothing to do but squint at Mr. Sims as he spoke with another student about the requirements for the upcoming paper, wondering why he looked so familiar.

All of the other students had assumed he was in his late twenties - “total DILF”, they all inanely assured her - but Annabelle wasn’t so sure. Despite the already graying hair, small glasses, and severe expression, she really wouldn’t put him any older than 23.

Maybe his greying temples were hair dye. Or stress did that to you, right? Annabelle squinted. But when Annabelle looked closer, if she really focused, then she really wasn’t sure it was his hair color at all.

So she looked closer. Her eyes had been itching for the past week. She had caught her skin flaking and peeling, and instead of pink raw skin underneath there was hard and scratchy black necrosis. Her eyes itched now, as if they were striving to split apart, and if Annabelle only let them then they would burst. And as her eyes itched in a horrible, visceral pain, she thought that maybe the white at Mr. Sims’ temples was the thin, sticky webs of spider-silk.

“Annabelle? Are you alright?”

She snapped back to attention, fairly embarrassed. She had been zoning out more in the past month than she had her entire life. Her older siblings had said that college would be rough, but she hadn’t known it would be this rough. This wasn’t like her. None of this was like her.

“I’m great,” Annabelle said reflexively. All of the other students were gone, and Mr. Sims was staring at her over his glasses. “Sorry. Is this about my test…?”

“No. You did quite well on your test. Best in the class, actually.” Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if this was a compliment or important. “Is that why you’ve been so bored in class?”

Ah. Busted. A rare thing for Annabelle. She affected a faux-abashed posture and expression. “Sorry, Mr. Sims. I’ve been staying up ‘til two every morning trying to get my homework done on time. If I’m ever going to go to med school…”

“I thought you were a poli sci major,” Mr. Sims said cheerfully. Annabelle fought a shudder - how did he know so much about her? This class had 200 students.

“Double major,” Annabelle said blithely. “I’m sorry about sleeping in class, I’ll manage my time better. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sims waved her apology away, as if that wasn’t what he had been looking for. Then what had he been looking for? “I’m afraid I had somewhat of an ulterior motive for speaking to you today.” He leaned in a little, pulling his glasses down, and his foggy grey eyes - same color as the grey at his temples - focused solely on her. Annabelle made her eyes bigger, and she leaned in too, adjusting her posture so she looked smaller. “You’ve been doing very well in class. I actually wanted to invite you to a meeting. About...oh, your potential for med school. I’m excited to see you succeed. I think you could do quite well in whatever field you choose, and I’d like to help. It would be just us, of course.”

Ding ding ding. Annabelle affected a giggle. “I could totally use the help! Like, in your office? Or, like...lunch, or…?”

“I was thinking dinner, actually,” Mr. Sims smiled. “How’s Bombay Bicycle Club?”

Restaurant and bar, with a casual yet dignified atmosphere. Not formal enough to put up anybody’s guard, but nice enough that a freshman girl could feel treated and be impressed. Most importantly, it was popular among the businessman crowd and almost nobody on campus visited it. Annabelle used it herself to meet up with her sugar daddies all the time.

For a brief, strange moment, Annabelle felt as if he did - but of course he didn’t. But it wasn’t impossible. But if he knew, then why wasn’t he blackmailing her? Was the blackmail for later, once he got her alone? This was probably a power play, getting her off balance by insinuating that he knows but not being explicit about it. He’d probably pull out the blackmail, ‘I’ll ruin your reputation you slut etc’, once they actually got there. Not that he could - Annabelle had contingency plans - but she would have to be careful to actually record him propositioning her anyway. Worst case scenario they had a MAD situation, best case she could squeeze him. Probably not for very much money, since grad students were poor as dirt, and she didn’t exactly need him to boost her grades...get him to slip her the test key and sell the test key? That could work. She could probably get him to strategically cut grades, which was a service that Annabelle could probably sell to students with a grudge…

But then Mr. Sims smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and Annabelle realized that she had been silent too long. She wanted to come off as panicked, maybe desperate, definitely flattered.

“Sure!” Annabelle said, barely having to feign the anxious creak in her voice. “What time? I have night classes, so…”

“Next Friday at six,” Mr. Sims said instantly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Annabelle affected Smile #35 - shy virgin. Mr. Sims’ grin widened. Annabelle silently put aside the ‘Catholic schoolgirl’ outfit for Friday. “See you then!”

She turned around, gave him a shy smile, and bounced off. She had just opened the heavy door out of the room when she heard him speak again, freezing her in her tracks.

“Oh, Annabelle - how is the study with Dr. Bates going?”

And his question panicked her so much, made her heart change rhythm and made her skin itch as if something was straining to come out of it, made her eyes itch and crawl and burst, that every calculated move went out the window. She didn’t answer his question, didn’t even give an excuse - she just ran out the door, bright purple vintage boots thumping against the linoleum, breath catching in a chest where she was no longer sure she even had ribs.

Most of her was already calculating. She was already two months into uni, she had to start establishing her power base. The minute her sorority accepted her she’d have greater access to money, popularity, and influence, but she needed reach with the administration too. Mr. Sims was her in. This was a good thing.

But part of her was disappointed, because she had liked him, and she felt a little used. Feelings of disgust, as strong and vivid as in her nightmares, rose in her chest. She squished far down in her chest, familiar with the feeling and effortlessly repressing it.

Annabelle was good with disgusting things.

She had another session with the Arachnophobia study on Monday. Which went fine. It was fine! She didn’t wake up that morning so sick with nerves that she almost threw up. She didn’t stare at her email inbox for thirty minutes, begging herself to cancel and drop out of the study. Nope.

She distracted herself by befriending all of her roommate’s friends and dropping faux-concerned gossip about how cranky and anxious Irene’s been lately, have you noticed she’s been blaming me for how badly she’s sleeping? It was really super sad, frowny face, how do you think I can help, frowny face frowny face frowny face?

So Annabelle went to the Arachnophobia study (it was fine), had increasingly realistic and vivid nightmares about her chest caving in and a nest of spiders crawling out of her chest and eating her eyes, and slept through class. It was all fine.

She should have gone to Oxford. It still made her a little bitter. She had been smart enough to get in, but she hadn’t been smart enough to get the full scholarship. She couldn’t afford it, so instead she was stuck in University of Surrey, where dreams went to die. Future politicians should go to Oxford. Yeah, Surrey had some peers and Parliament members, whatever. She needed better, Oxford and awards and money. From there, from some swotty school or another, it was easy street. Annabelle deserved easy street, and she deserved Oxford, and it just wasn’t fair -

After another three am nightmare, Annabelle blearily scrolled through her sibling groupchat. Barney was doing great in med school. Tricia had posted her maternity photos. Wow, look at that, Robin had gotten a commendation at his law firm. Whatever.

No hope of distinguishing herself in the world. No hope of distinguishing herself in her stupid family. She was smarter than any of her siblings, brighter and better than those doctors and lawyers and accountants, but nobody cared. Mum and Dad were living their retirement in comfort and cooing over their grandchildren, finally rewarded in old age for all their hard work.

If Annabelle dropped off the face of the earth, nobody would even notice.

It should have been a depressing thought. The idea that nobody cared about her, not really, that nobody knew the real her. But somehow it just made her heart beat faster in excitement.

The idea of disappearing from all of this, of cutting herself free from a thousand threads that brought her plummeting down to earth...in the cold hours of that dark morning, to an eighteen year old terrified and alone in uni, it was a siren song.

It was a siren song that sounded, oddly, like the chittering and scuttling of a thousand tiny bodies, but Annabelle was learning to look beyond that.

By the time next Friday rolled around, Annabelle was considering breaking her self-imposed rule against drugs and popping a Xanax. But that wouldn’t help her exhaustion, the persistent bone-deep frazzled sensation of going a week on almost no sleep whatsoever, so she settled for an espresso as she wriggled herself into a tight, slinky plaid dress paired with a puffy olive green windbreaker. She wasn’t sure if she owned any clothing that was made after 1990 - a habit born from a childhood of shopping from thirst stores, and continued voluntarily into high school when she started making her own money online fleecing suckers. It was her, so much as anything was.

“Hot date?” Irene asked, bending over her Physics textbook without looking up. She glanced at her vibrating phone, scowling. Poor baby - her friends were staging an intervention. “New guy or old guy?”

“New guy,” Annabelle said vaguely, carefully picking out a bold red lipstick - or did that seem too forward? Should she go for a natural look? “If I’m not back by midnight call the police. I’ll text you a picture of his car.”

“Roger.” Irene flipped a page of her textbook, oblivious to the fact that she was one of the few people Annabelle genuinely liked. Not enough not to screw with her, but she liked her. “He’s not good enough for you, something something.”

“Darling,” Annabelle said, winking into the mirror, “nobody is.”

She hoped Irene believed it. She didn’t.

It wasn’t a frequent occurrence that Annabelle wished she was stupid, but today she wished she was stupid enough to take a power nap during her ten minute Uber ride. Her mind felt frazzled and frayed, as if it had been taken out of her scalp and spread out with a rolling pin onto a floured countertop. She felt as if she was melting, her vision spiralling into fractals or blurring out. She wanted to sleep. God, she’d do anything for some sleep -

So she blared Bad Romance in her frayed earbuds instead, clutching her iPod Touch tightly, pulling herself together. Gaga, give her strength.

By the time that she tipped her driver, effortlessly found Mr. Sims’ car in the parking lot of Bombay Bicycle Club and texted Irene the license plate (Volkswagen, obviously), she had dragged herself into focus. She stapled on her confident posture and walk - no, we’re going with ingenue today, make it shy and hesitant - and slipped inside the restaurant, making a show of holding her clutch tight to her chest and looking around with big eyes.

She saw him instantly. He was sitting in a corner booth, head down and texting on his phone with a half-smile. The corner booth was poorly lit, light dampened by the wood panelling and soft leather seats, and half of his face was draped in shadow.

Great. She had even arrived ten minutes early just so she could pick a brightly lit, intimate little table in the center of the room. This guy - he was almost like her. He was almost like her, but he was better.

Annabelle fought the urge to grind her teeth. She smiled instead, waving cheerfully until he raised his head. He smiled back at her, wriggling his fingers, and Annabelle wove around the tables until she could slide into the seat across from him.

“This is cozy!” She said brightly. “Thank you so much for inviting me out, Mr. Sims. It’s been ages since I got away from my books -”

“Oh, cut that shit out,” Mr. Sims said, bored. “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

Annabelle’s mind shut down. Error 404, blue screen of death.

“I’m sorry,” she said pleasantly, smile frozen on her face. “What?”

But Mr. Sims just shrugged listlessly, slumping against the cushioned wall. His expression was no longer fond, indulgent, haughty. He just looked bored now, as if he was too tired and underpaid to deal with eighteen year olds. “I don’t want to sit through this entire dinner fending off flirting. We have actual business to talk about, and I am uninterested in beating around the bush when there’s no point. You aren’t even subtle.”

“Excuse me -” Annabelle started, enraged, but Mr. Sims put up a hand and cut her off.

The change was instant. On a dime, Mr. Sims straightened his posture, swept a finger through his hair to transform it from slicked back professor type to windswept, adopted a friendly and casual expression, and leaned in as if he was happy and excited to be sitting with Annabelle. In a moment he dropped ten years. Barely a second after his transformation the waiter approached them, holding a notepad, and Annabelle realized with a start that he had noticed the waiter coming before she did.

“How are you two doing tonight?” the waiter asked politely, smiling at the both of them in a rote routine that Annabelle remembered from her own days waitressing.

“Doing great!” Mr. Sims said, and even his accent was different, closely matching her own. He glanced back at Annabelle, nothing but open and friendly. “Mum says get whatever you want, dork. It’s on her bill, so let’s run her out of house and home.”

Instinctually, Annabelle shot back, “Aren’t you old enough to take me out to eat with your own money, loser?”

“Not with your stomach!” Mr. Sims laughed, and the waiter chuckled along too. Mr. Sims effortlessly rapped out an order for the waiter, before Annabelle even got a chance to look at the menu, and when she floundered Mr. Sims just rolled his eyes and ordered for her too. It was, somehow, her favorite food.

He waited for the waiter to move onto the next table, eyeing him carefully, before he let the persona drop. Mr. Sims sagged again, dropping the friendly act, sizing her up from half-lidded eyes.

“How did he even believe that,” Annabelle said flatly. “We don’t look anything alike.”

“White people will believe anything,” Mr. Sims said, rolling his eyes. “I have the Belgian government convinced I’m an Iraqi scientist and most high profile Australian celebrities think I’m Egyptian royalty.”

“...does Egypt have -”

“Nope.”

Annabelle was beginning to feel a little like the star actress in the school play who got upstaged in every way by the villain’s performance. Nobody did what she did. Nobody did what she did, but better.

“Don’t feel insecure,” Mr. Sims said, as if he could read her mind. “I’m a good actor, and I’m excellent at reading people. But I can’t plan or plot like you do. I’m shit at thinking three steps ahead, much less thirty. You can keep plots and schemes going for years - decades, even, if I were to guess. I’m not sure how someone as competent as you can have self-esteem issues.”

Annabelle bristled. “You try having nobody care about you for - how do you even know that shit about me?” Something terrible occurred to her. “Are you some kind of stalker, Mr. Sims?”

Mr. Sims shuddered in real disgust. “It’s Jon. And no, of course not. You just aren’t as subtle as you think you are.”

Yes, she was. She was subtle to everyone on the planet - everyone save, maybe, Jon. Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Jon said immediately.

“Liar. Everybody wants something.”

“I’m here altruistically,” Jon said, the perfect picture of innocence. “Really. I’m here to help you, Annabelle.”

“You are stalking me.” Annabelle leaned forward, but Sims didn’t move. “Are you even a real graduate student?”

“Absolutely not. I’m twenty three, I got my Psych degree last year and I’ve been bouncing odd jobs since.” Jon shrugged, as Annabelle felt silently vindicated. Nothing about this man acted like a twenty three year old - she remembered her siblings at twenty-three, there was nothing adult about them - but it was probably just another persona. She wondered how far she’d have to scratch to get to the real Jon Sims.

“So you were just at Surrey to spy on me,” Annabelle said slowly. “I don’t know what country you’re from, but in England that’s definitely stalking.”

“I’d call it scouting,” Jon said. The waiter dropped by to place their drinks on the table - Jon had gotten a mule for himself, and he had ordered water for Annabelle in a move uncharacteristic for a sketchy guy. He waited until the waiter left to continue. “Call me a recruiter.”

“For who? What kind of job recruiter teaches a class for two months just to get to me?”

“How’s your study with Dr. Blake going, Annabelle?” Jon said, almost randomly, and Annabelle shut up. He must have seen something in her eyes, because a sharp little grin stretched in the corner of his narrow and sharp face. “Thought so. What do you dream of, Annabelle? In the cold corners of night, what fears come to life in the dark recesses of your mind?”

Maybe, Annabelle thought inanely, this was a dream too. Just an extended nightmare, one she hadn’t woken up from. It felt like that: distant and strange, hyper-real and unreal. This strange man sitting in front of her, who swapped faces so easily even Annabelle couldn’t keep up, was far too out of place to truly exist.

Or maybe he was the first real person she had met in a very long time.

Jon continued talking, as if she had responded. Maybe she had. “I am not a hero in this story. If I was, I would have come earlier. I would have deleted your name from the pool of subjects, and I would have made it so that you never got that call.” Jon looked away from her for the first time, letting a little sadness show on his face. “I couldn’t. No - no, I could have, I simply chose not to. You’re important, Annabelle. And I didn’t want to rob you of something that you may grow to treasure. I’m afraid that the choice you make now may not be much of a choice at all - but, perhaps, there is still a chance. At the very least, I would like to make this transition a little easier for you. It is a terrible thing, to have to do it alone.”

That…

“That was so vague it was completely meaningless.”

Jon barked a laugh, strangely delighted. “It’s not fair to speak in circles to somebody who’s gone a week without sleep!”

“But you’re doing it on purpose,” Annabelle said, too dead inside to feel mad.

“Oh, absolutely. I am not taking the risk of taking you on at full power.” Jon smiled at her, as if they were friends sharing a joke. “I saw what you did to that Walker boy in secondary.”

Despite herself, Annabelle smiled. “Hear he gets out on parole in five.” Something else occurred to her, a bit belatedly. “You are stalking me!”

“Does a spider stalk the fly that strikes a string on its web?” Jon asked cheerfully. “Or is it simply investigating an encroachment into its territory?”

“Does that mean that you’re going to eat me?” Annabelle said archly. “Thought you said you didn’t want to fuck me. Rude, by the way.”

Almost hilariously, Jon wrinkled his nose. “Sex is a waste of time, resources, and my attention. Can’t imagine why people are so obsessed.”

“I know, right!” Annabelle burst out, before she could help herself. “Do you have any idea how much money I get a month from guys just to talk to me? It’s like they’re aliens! Why do people fuck or date if it’s not to manipulate someone?”

“Right! It’s ridiculous.”

It was the first time anybody had ever agreed with her on that. It was the first time she had even told anybody she felt that way. For a brief second, Annabelle felt connected to Jon. It was the first time that happened in...a very long time.

Jon was the first person Annabelle had ever met who was like her. Everybody in Annabelle’s life had always been either useful or useless. Jon seemed above that, somehow. To be beyond utility, to exist on your own power...what did that look like? To be the powerful, instead of the powerless?

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many puppet strings Annabelle tied around her fingers, she was never powerful. Not really. She was eighteen, from a nothing family, and no matter how many molehills she made herself queen of she would never rule the mountain. She couldn’t get as far as she wanted with what she had. The only reason she had even volunteered for the stupid Arachnophobia experiment was because she needed to crush out weakness in herself, erase the hidden flaws in her mind.

But Jon said her flaws were strengths. What made her weak could be turned into power.

Annabelle needed more, more, more. She needed everything, if she was to have anything. She needed what Jon had.

Everything Annabelle said had a purpose. Every word she used was chosen carefully, every little gesture or body language was calculated. She said nothing without thinking, and she could do it so quickly nobody even noticed. Jon would notice, a con man as perfect as she was.

Let him. Give her two straight days to sleep, and they’d have a real battle of wits. In the meantime, she just had to pick her questions strategically.

“What am I turning into?” Annabelle asked, after a half-second of rapid thought. “Who are you? And what do spiders have to do with any of this?”

Jon smiled again broadly, grey eyes dancing with a barely hidden delight. “You’re fully aware that these are all the same question.”

“Then answer them. You said you’re here to help me. Then help me.” Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll negotiate a price later.”

“This one is a freebie,” Jon said. He leaned back, face fading into the shadow of the dim yellow light of the hanging light. “You’re turning into something much akin to myself.”

In the darkness, Annabelle saw Jon open his eyes. And his eyes. And his eyes…

All eight of Jon’s glittering black eyes shone in the darkness, straining her own and making her head thump. It was wrong, outside of humanity or reality, and it felt as if the very sight was straining the fabric of her delicately maintained life so tight it would tear. It felt as if it was tearing her, right in two, ruining her forever. Her eyes felt like they were going to burst out of her head.

She didn’t want to know what would replace them. But she had the feeling that she already did.

“Then what,” Annabelle gritted out, “are you?”

“I am the eldest and most treasured Son of the Mother of Spiders,” Jon said. He smiled at her, just a little, almost apologetic. “Sorry about that. I know you’ve always wanted to be an only child.”

Ah. Duh. Obviously. She should have known.

“...do I want to know who the Mother of Spiders is?”

“Your mother, should you choose to accept her,” Jon said cheerfully, leaning back into the light, and his face was normal again. Human as ever. Strange and foreign as ever - possibly everything, possibly nothing. “I know you aren’t strictly in the market for adoption, but you may not have much of a choice. You’ve felt her scratching beneath her skin. She’s going to tear out of you, and soon. Did you know some species of wasp lay their eggs in the body of spiders to provide food for the grubs?”

“During the next experiment,” Annabelle said dully, already filtering out Jon’s useless tidbits of information. That was a guy who spoke for the sake of hearing himself talk. “That’s when it’s happening. When I’ll...change.”

“Yes. It’s a painful process,” Jon said, and it was almost apologetic. “My own happened when I was fifteen - quite young, all things considered. I still remember the sound of my bones snapping as -”

“Don’t.”

“Of course! Anyway, I thought I’d make sure you had...to use the psych term, informed consent, before you entered the crucible. Our - my, sorry - Mother often foregoes true consent in our operations. The beauty of nature!” Jon laughed, as Annabelle felt sick. “Agnes wanted to put together a pamphlet, but then we let Gerry go wild on the clipart and...well, it’s better if I just explain. I can’t give you the full story now, but I’ll tell you as much as your mind can comprehend.”

Annabelle wasn’t sure she could even comprehend this. It was so much, and she was so tired. She had just heard that her body was going to rupture like a cocoon and give birth to a giant spider that may or may not also be her, and all she could think about was the fact that she wanted to go back to bed. Somehow, all she could ask was -

“Why?” She asked, so stupid and pointless, as if she was stupid, as if she wasn’t her at all. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s like I said.” In the dim yellow lighting, Jon’s eyes glittered pure black, and in that brief and stupid second Annabelle felt as if they were the same in that way. “Nobody should have to go through this alone and ignorant.” Then the moment was over, and his eyes were a human grey again, just left of normal. “Besides. Siblings stick together, right?”

“I hardly need more siblings,” Annabelle snapped.

“You’re about to lose seven of them real soon,” Jon promised, extremely worryingly, “so I’d take what you can get right now, Annabelle.”

“Are you going to kill -”

“Unfortunately, you may have to fake your own death!”

Then their food came, and Annabelle received her first lesson in the class of hard knocks.

They talked for hours. It took hours, to even just get a picture of the story. Jon was patient, answering every question, and Annabelle strained so hard trying to fight through her exhaustion, trying to understand the answer, Jon’s motivation in answering it or what he could be leaving out, that by the end of it she felt as if she had run a marathon. She had never felt so tired in her life, in the most dangerous situation in her life, with the most dangerous person she had ever met.

By the end of it, Irene was texting her to ask if she was dead, and Annabelle was falling asleep at her chair. Jon cut an end to their conversation when he slid out his wallet, covered the bill with a black Amex card, and slid a business card against the table. Annabelle squinted down at it.

The text in the center just said [FREELANCERS]. That was it. She stared at it.

Underneath the vague word, she saw a phone number [555-555] and an email [[email protected]]. Annabelle looked up to stare at Jon. “Are you for real?”

“Almost never,” Jon said cheerfully, “but the card will make sense when it needs to. Let me take you back to your dorm, alright? You can get some sleep in the car.”

If he was a creep, she was dead anyway. Annabelle didn’t bother arguing. She grabbed her jacket and got in the passenger seat of his car, and true to his word Annabelle drifted asleep almost immediately. She even felt as if the ride took longer than ten minutes, as if he drove in circles just waiting for her.

For the first time in a week, Annabelle slept uninterrupted, and had no dreams.

Annabelle wanted what Jon had.

And a week later, she took it.

Shivering in an alley, clothing ripped to shreds, her own skin hanging off her triple jointed limbs, she dug out a creased and torn business card. She had been worrying at it intensely over the weekend, staring and it and clenching it tightly as if it was her only lifeline. It was, of course. But Jon had known that.

The card looked different now. The text now looked handwritten, but with a beautiful and old-timey slanted handwriting. It now just read:

‘To Annabelle, with love. From your new friends Gerry, Jon, and Agnes’. There was a number underneath, and Annabelle frantically dug in her tattered leather jacket pocket to draw out her cracked phone.

Annabelle hated taking favors from people. Everything she had, she had fought for herself. She would scrape, borrow, beg, and steal whatever she had to. But, when it came to siblings...maybe, then, it was okay.

Dizzily, as Annabelle let the phone ring, she thought: this is my supervillain origin story.

The thought sent a slow smile crawling across her inhuman and warped face.

Sounds like fun.

#AROACE ANNABELLE RIGHTS #tma #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfiction #annabelle cane #jonathan sims #web!jon #realized while writing evilcon that annabelle was seven while jon was twelve #and that their sibling relationship must be a NIGHTMARE #anyway i'm trying to convince myself not to write a web!jon agnes and gerry fic where its basically a leverage au #and i am failing miserably #so i wrote this instead of that #GRIFTER!JON AND IN THIS ESSAY I WILL #my writing

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aliciameade · 4 years

Text

“The Great Indoors”

Author: aliciameade Rating: G Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Beca and Chloe accidentally get locked inside an R.E.I. (An outdoor activities supply store, for those unfamiliar.) Hijinks ensue.

This one goes out to @beyond-bechloe for their generous donation to the @ppfandomdrive! Thank you for your support!

Also on AO3

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Beca didn’t consider herself particularly outdoorsy (she could get sunburned at night and she was allergic to every type of stinging insect, among other inconveniences), but she enjoyed fewer shopping excursions than those to R.E.I. to be Chloe’s helper whenever she had an upcoming trip. Beca was in charge of the shopping cart and telling Chloe whether or not the gear she was trying on looked cute while still being functional.

And Beca liked the gear and supplies. It was cool how there were so many specialized shoes and backpacks and jackets for all manner of activities. She wouldn’t mind being less prone to emergencies to be able to try something new once in a while.

Plus, she kind of liked Chloe’s dedication to always trying to convince Beca to join her on her next adventure.

She also liked Chloe pouting until Beca admitted whatever she was trying on was indeed cute. Beca always thinks Chloe’s cute but it’s not like she can tell her that all the time. That would be weird. Friends don’t do that.

“Who are you going with?” she asks as Chloe stands in front of a display of kayaking gear.

“The same crew I went out to Zion with. They’re always encouraging everyone to bring a friend. You should totes come with me.”

Beca surveys the kayaks leaning against the wall and visions of flipping over, getting stuck, and drowning flash through her mind. “Pass,” she says quickly. “Maybe something more...terrestrial.”

“Okay,” Chloe says with a shrug. She never argues with Beca over it, but she does always re-extend the invitation. “What do you think: black or pink?” she continues as she plucks two helmets off the display to turn and hold them up for Beca’s opinion.

“Let’s see ‘em in action,” she answers, gesturing for Chloe to try them on.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“What kind of adventure would you be down for?” Chloe asks, somewhat unexpectedly, as they meander through displays and racks of camping gear. They’ve already picked out everything on her list but still find themselves browsing. “When you said ‘more terrestrial,’” she adds. “Camping?”

Beca’s about to answer when the PA system interrupts, informing shoppers the store will be closing in 15 minutes. She waits until they’re finished.

“Yeah, camping, I guess,” she says with a vague wave of her hand toward the staged campground the store has set up to display their wide variety of tents, coolers, chairs, and portable grills. “Just maybe not in the middle of nowhere like you do.”

She knows her answer excites Chloe by the way her eyes light up and her back straightens. “I don’t even own a tent because I’m always sharing with someone else on the trip.” She’s already on her hands and knees crawling through the entrance of a small tent before Beca can argue.

Not that she has a point to argue.

Chloe’s kneeling inside and looking out at Beca expectantly. “Come on! Let’s try this one.”

Beca just gives a shake of her head and kneels down to crawl into the tent, too. She hears Chloe zip the flap behind her and then she’s being dragged down until they’re lying side by side.

“We fit!” Chloe declares as she makes it a point to spread out and take up space until she’s crowding Beca.

“Obviously we fit,” she says, trying not to laugh as Chloe’s elbow digs into her ribs until she’s forced to roll onto her side to escape it. “It’s a two-person tent. We are two people.” She should have known better to turn, though, because the second she does, Chloe’s on her like a magnet, making Beca her little spoon as she does so often.

Not that she minds Chloe’s propensity to be close to Beca.

She kind of loves it, in fact.

“See, and we can cuddle for body heat if it gets chilly overnight.”

“Right,” Beca says, letting herself smile when she feels the way Chloe’s almost nuzzling her. It drives her crazy, too. Chloe is so physically affectionate with Beca, more so than anyone Beca’s ever dated, and she and Chloe are definitively not dating. It feels like they are, though, from the way they check in with one another throughout the day if they’re apart and how they download their days when they’re together to their Co-Captain Conferences which is just a serious-sounding name that allows them to lock themselves in Chloe’s room under the guise of working on the Bellas’ next set when they’re actually watching movies or talking or napping and not getting interrupted.

The way Beca’s heart aches when Chloe does go on her weeklong excursions...that, too, makes it feel a lot like they’re dating.

But...they’re not.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

It’s the last thought that floats through her mind before her eyes are fluttering open to near darkness.

She’s disoriented and her shoulder and hip ache from whatever hard surface she’s lying on. The only thing she does recognize is the scent, sound, and feel of Chloe asleep behind her and she jostles her until she’s startling awake, too.

“Hmm, what?” Chloe says, voice gravelly with sleep.

“We fell asleep in the tent,” Beca says once her brain stitches the events together. Once she sits up and glances out of the tent’s mesh window and is met with the dimly lit retail floor, her heart stops. “Chloe?”

“Hmm?” she says through a yawn as she sits up, too.

“What time is it?”

She watches Chloe pull her phone out of her back pocket—Beca’s own phone is in her purse which...she realizes with additional terror...was left in the cart before they decided to try the tent—and check it. “10:34.”

Beca inhales at that and holds her breath, waiting for Chloe to connect the dots, too.

“Oh, my gosh, it’s 10:34!”

“And it’s dark in here.” Beca leans forward to unzip the tent’s flap and crawl out, relieved to find her purse in the cart, everything right where they left it by some miracle. “Chlo, the store’s closed.”

She watches Chloe crawl out, too, and stand to survey everything, just like Beca’s doing. “There must be a security guard or something,” Chloe says confidently as she starts walking toward the entrance.

There is no security guard, they find. They also decide to not try the doors because setting off an alarm might be really bad. A phone call to the company’s customer support number instructs them to call back during the hours of 7:00 AM and 6:00 PM.

“Okay, we don’t need to panic,” Beca says when she watches Chloe start to do her panic-pacing. “We’re fine. We’re safe.”

“We’re trapped in here!” Chloe screeches.

It makes Beca flinch and she grabs Chloe by the forearms when she paces past again. “Chloe, chill out!”

Chloe gulps and Beca can see the fear in her eyes.

“Chill, okay?” she says, lowering her voice. “They’ll open in the morning and we can leave. They have bathrooms and water, and I know you have at least one granola bar in your purse, right?”

Chloe nods and her eyes start to look a bit less wild.

“Good.” Beca smiles, and then lets herself smile bigger. “We’re locked in a store.”

Chloe whines. “I know, Beca!”

“No, Chloe. We’re locked in a store!” she turns them so Chloe’s facing toward the sporting goods supplier’s floor, devoid of other shoppers and employees. “Didn’t you ever dream about this as a kid?”

She can tell Chloe’s considering it, thinking about it, until a smile starts to tug at her lips. “Okay, yeah.”

“Then, come on!” Beca grabs her hand to run—not out of necessity but out of excitement—back into the depths of the store. “I want to play with everything. What first?”

“Bikes! Let’s get bikes,” Chloe says pointing off to their left. “This place is huge; we can get around faster!”

“Yes, yes—I love the way you think.”

Armed with speedy transportation, they make it a point to visit every department, trying on hiking boots and life jackets and snowboards. Chloe decides to document the adventure on her Instagram so every department needs to have its own photoshoot.

Eventually, they end up back in the paddling department and Beca’s helping Chloe maneuver a massive tandem kayak down from where it’s leaning against the wall.

“Get in,” Chloe says, gesturing at the front seat while she lowers herself into the back after grabbing a couple of paddles. “I’ll show you how easy it is.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Beca says as she takes the offered paddle and sits down, “but we’re not in the water right now.”

“Shush, I know. But I can show you the stroke.”

Beca can’t help the amused snort that escapes her.

“You just made that dirty.”

“Did not.”

“Yes, you did.” Chloe sounds amused. “Okay, put your hands where the grippy parts are on the paddle.”

Beca does as she’s told and then jumps a little when Chloe’s voice is suddenly close.

“Good.” Chloe’s arms suddenly frame Beca’s, her hands just outside of each of her own. “It’s just this motion.” Then they’re moving, Chloe’s push and pull directing Beca. “See how easy?”

Something about the moment makes Beca’s voice catch for a second and she has to swallow. “Yeah. Something tells me it’s not as easy in a river.”

“It’s really not difficult. Would I lie to you?”

“No, I guess not.”

Chloe hums, happy with Beca’s answer, and then her presence retreats. “Keep going; I need to take a picture. Actually, I’m going to do a video!”

“Of course you are,” Beca laughs but carries on for Chloe’s entertainment.

It’s around 2:00 AM when they’re both yawning, having eaten Chloe’s emergency stash of granola bars and a bag of gummy bears Beca swiped from the checkout area, promising Chloe she’d pay for them tomorrow with the rest of their items. They return the bicycles to their display and wander back to the camping section.

“You know, if there was ever a store to get locked in, this was a pretty good option,” Chloe says as she sits down on the edge of a fully inflated air mattress. It’s the floor’s display model, but it’s a bed nonetheless.

“So true.” Beca follows, settling on the slightly wobbly mattress next to Chloe.

Usually, like in the tent, she would flip onto her side, her back to Chloe to settle in for sleep.

For some reason, this time she turned the other way to face Chloe. Maybe because they weren’t finished talking—they didn’t yet have a plan for the morning, aka what to tell the first person who discovers them—or maybe Beca just wanted to look at Chloe for a few more seconds before going to sleep.

“I can’t believe this happened,” Chloe says with a giggle once they’re both settled.

“I know, right? So cool.”

Chloe’s quiet for what feels like a second too long before she says, “Thank you for calming me down. You know how I can get worked up about stuff.”

Beca smiles gently. “Yeah, of course, dude. You know I got your back.”

“I know you do.”

Chloe’s eyes are on Beca’s and the silence between them is suddenly heavy. Something about it makes Beca’s heart start to race. Chloe’s just looking at her not saying anything and Beca’s about to ask why she’s staring when Chloe interrupts her.

“Can I kiss you?”

Beca’s not sure she heard correctly. It’s hard to hear over the sound of the blood rushing in her ears. She debates asking Chloe to repeat herself, but she doesn’t want her to backpedal if she thinks Beca’s response means she wasn’t okay with it. Because she is so, soooo okay with it.

And if Beca did mishear, then she’ll deal with whatever she’s about to agree to.

“Yes.”

She didn’t mishear.

She can’t help the gasp that comes when Chloe’s lips are suddenly on hers. They’re soft and gentle but confident in their purpose and Beca is sure to kiss her back once her mind catches up with it.

Chloe pulls back after a few seconds and even in the dim lighting, she can tell Chloe’s blushing. She knows she is, too. “Was that okay?” Chloe asks, eyes wide and teeth tugging nervously at the lip that was just pressed against Beca’s.

Beca lets herself start to smile; the shock is subsiding and happiness is starting to rush into its place. “Why did you stop?” she asks, bringing her hand up between them to tug on Chloe’s shirt.

It’s not hard enough to actually pull Chloe in but it gets her point across and she’s still smiling when Chloe’s gleeful laugh gets muffled between their second kiss, one that is less about determining if it’s okay and a lot more about how their tongues move together.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

They’re roused by blinding fluorescent lights a few hours later and share the story of their accidental lock-in with the very confused and highly suspicious morning shift. Chloe begs the manager-on-duty to not reprimand whoever was responsible for ensuring all guests were out of the store before locking up, blaming themselves for not paying attention to the time.

Eventually, they’re allowed to leave and pay for what they’d been shopping for yesterday, plus the two-person tent (which Chloe had run back to grab off the shelf and returned with a wink).

“Okay, what’s with the tent?” Beca asks once they’ve loaded up the back of Chloe’s car in the completely empty parking lot and sat down.

“We are totes going camping and making out under the stars.”

“Oh, are we?” Beca asks with amusement as she buckles her seatbelt.

“Yep,” Chloe says, taking advantage of Beca’s proximity to direct her right up and into a kiss. “If that’s okay with you?” she asks, eyes a little softer so Beca knows she’s being earnest.

“Yeah, okay,” she nods. “But I’m not sure it’s fair for you to ask me after you kiss me.”

“So I should withhold kisses until you answer?” Chloe says with a grin as she starts the car and drives toward the exit and street that will lead them back to the house.

“That doesn’t seem fair either,” Beca says with a thoughtful pout.

“Kinda sounds like I get my way if kisses are involved.”

Beca starts to object but instead, just smiles and looks out the passenger side window. “Yeah, it kinda does sound that way.

The End

#bechloe #bechloe fic #fanfic #pitch perfect #ppfandomdrive

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mrsrcbinscn · 3 years

Text

Mother Mayhem || bdrptask

Word count: 6241

Description: Different moments between Franny and her mother, Sophea, featuring a common thread.

CW: Nothing triggering is discussed in detail but I wanna put some content warnings for the following; violence, implied slurs, slut-shaming, violence, mentions of what you’d expect from broaching the topic of Khm*r R*uge

Sophea Sor was never one to hide things from her daughter. Many survivors of war and the like shielded their children from their stories but Sophea was always straightforward about why she had to leave Cambodia.

Age appropriate, of course.

She didn’t whip out words like killing fields and genocide when her daughter was small, but she did explain that some very bad people caused some bad things to happen. She explained that people were very sick, very sad, and very hungry but couldn’t find food, so that was why she had to come to America.

As her daughter grew older, she filled in the gaps.

Five years old…

Mak had to leave Cambodia because people were fighting and hurting each other, and people they weren’t even fighting with got hurt too.

“Mak, I’m sleepy,” five year old Darareaksmey complained, crawling into her mother’s lap the second her mother sat down for probably the first time that day.

Without taking a sip of water from the plastic cup she’d just filled, a woman ran her hands, the color of the spiky balls that fall from sweetgum trees through the little girl’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She pulled the hair tie out of her own hair and began to work her daughter’s hair into a braid.

“You’ll be even sleepier after we finish cleaning the restaurant, baby. Then you can go straight to bed instead of tossing and turning until you do fall asleep.”

“I want to go to bed nooooow.” The little girl pouted, crossing her arms across her chest and letting out an indignant huff. “Why do I have to clean, I’m five. Jobs are for adults.”

“It’s not a job if I’m not paying you, silly.” Sophea Sor said, tying the ponytail holder around the braid. “It’s just chores. Kids don’t get paid for chores. Be lucky yours are inside and we don’t have a farm.”

“Ew, farm cows are smelly.”

“That’s right, now do you think you can mop the floor while I finish the dishes in the back?”

“Mhm. Can I sit down a minute first?”

“We can start after we finish this water.”

Six years old…

A lot of people died, that’s why Mak doesn’t have a daddy, and she got separated from her own mak. None of her family could come to her wedding because she wasn’t sure if any of them were still alive and where in the world they might be. That was why little Darareaksmey being supportive of her mother marrying Adrien was so important.

“Let go of my hair, Art! Or I’ll beat you up!” Darareaksmey shouted at her soon-to-be brother as he pulled on her braid, making her flail her arms wildly in her attempts to wallop him. “I’m gonna break your face!”

Gaston groaned as he flicked a fuzz off of his wedding clothes, realizing he was going to have to step in if they kept this up. He did not want to step in! Dara might be younger than him and Art both but she could punch! But if he teamed up with her and hit Art, then Art would get mad and say he betrayed his brother for their step-sister, and Dara would cry because she can stay ‘step-brother’ all she wants but the second the boys say ‘step-sister’ she throws a fit, and then she and Art would just start a new fight.

Being the big brother was exhausting sometimes.

Luckily, Gaston didn’t have to choose whose side to fight on, because Sophie glided into the room to pry the youngest two apart.

“Dara, be nice to your brother,” Sophie muttered, gently tugging her hair out of the braid to re-do it.

“He started it! And he’s not my brother, he’s just Adrien’s son!”

Sophie sighed and with one hand continued to unbraid her daughter’s hair, and with the other, beckoned Art to come closer. “That’s not what you were saying a few days ago, when we tried on your dress for the wedding. You said you were excited to have two big brothers.”

“That was before I realized Art was mean!” Dara stuck her tongue out at him.

“Brothers and sisters are mean to each other. Sometimes. Other times, they play together. But all of the time they don’t let anybody else be mean to each other.” Sophie explained as she started to fix Dara’s hair. “But. Art should apologize for pulling your hair.”

Sophie stared at Art with disapproving mom eyes until he shuffled his feet and looked down at them sheepishly. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair, Dara. And called you ugly. And said I didn’t want an ugly sister. And said your flowers smelled like butt. They don’t smell like butt.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You’re not ugly, I was just being mean. You’re a perfectly not ugly sister I’m excited to have after my daddy marries your mommy!”

Twelve years old…

About a quarter of the population of her mother’s home country died during the Khmer Rouge regime. Franny was lucky to have been born at all, and she should be very proud her mother taught her their language and culture.

Franny couldn’t remember the last time someone other than her mother used her given name except to make fun of it. Even her brothers called her Franny by then.

It was the start of a new school year and Franny dreaded the first day; not because of having to wake up early, not because of having to do homework again soon, but because new school years meant new teachers and new teachers. And new teachers for Franny and the handful of other children of Southeast Asian refugees in town meant a horrid butchering of their names at roll call.

It was the same song and dance every year.

Inevitably, one teacher would get to Phuc Kieu’s name and say something that sounded like “fuck you” and the class would laugh while Phuc meekly raised his hand and said, “You can just call me James.”

Serey Mam was lucky, it wasn’t hard to correct ‘Siri’ or ‘Sare-ee’ or ‘Sar-ee’ to ‘Sa-rey.’

It was the Lao kids that Franny felt most sorry for. Franny could only pronounce and spell Chanthanouvong, Douangphachanh, Nanthavongdouangsy, and Sibounheuang because she was also Southeast Asian so she bothered to learn. But at least with Serey’s name, teachers tried. With the Lao names they took one look at them and said ‘time to butcher it in the most egregious way possible.’

She had mad respect for Chitpasong Nanthavongdouangsy, who refused to go by an “American name” and forced teachers to learn to say Chitpasong. “I was born here,” Chitpasong said one time. “Chitpasong is an American name because I’m an American person.” Franny wished that six year old Darareaksmey had had that resolve, and wished twelve year old Franny could summon it, but she didn’t. She’d rather only hear Darareaksmey from her mother because at least she said it right.

“You look a bit glum.”

Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

“Hi, Mak.” Franny said, waving as she grabbed the last of the dishes from the soapy water to rinse it.

“What’s wrong? Don’t want summer to end?”

Franny shook her head. “No, I kind of miss all my friends. You know, the ones not in bicycling distance. I just don’t like the first day.”

Sophie let her daughter rinse and dry the final dish before she pulled one of the dining chairs out and snapped her fingers, manicured nail pointing down at it. Franny sat down as her mother grabbed the brush from her purse resting open on the table.

“Were girls mean to you last year?” Sophie asked as she got to brushing the knots out of Franny’s hair.

“Not really, I just punch them if they are.”

“Darareaksmey, we don’t resort to violence.”

“It’s my last resort, I promise, but it’s on the table.”

“So what’s wrong?” Sophie grabbed the hair tie from around her wrist and held it between her teeth as she started to braid from the top of Franny’s head. “You let me get this far, so you’re trapped now.”

“It’s the teachers. I hate roll calls on the first day.” She admitted. “I feel embarrassed.”

“About?”

“My name.”

That gave Sophie pause but her hands quickly got back to work on Franny’s hair. “Why?”

“They...say it wrong. Nobody can say Darareaksmey.”

“It’s not a name from their language, I’m sure it is difficult.”

“They don’t even try, it’s why everyone calls me Franny, nobody has ever tried. And it makes me feel embarrassed and sorry that I have such a weird name.”

Sophie was quiet for a long moment, her deft hands working at her daughter’s hair, until she spoke up again. “Are you embarrassed? To be Cambodian. About your name.”

“No...it just feels bad when they get it wrong. So I let them call me Franny. Is that bad?”

“No. I let them call me Sophie, don’t I? As long as you know how powerful your name is and why it's so special.”

Franny turned her head toward her mother but Sophie clicked her tongue and angled her head back forward, muttering something about her hair looking lopsided if she did that again. “Heeeeey, I was paying attention to you.”

“You’re trapped in this seat, you have to pay attention even with your back turned.”

“Fair. Why’s my name special?”

“Because you are. I thought very hard about your name. Darareaksmey means ‘bright, shiny star’. I know you remember I was raising you alone before I married your father. You remember, right?”

Franny, truthfully, sometimes forgot that Adrien Framagucci wasn’t always in her life. It was easy to forget that he wasn’t her biological father because she had never known any other man to be her father. She didn’t know her biological father’s name. Did she want to? Maybe. She hadn’t ever thought about it enough to decide anything; or to consider there was anything to decide.

Adrien raised Franny. Not only raised her, but he’d wooed her by proving what a great dad he’d be at the same time he was courting her mother. When he came to Mr. Tran’s home to pick Sophie up for dates, he’d bring Franny some amaryllis flowers he’d grown himself. A thanks for letting me borrow your mother today, he’d say. When Franny won Kindergarten student of the month at her elementary school, Adrien asked Sophie if he could treat Franny to a celebration dinner. When Franny mentioned the memory offhand a few years later Sophie said he did that to audition to be Franny’s dad.

Your father always knew that if he wanted me to believe he loved me, he’d have to love you, too. You were always part of the deal. He wanted to be your dad so he got to proving it to you.

If her original dad didn’t even stick around long enough for her to remember him but the dad she had put as much effort into wooing her as he did with her mother...then was it worth knowing about him? At twelve, Franny didn’t think it was.

“Yeah, I remember living in Mr. Tran’s shed with you.” Franny said.

“It used to be a shed. Mr. Tran fixed it up to be a tiny little house, we had a tiny little kitchen and air conditioning! Right, so you remember it was just me and you...we aren’t the only Cambodians in Clayton County, are we?”

Franny shook her head. “There’s some at my school. And some that live in Lovejoy, Riverdale, and Jonesboro that work at the restaurant.”

“Mhm. Are any of them your Aunties and Uncles? I know we call everyone Auntie and Uncle, but are they my brothers and sisters?”

“...y...yes? Yes, right?”

Sophie shook her head. “Not one. You’ve heard me talk about my brothers and sisters in Cambodia, right? The ones I climbed trees with or who helped me sneak back into the house at night, I talk about them sometimes. I had eleven of them.”

“...had?”

“I’m not sure how many are still living. Or where they might be.”

“Don’t you have their phone numbers, Mak?”

Sophie chuckled, the warmth in it seeming out of place to Franny even at that age. It seemed like her mother was broaching a very sad and difficult topic. Cambodia was always a toss-up. It was either sad or so happy it sounded like heaven or nirvana. This did not seem like the setup to one of her mother’s rose-colored talks about Cambodia.

“Or can you write letters?”

“I don’t know anything, my love.” Sophie admitted. This was the first time Franny had heard her mother say ‘I don’t know anything’ since she’d been alive! “I know some of the ones who died early on during the Khmer Rouge. Because I was there when they did. But eventually we became separated, and by the time I escaped to Thailand I didn’t know where they were. My brothers, sisters, my cousins. My own mak.”

“What about your dad?”

“Dead. That one, I know for sure.”

“...what happened?”

“That part, I’ll tell you when you’re older. You’re still a child, dear. I’m only telling you some of the basics today.” She cleared her throat and continued. “I escaped across the border into Thailand and accepted I’d never see my family again. I decided it would be an insult to them to not keep living though, so I waited to be resettled to a safer country as a refugee. First I was in Thailand. Then at a re-education center in The Philippines. And then I found out I was going to America. I wasn’t here very long when I got pregnant with you.”

“You weren’t married or anything?”

“I was not. And I had to stop working where I was working, and then I didn’t have any more money. That’s when I walked into Mr. Tran’s restaurant and tried to trick him into thinking I was Vietnamese. He picked up my Cambodian accent right away and told me that we are united by the wars waged by the West in our countries and by our struggles in America. Mr. Tran gave me a job, right away, and even let me move in with his family. Until he converted the shed into a little house, we lived in the main house with his family. We shared a room with his youngest daughter.”

“Leah?”

“That’s right. So. I was alone. I was unmarried. I barely spoke English at the time; I knew French and Vietnamese from Cambodia, of course Khmer is my native tongue, but my English was embarrassing. Still is.”

“No way, Mak! You speak English better than anybody who says that about you!” Franny argued, whirling her head around to face her mother now that she felt her hands move from her hair. “Who says that about you? I’ll cook them into soup!”

“Not. The. Point.” Sophie chastised bonking Franny on the nose with the pad of her index finger to emphasize each word. “The point is. It was a scary time for me when I first came to this country. And then when I found out I was pregnant with you it was even scarier. I wondered if I should give you up so a family with more money could raise you. Mr. Tran isn’t wealthy himself, you know, it was a situation where the poor were helping the beggar. Sometimes I still think you would have been better off...but I couldn’t do it. Maybe it was selfish to keep you, but I was so alone. I knew I’d probably still be lonely after I had you. Babies don’t learn to talk for years and even then, you’re my child, not my friend. But I could raise you to love Cambodian culture. I could teach you my language. I could make sure you knew the beautiful parts about where you came from. After everyone I ever knew was either dead or scattered who knew where around the world, I decided that raising you to be a proud Cambodian would be worth all of that loneliness.”

Franny, had she been a couple years older, would have cried. At fourteen she might have had the emotional depth to fully comprehend what she meant to her mother. At twelve, she understood a great deal, but it did not quite move her to tears. Though, she instinctively reached for her mother’s hand, and gave it a squeeze.

For a moment, she thought she saw the ghost of fear in her mother’s eyes, or the closest thing to it she could place at that age when her biggest fear was wasps.

“Do you miss Cambodia, Mak?” Franny asked quietly.

“Every day. It is a beautiful country. But it is one I will never see again so there is no use dwelling on it.”

“Don’t say that, we can go someday.” Franny said, pouting.

Sophie clicked her tongue at her daughter, shaking her head. “It’s too expensive. No go to your room and finish your homework. I don’t want to hear a single guitar chord until you finish.”

Twenty years old...

The purging of intellectuals included doctors, students, artists, and musicians. The grandfather Franny never got to meet was a doctor and he died because of it. Her mother had been a university student, studying to be a doctor herself, and lied that she was a seamstress to survive. One of brothers she knew did not survive had been a musician. Sophea had more reasons than financial stability to worry about her daughter insisting on doing music.

Franny supposed she was lucky.

Unlike some of her first-generation friends, her mother didn’t put that much pressure on her to marry a Cambodian man. There was never any matchmaking, any suggestions of an arranged marriage meeting, nothing like that. However, the first question Sophie asked when Franny told her mother that she had joined NYU’s Southeast Asian Student Association was “are there any nice Cambodian boys, Darareaksmey?”

It was then that Franny understood that her mother hoped for a Cambodian son-in-law even if she would not pressure her to select one. It was also clear to her that while her mother accepted her bisexuality, she did tend to assume she’d end up married to a man, perhaps even wished she would. In the 90s and early 2000s though, Franny took that as a blessing.

Franny did intentionally go on dates with a few Cambodian guys. She’d even had a third date planned with one.

Enter Cornelius Robinson. Mega-genius. Absolute nerd. Hair you just wanna run your hands through. Mild-mannered. Kind. Actually interested in what she had to say. And very Not Cambodian.

It was frankly embarrassing how quickly she was all in for that man. She didn’t have to spend all that much time with him for her to understand how her mother must have felt when she began seeing her father.

Christmas break rolled around and she figured she should introduce her boyfriend to her family. Franny’s jaw fell right between her feet on the ground at how suspiciously well it went.

Hours later, she was positively mortified when, instead of telling Cornelius he could sleep in one of her brothers’ rooms, her mother followed up ‘just follow Darareaksmey to her room’ with ‘and keep it down if you get naked.’ Franny covered her face with her pillow, muttering, ‘Neil, just press down. Smother me now.’

“Do you like him?” Franny asked her mother while they folded the laundry one afternoon.

“Your boyfriend?”

“No, Mak. Daddy. Of course I mean my boyfriend. So, do you like Cornelius or n-- ow!”

Sophie withdrew the dish towel she’d just whipped Franny’s arm with and her warm laugh filled the room. “Don’t sass me, girl. I do. He’s a very rich man you’ve got wrapped around your finger, and he isn’t even old enough to be your father.”

“Mak!” Franny’s turn to wack an arm with a dish towel. “I’m not with him for his money...okay, it’s nice that he takes me grocery shopping sometimes so I can eat decent food. But other than that I don’t care about his money.”

Well...maybe she did a little. It wasn’t the or even a reason she began seeing him, but it was a perk she was now enjoying just like her cooking was a perk he got to enjoy. But money could only entertain her for so long. If Cornelius didn’t make her soul feel at home the way he did not even his bank account could have kept her.

“Cornelius makes me very happy. I actually - I actually miss him when I don’t get to see him for more than like a day. I never thought I was clingy with guys or girls I dated. Guess I am.’

“Oh, Dara. You’re just in love.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. Are you angry?”

Sophie stopped folding the pair of jeans in her hands and let them crumple into her lap. “Why would I be angry?”

“He’s not Cambodian? I don’t know. You wanted me to date the Cambodian boys in the Southeast Asian Student Association.”

“Honey,” Sophie cooed, reaching for Franny’s hand. “Only if you wanted to. I’ll admit a part of me hoped you would find a nice proud Cambodian boy. It would be wonderful if you had a husband who would help teach your children Khmer-”

Franny bit her tongue, holding back a reminder that they’d hadn’t been dating long enough to consider marriage and kids, and that she was only twenty. Nevermind that Franny had been thinking about those things privately. Oh, not in detail. She didn’t have their future children named or anything, though, she had come to the realization that if she tried to picture herself married one day then it was to Cornelius Robinson. The idea of being a mother kind of freaked her out...but if she added ‘mother to Cornelius Robinson’s children someday’ to it, she got all giggly thinking about it.

It was still a little early to say the M-word or the K-word to Cornelius but it wasn’t like it hadn’t crossed her mind. Franny was in love, after all.

“- because a part of me does worry about our culture going away with your childrens’ generation if you don’t. But this is America, where there’s all types of people, not just Khmer, Chinese, Cham, or Vietnamese people. You can marry anybody you want. I speak English now anyway.”

“Mak, I’d teach my kids Khmer.” Franny said.

“You will?”

“How else will we gossip about all the snobby rich families at the country club right in front of them?”

Sophie bursted into laughter, shoving Franny over onto her side on the floor. “Oh, don’t be a gossip! Now sit up, we'll finish the laundry later. Let me do your hair so I can tell you all about the Inthavongs’ divorce.”

Twenty-three years old…

Her mother’s life even after coming to America had been harder than Franny fully understood for most of her life up until around the time she was married. She thought she knew all about her mother’s struggle because it happened right in front of her, but there were so many parts Franny was missing.

“Look at my handsome son-in-law! Oh, come, come, let me take some pictures to email to my brothers and sisters.”

“Mak, they were at the wedding, they know what Cornelius looks like,” Franny whined, clinging onto his arm. “He flew them in, remember?”

“You’re supposed to be wiping down the tables, Darareaksmey.” Sophie reminded her, gesturing around the restaurant. “Here, I’ll get that server apron off you. Thank you for helping out with dinner Cornelius. So generous with your time when you’re visiting, such a good man.”

“He’s married, Mak.” Franny deadpanned. Sophie grabbed a mint from the bowl by the door and before she even threw it at Franny her daughter ducked for cover. “You’re getting her in the divorce!”

It might have been the couple’s first visit to Georgia since they married a few months ago, but Cornelius knew this routine by now. In about four minutes the play-fighting would be long since over and his wife would be hanging onto her mother telling her how much she loooooved her, or how much she wanted them to treat her to a nice meal out tomorrow, or mention how priceless the look on the blonde sales lady’s face would be if two women who looked like them bought a much too expensive dress with her husband’s black card.

After knowing Sophie, it was clear where Franny got her...well, a lot of things from. Of course a woman like that raised Franny. Of course.

The jangling of the bell attached to the front door interrupted Cornelius’ admiration of his wife and mother-in-law.

Franny lifted her head up from cleaning a table. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for the nigh--”

“YOU WHORE!” Screeched the woman who had walked in the door.

“Hey!” Cornelius exclaimed, the scary, unfamiliar feeling of anger bubbling in his chest. “That is my w-”

When Sophie was the one struck by the woman’s backhand, it was clear it was not Franny who was the target of that slur.

“Did you expect me to be in the dark forever? How dare you hang around this town! How dare you show your face here!” The woman, blonde hair greying and pale skin beginning to show age, berated Sophie as she continued her assault. “You and my husband’s bastard child, right under my nose!”

Cornelius blinked in surprise; he would have thought that his wife’s sperm donor of a biological father would have confessed to his wife about his infidelity much sooner than now, almost twenty-four years later. She must have just found out. Why else would she come to the restaurant that late at night breathing fire out her nose -- good god, he was starting to think in Franny’s folksy sayings.

He was frozen in shock and a tinge of fear (he never was one for physical fights, see) just long enough for Franny to be the first to act. Sophie seemed fully aware of what was happening and also fully able to defend herself, yet for some reason unwilling to.

Franny lunged forward and grabbed the oldest of the three women by the hair and tugged her away from Sophie. “Paws off my mother! She did nothing wrong!”

The woman (if Cornelius remembered correctly, Franny’s biological father was named Peter Boyd), Mrs. Boyd, shrieked and flailed her arms until one connected with Franny hard enough to stun her into losing her grip. Mrs. Boyd turned on Franny immediately.

“Ha! Nothing wrong? Nothing wrong? Your mother opened her legs to a married man, that’s why you’re even here! Lying like a Persian rug. I should lay you out like one.”

“Fucking try! I’ll lay your ass out and step all over it, you wanna talk about Persian rugs.” Franny challenged, stepping around Mrs. Boyd to block her from her mother.

Mrs. Boyd lunged at Franny, but Franny had been in more fights that the genteel politician’s wife could have ever been in. It took her an embarrassing number of tries to land a punch on Franny and when she did, she didn’t miss her shot. While Franny was stunned, Mrs. Boyd grabbed Franny by her hair and threw her against the wall.

It felt like hours to him that he was frozen in place, but it couldn’t have actually been more than a full minute between Sophie first being slapped and when Mrs. Boyd landed her punch on Franny. That one action finally connected Cornelius’ eyes to the rest of his body. Mrs. Boyd drew back her fist and in a display of speed and athleticism that he could never repeat again, Cornelius crossed the room and wedged himself between Mrs. Boyd and his wife.

Lucky for him, she wasn’t a very strong puncher.

Unlucky for him, she was wearing her ring and his cheek sliced right open.

“You just punched my husband.” Franny snarled, reaching for a chair. “You. Just punched. My husband.”

If Cornelius thought Franny looked scarily pissed off when a man put his hands on her at a bar, he ain’t seen nothin’ back then. If they were in a cartoon, smoke would have billowed from her nose and ears as she shoved him behind her.

“He got in the way, that’s his fault!”

“He has nothing to do with your cheating husband preying on and manipulating a refugee who barely spoke English into thinking he cared about her and would take care of her. Your shitty husband is the one you should be beating up right now!” Franny hissed, her grip on the chair tightening.

“Shut up, [slur I won’t type]!”

It was dead silent. Not one of the four of them moved. Cornelius could have sworn he heard a heartbeat that’s how quiet it was.

Franny was the first to break the silence.

“I’ll count to three. If you aren’t out of my mother’s restaurant when I get to three, what happens next is your fault.”

Mrs. Boyd scoffed. “Like I’m afraid of some gold-digging musical theatre major.”

“One.”

“You aren’t really going to hit me with a chair, are--”

“Two.”

“I’ll have you arrest--”

“Three. GAH!” Franny only had to fake her out for her to run out the door shrieking. The chair was already back on the ground before the door had even shut. “I’ll lock the door. Mak, can we put a dish towel on his face?”

---

“Franny ow,” Cornelius protested as, back at her parents’ house, Franny landed a light-but-strategically-painful punch on Cornelius' arm. “Why are you mad?”

“Because you got hurt!” She snapped, folding her arms across her chest, her eyes watering. “Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t want her to hurt you or Sophie…”

Franny whined. “Baby, you name your robots. You can’t take or throw punches. I’m the badass in this marriage, you’re the sweet, gentle one. I hate that you got hurt because my sperm donor’s wife would rather blame a poor lady and her daughter instead of her shitty husband.” “Honey, she slammed your head into the wall.”

“And?” Franny knocked on her skull. “Sounds hollow to me. I don’t think there’s any brain cells left there to kill.”

Cornelius gave a huff of a laugh through his nose, reaching for Franny’s hand to play with her fingers. He didn’t say anything, just held her hand and waited for her.

“I’m sorry you had to see my family’s dirty laundry. Not like you didn’t already know, but.” Franny said, staring down at their hands. “I thought his wife knew. The worst part is, I can understand her. I’d hate my mom and I too if you-- not that you would -- I don’t think you’d-- I just mean--”

“I know.” Cornelius said, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

Sophie glided into the living room, her hair kit in hand, and gestured for Franny to sit up straight. Franny opened her mouth to protest that she didn’t feel like getting her hair messed with right now, but snapped her jaw shut as quick as she’d opened it. Just let Mak do her little ritual, it wouldn’t hurt no one.

“I’m sorry this happened, Mak. I should’ve been quicker to fight for you.” Franny said, looking down at her hand in Cornelius’.

Sophie tsk tsked and tugged the hairbrush a little hard, Franny swore it was on purpose. “It was overdue karma, my love. I slept with a married man whether I knew it or not at the time. Not knowing doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

“It does too! He was the one married and lying to you! And the one tried to force you into an abortion when that wasn’t the right choice for you. How are you near as responsible as him?” Franny argued.

“Humans see grey areas. Not everything in the universe does, dear. Besides, I won anyway. Even after today.”

“How? All three of us look like the school bully took our lunch money. I mean, look at him! He and Lucille have a press thing after we get back to New York, he’s gonna look like I shanked him during a domestic!” Franny looked over at Cornelius and pouted at his bandage.

“I’ll tell the press I fought valiantly, honey. You were a worthy opponent.” Cornelius teased. Franny hissed, exactly like her cat, then immediately kissed his temple.

“I win in the end because I get to have you as my daughter.” Sophie explained, starting on the actual braid. “I don’t regret any part about my path crossing with Peter Boyd’s because I had to go through it to get you.”

Franny was silent a long moment, her eyes watered in lieu of her finding her words. She only squeezed Cornelius’ hand tighter, and when she had words again only managed so squeak out, “Maaaaaak, you can’t say things that nice while you’re doing my hair. It’ll be all lopsided if I move to hug you.”

“That’s why I said it when I did.”

Thirty-five years old…

Franny was coming to understand that she would never truly be able to understand everything about her mother’s life in Cambodia. The more she knew, the more she didn’t know.

Franny sat behind her mother, brushing out her hair, as the recording device captured their conversation. At the moment, all it was capturing was Franny’s stunned silence as she sat there, mouth agape, hairbrush frozen mid-brush in her mother’s salt and pepper hair.

What do you say to your mother recounting in gruesome detail her father’s death?

She spoke like all she was recalling was the serial killer’s M.O. in the last Criminal Minds, her tone calm, detached, there was even a nervous laugh in there.

“Mak…” Franny whispered. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“The book was my idea, Darareaksmey. I want you to help me talk about what happened to my country and our family before I’m an old woman and can’t remember things. The world deserves to know what it let happen.”

“It can’t be easy for you. How do you just...live after that?”

“It isn’t easy. Keep brushing.” Sophie waited until Franny’s hands were once again busy with her hair to continue. “A lot of people don’t, I imagine. Surviving must eat some people alive. It got to me, at first.”

Franny set the brush down and started on the braiding. “Did it?”

“Why was my escape successful but the woman who suggested the method I used get caught when she tried it, why was I able to survive the student purge but my friends weren’t, why did the cut on my foot eventually heal but my sister’s infection kill her, and do I even deserve to be alive...things like that, I thought about those things every day in the refugee camp. Once I was able to actually think about anything but being hungry, anyway.” Sophie explained.

While Franny braided her mother’s hair it occurred to her that this was the most honest that her mother had been with her about her feelings (re: living through the Khmer Rouge) in all of her thirty-five years on the planet. Regarding the straight facts, Sophea Sor Framagucci was a straightforward woman. She would tell you in detail how any and every traumatic event went down but never once had she talked about how she felt or what it all did to her.

Though, she couldn’t imagine detailing every single trauma in her life and how it affected her for Wilbur either.

Perhaps it felt strange to Franny because her mother’s trauma was a major historical event that numerous books, movies, documentaries, and articles talked about. She knew so much about the event itself but the raw, human, emotional aspect of it was all new.

“It’s funny because deciding not to live was never an option for me. Even before I had you. I just kept thinking about how I didn’t want to let the people who did this to me win, and I can only do that by living. So I existed. For a long time, it was just existing. I learned to be alive again. Especially once you started talking and having a personality that wasn’t just ‘Being A Baby. That’s when being a mother goes from being just a responsibility to a responsibility that makes you smile and laugh.”

“Mm, it’s a good thing you told me that part at thirty-five and not fourteen. As a mother, I understand what you mean. As a teenager that would have killed my self-esteem.”

“Impossible, your ego was much too big at that age. It almost could’ve used a beating.”

“Don’t you know that was the classic pretend you’re better than God because you actually feel like trash act?” Franny said, tying the hair tie around the braid.

“Can’t say I’m familiar. It’s never been an act for me.”

“Mak!” Franny laughed, playfully nudging her mother. “No wonder I have a god complex on Tuesdays.” A beat. “We can stop. If you need to.”

“I’ll tell you when I need a break, my love. I’m okay.”

#bdrptask #&&...hc #600 words they said how about a 17 page google doc i said

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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

Control and Release - 23

Series Masterlist

TEDTalk!Sam x Reader

Summary: After the rest of the staff is caught in a snowstorm, you find yourself acting as a personal assistant to the notorious Sam Winchester. As the arrangement becomes more defined, you and Sam begin a sexual adventure with dangerous consequences.

Warnings: Dom/Sub, humiliation, embarrassment, sexual objectification, mutual masturbation, spanking, cum play, fingering, anal play, orgasm control, nipple clamps, dub-con, breath play.

Beta: @ilikaicalie

Words: 2.8k

Parts 24, 25, 26 & 27 are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories, including the ABO series Gods of Twilight and Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

Forbes: At 30 years old you ranked as one of the top 25 most successful men in business. You are a huge success. You’ve done all this by the seat of your pants, with no particular training in management. How did you learn how to run a company?

SW: You know, throughout my years in business I’ve discovered something. Coming up, I would always ask “why do you do it that way?”. The answer I would invariably get is: “Oh, that’s just the way things are done around here.” Nobody knows why they do what they do. Nobody thinks very deeply about processes. That’s what I’ve found.

In business a lot of things are folklore. They are done because they were done that way yesterday. And the day before. You have to dig in, ask questions, and not be afraid to piss people off. It’s not the hardest thing in the world. It’s not rocket science.

Forbes: What drives you?

SW: As a kid, I read an article in Scientific American. It measured the efficiency of locomotion of various species on the planet. Bears. Chimpanzees. Raccoons. Birds. Fish. How many kilo-calories per kilometer did they spend to move? Humans were measured too. And the condor won. It was the most efficient. Humankind came in with an unimpressive showing about a third of the way down the list. But somebody there had the brilliance to test a human riding a bicycle. We blew away the condor. Off the charts.

This really had an impact on me. Humans are tool builders and process creators. We build things that can dramatically amplify our innate human abilities.

If you set a vector off into space, and you change its direction just a little bit at the beginning, the difference is dramatic when it gets a few miles out in space. If we can nudge it in the right direction, it will be a much better thing. I think W & S has had a chance to do that a few times. That gives me tremendous satisfaction.

Forbes: What drives Winchester & Singer employees?

SW: Most people don’t get a chance to do that many significant things in their life. I’m offering people the chance to be on the forefront of change. Everyone person is handpicked to be here. They could be sitting in a monastery somewhere in Japan, or out sailing. Some of the executive team could be playing golf, they could be running other companies. Everyone at W & S chosen to work with this emerging corner of law and technology. Plus I pay people what they’re worth. A rock star deserves a salary to match. I’ve never shied away from rewarding those who deserve it.

Forbes: Let’s just get it out there, the elephant in the room. How has the shooting changed the way you run W & S? What would you do differently in hindsight?

SW: The most effective change I’ve made has been hiring outside managers to monitor each department’s cultural cohesion. I hire the best and brightest, with that comes egos, reputations, and unrealistic expectations. It’s a balance between heavy-handed micromanagement and understanding what’s truly going on. We’re placing a greater focus on not only the quality of work produced, but the quality of the work experience.

Forbes: You’re a notorious figure with a demanding reputation. How do you see yourself?

SW: My job is to not be easy on people. My job is to make them better. My job is to pull things together from different parts of the company and clear the way and get the resources for key projects. To take these great people, push them, and make them even better, coming up with more aggressive visions of stale concepts.

Forbes: What advice would you give to someone looking at you as their model for success?

SW: Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. You'll know when you find it. Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. I learned that the hard way.

Forbes: You’re known for being stubbornly private regarding your personal life, but in one of your most famous quotes you said things such as hobbies and even family were a distraction. You’re older and wiser, do you still believe that?

SW: (long pause) Yes, but there’s someone in my life now who won’t be too pleased with my answer. The right partner makes you better. Distractions can turn into strengths, but I still believe it’s important to screen who and what you let into your life.

You sit back on the couch smiling at the photo of him on the opposite page. The photographer managed to make him look like some kind of billionaire playboy. He’s wearing a designer suit, something edgy and slim with no socks and leather shoes. His trademark glasses are nowhere to be seen and his hair is wild around his face. He looks like a different Sam, a doppelganger from another universe.

This is his second Forbes cover. The first showcased him as a new powerhouse executive but this article goes on and on about the way Sam is reshaping the way law will be written as it regards to intellectual property rights.

And that last question and then his answer. The right partner makes you better. You wish he was here in your tiny apartment so you could crawl into his lap and show him just how much better things can really get.

Monday

On Monday morning you follow Cole to the nearest conference room. You’ve worked hard to put together the right team for this maiden case. Everyone is feeling the pressure, pressure that’s only made worse by Sam’s attendance.

Sam makes you slightly nervous, but only because you want him to be proud of your work. Truth be told you’re more concerned about proving to Cole you can do this job and do it well.

Everyone else is terrified of incurring the wrath of the great Sam Winchester.

Despite working for W & S most employees never meet him face to face, so this is a big deal for the team and even more so for Cole. They have a lot to prove. This morning is the first in a battery of tests to come.

You set up the presentation while the team trails in. Each junior associate has been assigned an assistant and you’re happy to see the familiar faces of Millie and Lexie.

“Is he normally late?” Cole glances at his watch. “It’s 9:15.”

“No, not normally,” you reply as the door opens and a blonde woman you’ve never seen before scurries in ahead of Sam. The look on his face tells you everything you need to know, something didn’t go his way. He’s pissed.

He takes a seat, opening a legal pad full of notes. The woman sits beside him, offering a pen. He sighs and plucks it from her fingers.

“Let’s get started.” Sam begins. The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Right,” Cole stands up, adjusting his suit jacket. “I’ve put together an overview, the key players and areas we believe there’s wiggle room to make our case.” He turns to you on cue. “Y/N.”

You start the presentation from your laptop, doing everything in your power not to look directly at Sam.

Cole presents, he’s well spoken and thinks on his feet. Sam interjects with questions designed to test Cole’s agility as much as hear an answer, but your new boss performs just as expected.

Next up are the associates and they don’t fare as well. Leon hasn’t done his homework, he doesn’t have the correct cases with the legal precedent. Jasper looks like he’s going to throw up as Sam goes down his list of suggestions and eviscerates each one, piece by piece.

While Sam speaks it occurs to you for the first time perhaps this is less his intolerance and more about the frustration of being the smartest person in the room. He already knows the answers, he doesn’t make a move without planning five steps ahead. He’s just trying to get everyone else caught up.

Halfway through his interrogation of Jenny Salter, a leggy redhead who started two weeks ago, the soft strains of a radio can be heard, growing closer. The guy who runs the coffee cart listens to classic rock on a little radio as he wheels around the office and at the moment Blinded By The Light is getting louder and louder.

“What the hell is that?” Sam cocks his head.

“I’ll go check,” Millie gets up.

As you watch her stand up your heart flutters. Little palpitations, once, twice, and then a tightness spreading out. Shit. This couldn't be a worse time.

Your palms go sticky-sweaty, a heat starting in your belly and fanning out like wildfire, until it seems the walls are closing in.

“Can someone help her,” Sam gestures toward the open door. “Is it that difficult to turn a radio off?”

“I need to get out of here,” you whisper, grabbing Cole by the wrist.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers back, turning to look at you. “Jesus, are you sick?”

“I just, um…” the words get caught as your breath goes choppy. “I can’t breathe.”

“Are you okay?” Jenny inquires from across the table. Under any other circumstances, you’d be horrified to have all the attention focused on you but right now you’re desperately trying not to pass out.

“Y/N?” Sam’s voice drifts in from somewhere far away.

“I’m gonna…” are your last words as everything fades to black.

You blink once, twice and a third time cobwebs begin to clear. There’s a pounding in the back of your skull, a heavy thump thump that hurts like a motherfucker.

It takes a moment to place the location but you’re lying on a couch in Sam’s office. When you turn your head both Sam and Cole are standing near his desk, both of them watching you.

“Welcome back,” Cole smiles, moving forward. You lock eyes with Sam for a moment, before focusing on the other man in front of your.

“I passed out huh?”

“Yeah. You hit your head on the table on the way down. You’re gonna have a goose egg.” Cole makes a pained face.

“Shit,” you feel at the tender lump on the side of your head. “This is so embarrassing. Sorry I ruined the meeting.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for.” Cole nods. “You should probably go get checked out.”

“It’s just a panic attack. I get them from time to time. PTSD.”

“I’m familiar.”

Of course he is, the man fought in a war and you’re talking to him about PTSD.

“You should go home,” Sam suggests, studying the interaction between you and Cole.

“Really, I think I’ll be okay. I’ve got some work I need to finish-”

“Go home.” Sam raises his voice. It’s not a suggestion.

“Probably a good idea.” Cole agrees. He offers you a hand up from the couch. “You live close? I can-”

“We have people who can take her,” Sam interjects. “I’d like if you would go back down and pull everyone back together. Have the team regroup and we’ll reschedule for this afternoon.”

“I’d kinda like to stay with her.” Cole looks to you. “I feel responsible.”

“I’ll watch her until a driver comes to take her home.” Sam holds out his arm, ushering him toward the door. Cole looks hesitant, but nods in agreement.

“Check in later and let me know how you’re feeling okay?”

“Sure thing.” You’re thankful for his kindness. He’s proven himself to be an upstanding guy. You’re lucky to have him as a direct supervisor.

As soon as the door clicks shut Sam is kneeling on the carpet in front of you. One hand slides into your hair, finding the growing bump.

“Ouch,” you hiss.

“It’s big,” he cautions. “You should have a doctor look at it, make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

“I passed out before I hit my head. I think I’m fine.” You force a weak smile, looking over his face as he looks up to you.

Sam rarely looks up at anyone or anything, this position is vulnerable, submissive but he doesn’t seem to mind as he studies your face.

“It was a bad one,” Sam denotes. “It came on fast and you were on the ground in under a minute.”

“So embarrassing.” You watch him as he carefully pushes hair away from your forehead. “Do I have to go home?”

“Yes,” he maintains. “Go to my house.”

“Really, I’m okay. I can just go to my own place and lay down.”

“I’d like to check on you later. I’d prefer if you stayed with me.”

You forget sometimes that safety is Sam’s flag ship. He’s afraid of losing the only person in his life, in moments like this you get a glimpse of the acute anxiety. It looks exhausting.

“Alright, your house. But I want dinner.”

“You can have whatever you want.”

Wednesday

“Y/N…” Cole starts, his voice trailing off.

“Yeah?” You don’t look up from the document you’re working on, scribbling a note in red ink. It’s been a long week of case review and making sure that everyone is on the same page. The real work begins in a few days so the team is trying to prep as they can. You’ve been spread out on the small couch in the corner of his office for hours, reviewing and taking notes. Trying to memorize the details.

“I’m gonna say something and I hope you take it the right way, because I’m coming to you from a place of good intentions.”

“That sounds ominous.” Sitting up, you close the folder and place it on the table giving him your full attention. “What’s up?”

“Is he always like that with you?”

“What are you talking about?”

There’s an immediate nervous feeling. A wispy flutter of panic.

“I’m talking about Sam Winchester. He brought you up to his office after you passed out, offered to personally watch over you until a driver was free. He can’t even remember the name of his new assistant but with you he was...attentive.”

“I worked on a project with him last year. We spent a significant amount of time together,” you counter.

Stay cool. All this time and Pepper had to walk in on you to see there was something going on. But Cole’s sharp, observant. He picked up on it right away.

Cole stares at you, pursing his lips and trying to decide whether or not to share what he’s really thinking.

“You should watch yourself.” His words are careful. “The way he looks at you, I’ve seen that look before.”

“You’re wrong.” Your entire face is hot. “He’s not like that.”

“I hope you’re right. Just keep my voice in the back of your head, kay? Don’t let yourself be in a situation where you’re alone with him.”

“Cole-”

“I’m serious. He’s interested in you. I’ve known men like him. I wouldn’t want you to be put in a position where something happened. A guy like that is used to getting what he wants. He might not wait for consent.”

That takes you back. The tone shifts and you swallow, thinking about how you want to respond to this curve ball.

“You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions,” you bristle, trying to subdue the urge to put Cole in his place. “Even if he was interested in me, that doesn’t mean he’s a freakin’ rapist.”

“I’m not saying he is.” Cole tries to explain himself. “There’s just something about him. You’re intuitive, you have to feel it too. You have to know the rumors about his brother? How they grew up? You can’t be sure some of that crazy isn’t lurking below the surface-”

“Sam has been nothing but kind to me,” you interrupt. “He’s hard to work for but he’s given me opportunities no one else ever has. You shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

“You don’t wonder why?”

“Why what?” You stand up, taking a step toward the desk. “You don’t think my work is good enough that he would see some talent in me?”

“I didn’t say that, either. You’re smart, articulate, you think on your feet. But that describes most of the employees here. I only meant there could be a reason he singles you out.”

Fuck.

In four short weeks Cole Trenton has managed to see what no one else could.

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester smut #sam winchester au #control and release

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medeafive · 4 years

Text

Blood and Stone -01

Masterpost

She's good. Really good. That's why Fury turns a blind eye (haha) when she sometimes sneaks out alone into the night. She's got senses. She's done this longer than almost anyone else and she can just tell. No one tracks vampires down better than her, so why would she let herself be slowed down.

Tonight, she is after two young breeds. She caught their trail somewhere around Anděl, followed it up the Petřín, lost it, picked it up again in Holešovice and traced it to the other side of the Vltava, a basement in Karlín. They're inexperienced, alone, reckless, hungry, and she's going to wipe them out before they can get their shit together. This ends tonight.

She needs to be careful, though, because young vampires actually have a keener sense of smell, coming with the insatiable hunger. There's no moon out tonight, which puts her slightly at a disadvantage. Still. Not waiting for backup. Not when she's got them right here.

She's prepared. She smells like mud, smeared her face with it, her neck under the bite guard, her wrists and hands. She stinks. She's armed, knives and guns strapped to her thighs, her back, inside her sleeves. She breathes deeply.

One of them is wailing inside, inhuman noises. It's been forever since she felt empathy for that kind of thing. Yes, it's painful, turning into a monster, but they're still monsters. She'll gladly put them out of their misery. So they won't rip more people with them and create more wailing families, actual wailing people. Not this scum.

The heavy wooden door is barred, so she'll have to slip through the shaft. There are scratching marks on the wood. They really don't know how to be careful. They'll pay for that. She smells blood, probably their own. Whoever turned them just abandoned them, and now they're easy prey.

She breathes deeply again, pressing the handle of her silver blade into her palm. The anticipatory adrenaline rushes through her. Now. She's ready.

She rips out the grid and jumps down the shaft, not caring about the noise. It's a little brighter inside, old broken furniture strewn around, bicycles, canisters. It smells of oil. One of the vampire fledglings jumps up, hissing, baring her bloody fangs. Young vampires sometimes feed on each other, as long as there is still human blood inside their veins. They're strong until they burn through it. Natasha grins, baring her own teeth, flashing the silver knife. The vampiress jumps onto her and she rolls out underneath her, slashing at her calf. The monster howls. The other vampire, barely more than a boy, cowers. Natasha lets the knife cut through the air, in his direction. The vampiress lunges at her again and she's strong, fast, but clumsy. Natasha kicks her in the chest so she crashes into a couple of flimsy bikes. The other vampire prowls towards her and Natasha spins to sink the knife into his shoulder, eliciting a whimpering growl. The vampiress crawls up again, blood around her mouth, eyes fresh red. Natasha elbows the other in the face, knocking out one of his fangs, then tangles with the first. She's strong, high on blood as she'll never be again, sinking her claws into Natasha's forearms. The armour holds, though it cracks, and Natasha knees her in the stomach, breaking her down, and she swings back to trade blows with the other until she slices his neck, shallow, she'll have to do that again later. Finish the job. Wait. Her hair stands.

She's knocked forward all at once, crashing into a solid wooden table, knocking the air out of her. Stars. Shakes her head to clear it. Vision blurry. The third vampire, tall, male, stalks towards her, sneering. This is bad. Something trickles down her forehead.

She rolls away before he slams the table to pieces, rolls away again before he kicks her, but then there's no more room, she scrambles upright, knife knocked out of her hand, barely dodging the claws of the vampiress, then he grabs her and flings her across the room like a dirty sheet, she hits the concrete wall groaning, now she's really dizzy, get up, get up-

There's a subtle woosh and then it's quiet all of a sudden. She preens her eyes open, ready to throw up. Black. Black cloak. She's only heard of those, never seen one before.

There's a thump as the now dry vampire hits the floor, pale, crumpled up. She crawls back in disgust. And fear. Hits the wall immediately. The vampiress is beheaded, body twisted unnaturally, and the boy's slit throat bleeds into a puddle. The black cloak turns. His eyes are white. Their eyes turn black once they've burned through their own blood but with every full moon they see, they become lighter. He must be old, just a sliver of grey left. Old and powerful. She tries to crawl back farther into the wall. No one survives seeing a black cloak. Hardly anyone.

The white eyes study her, stepping over the dry one's arm. This cellar is too fucking small. He's not armed, other than claws and fangs, and he moves excruciatingly slowly. Dressed in all black, like the freaks around the castle she wouldn't approach over her dead body. Even they do not dare to don the black cloak. He's either an impostor or, judging by the color of his eyes, the most dangerous vampire she's ever met. He stops. "I know who you are."

The silver throwing star slips from her hand easily and he dodges just as easily, swiftly, she hardly sees him moving, just hears the cloak cut through the air. He straightens with annoyance, brushing dark hair out of his forehead. She bares her teeth at him, hissing, snarling. He mirrors her, automatically, presenting the longest fangs she's ever seen, streaked with gold. Yes, he's old, decades old. Maybe even a century. "I don't care who you are," she returns, even though she is burning to know.

He seems very annoyed with her. The hair on the back of her neck doesn't like it, any of it. "You're not difficult to find. The mud won't cover the smell of your blood."

Not for a vampire his age, no. "What do you want," she spits out, not really a question. Just bite her already, get it over with.

"There is something that-" He dodges the next throwing star as well, swooshing cloak. "You know what, under vampires, that is just considered rude."

"Under humans as well," she returns. Nobody ever considered her polite. And she's done caring. Now that she's going to die anyways.

"Would you let me finish," he demands. "I'm not going to kill you. Or you would be dead already."

Fucking liar. She's heard about that. Old vampires like to play with their fickle human prey. She brandishes her teeth again and he can't help but do the same. The black coat has golden patterns stitched into it. Would be considered nobility, under any other circumstances. "Go on. Please."

She pushes herself up while he is momentarily distracted with a car going by outside. Reckless, at this time. She leans against the wall, still dizzy. Ready to throw up. The smell of blood and death doesn't help. Oh wait, now's her chance to-

He knocks her against the wall roughly, gun clattering on the floor. Oh, now he's angry. He doesn't smell dead, sort of like an old book. His eyes look less white from close up. "Seriously," he hisses, though no breath hits her. His fingers are tight and cold as stone. "I'm not going to kill you. Get that into your-"

The silver slashes through his forearm, barely missing the bone, and he groans, recoiling, flesh turning gray, she doesn't bother kicking him and runs. If he were human, he might just have bled out from that. The door's only held shut by a broom stuck through the door handles, easily discarded, and then she runs , the hair on the back of her neck not going down until she reaches the hunters' stronghold.

"Are you fucking serious ," Fury hisses at her, even though she's barely dressed. "Alone? Again?"

Bruce studies the bruises on her arms, not saying a word. She can tell he agrees, though. "It was just two," she returns feistily. "Well, three. I could have handled three."

"Is it so fucking hard to ask for help," Fury curses. "Would it cost you an arm and a leg or what? Ruin your cold, heartless persona?"

Bruce folds the scalpel kit and pulls the blanket over her. Like she's not going to get up and dress. "She's right. Not even a scratch. Plenty of bruises, though."

"You're the luckiest bastard I know, Romanoff," Fury snaps. "Are you sure it was a black cloak?"

"His eyes were almost white," she repeats, pulling a clean jacket on. "You think I'm making things up?"

"And he just let you run away," Fury remarks sourly. "On foot. You do know they can basically fly ."

"That's just a stupid rumor." Natasha waves him off. "I've never seen a vampire fly. "

"I have," Fury returns dryly. "Believe me. A black cloak would've never let you get away."

"I cut his artery," Natasha repeats, slipping off the table. "Guess that slowed him down enough. Stop doubting me, I have no reason to lie to you."

Fury does not look convinced. "And he was looking specifically for you."

"I guess," Natasha agrees, tugging her pants up. "Claimed he knew who I am." She leaves out the rest. No need to tell them those lies.

"So you have a black cloak on your trail," Clint remarks, quietly leaning in the doorframe. "Guess you're not going out anytime soon."

"If there's really a vampire like that in Prague," Fury interrupts. "We're all as good as dead. I don't care about your bloody arteries."

"Well, good," Natasha agrees, even though she doesn't. "Then I can sleep till sundown and go on another round, yes?"

"Are you sure you're okay?" Pepper asks. "I can cover for you, if you want. Haven't paid you back for last time."

It's very invasive but matter of fact is, going out when you're on your period is a risk and they have to plan around that. Just like when you have a small cut or a recent nosebleed or anything. Can't risk vampires smelling that and going berserk. And rather than informing Fury about their exact menstrual cycles, they rather just switch the shifts around. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Really?" Pepper repeats unconvinced, tightening her ponytail. "Bruce said you crashed into a bunch of things. It's okay to just take a break."

"I don't need a break," Natasha returns, fastening the thigh holster. "You can pay me back another time. Go see whether you can detach Tony from his project instead."

A faint smile enters Pepper's face, automatically. "Probably not, but I'll go try. But really, if you need anything, just a word."

"I don't need anything," Natasha replies, putting the magazine in. "But thanks."

"You're not taking this seriously, are you," Clint remarks.

"If I did," Natasha returns, giving up stepping lightly. "What would I do? Hole up inside the tower? How's that going to save anybody?"

"You don't have black cloaks in Russia, do you," Clint asks. Natasha shakes her head unwillingly. "They're not just strong vampires. They were turned by Schmidt himself during the first Uprising. Lots of them were killed but some went into hiding with him. They're fiercely loyal and only listen to him. Every other vampire who dares wear a black cloak is brutally slain."

"Yeah, yeah, the famous superspreader." Natasha scoffs. "But I thought he's somewhere West. Why would he send a black cloak here ?"

"They're enforcers," Clint explains. "Take out hunter cells that get too annoying. Or clean up unallowed newborns. You know, there's long been rumors those crazyheads over in the castle swore allegiance to Schmidt."

"So we could all die," Natasha repeats. "Is what you're saying."

Clints grins. "Eh, life's dangerous. Stop, I think I hear something."

Something turns out to be a stray cat, jumping on a trash can, almost giving them a heart attack. It hisses at them. Clint gives it the finger, though that doesn't appear to impress the shoddy beast. "Where were we. Oh, yeah, there's all sorts of rumors, that they have special powers and all that. Of course, nobody knows what's actually true because no one-"

"Quiet," Natasha whispers. "It smells, doesn't it?"

Clint tries, over the trash can. Natasha slips past, peeking onto the next street. Deadly quiet. She smells blood, vampire blood. Must have passed from the other side of the river again. She unlocks her gun, holding it close to her chest as she proceeds over the street. All her senses tell her they're here. Clint's close on her heels.

Probably infighting. Those baby vampires never manage to form significant groups without killing each other. Not that she minds. Makes things easier for her. She breathes in through her nose and follows the scent to a backyard.

Corpses. Impaled. That's not infighting, that's an execution. She shudders staring at the bloody wood peaking out of their chests. Five. Five of them, though two of the bodies are ripped in half, strewn across the yard carelessly. A shitton of dark blood. Pretty fresh. "Tasha," Clint remarks quietly.

She looks up from the carnage, taking a second before she spots the dark figure towering high on the roof. The cloak still sends a shiver down her spine. He's staring down at them and they're helplessly cornered in this backyard. Then he drops off the roof, swoosh , like the wind, and then he's gone.

"Well," Clint remarks, shuddering visibly. "He certainly was wearing a black cloak."

"Shut up," Natasha mutters. "Let's get back to the tower before he realizes he doesn't have to run from us."

Fury goes full tower defense mode, putting up more traps, more alarms, increasing the guards on each shift, constantly accounting for everyone and not letting a pin drop without his knowing. She can tell, though, that he doesn't really believe in it. She's heard rumors that he lost a whole hunting cell to a black cloak, himself escaping only with one eye, the lone survivor. She's not sure it's true, though. And how are a couple of booby traps going to prevent this from happening to them, too?

She hates being controlled like that. Free spirit, as Alexei used to say. Just because she couldn't stand being around him after some of the stuff he did. She has her red lines, too, though not everyone believes that. So, she drops out one night, just slipping through the window down the grey stones of the powder tower, and then she's gone.

Prague's always quiet at night, as every vampire-infested city, but tonight it's especially quiet. She wonders how many people have heard of the black cloak in town, how far the rumors have spread. There's not a single open window as she strolls through the Old Town, no noises coming from inside. She feels weirdly at ease. At least she's pretty sure there are no more baby vampires in the old districts. The Malá Strana is, of course, a totally different business.

"Reckless," the awful voice remarks. "Going for a walk alone at night."

She looks up and she could've sworn he wasn't standing next to the Astrological Clock just seconds before, but now he is. "You do know those are the Twelve Apostles right next to you."

His white eyes make it very hard to read his expression. As if that monster's expressions mattered. "You do know that sort of thing has no effect," he returns calmly.

She breathes out with annoyance. "Are you stalking me?"

"Yes," he replies. "Pretty easy, as I said, you're the-" It looks like he knocks her knife away with his cloak, though that's obviously not it. She doesn't believe in fairytales about magical cloaks. The knife clatters on the cobblestone. "Could you stop throwing stuff at me?"

"Sorry," she replies, not sounding it. "Force of habit. Go on."

He scoffs. "You're the worst smelling human I've ever come across."

She snorts. "Oh no. So, if I cut my palm right now, you won't care at all?"

His nostrils flare just at the mention. He rolls his eyes, dropping off the ledge, cloak flaring up, landing soundlessly without really bending his knees. "What's wrong with you?"

"Got a vampire stalking me and can't get rid of him," she replies, unconsciously reaching for her gun. "Not for lack of trying, though. I thought that was obvious."

"How about you leave that gun where it is," he suggests. "And you just let me talk. As I said, I'm not going to kill you."

This fucking liar again. She's not in the mood for games. "Did Schmidt send you?"

"He wants you," the vampire replies.

"Dead," she specifies.

"Alive," he corrects. "He wants to turn you. Recruit you."

She shudders inwardly. "Oh, so you are going to kill me."

"I will merely bring you to him," he claims. "So he can turn you himself."

She scoffs. "If I end up bitten by a vampire, you better believe I would walk straight into the sun."

"Trust me," he returns softly. "You wouldn't."

She bares her teeth at him, him doing the same. Can't shake it. "Sure. I've seen plenty of young vampires, I know turning is just great ."

"It's painful," he admits. "But you'll always want to live."

She sneers. "That's not living. You're not alive ."

"Point of view," he says. "But I certainly won't kill you."

"Why me?" she questions. "What's so special about me, except for my horrible smell?"

"You're giving Rumlow a hard time," he states. "Ever since you came here. So why not turn a pain in the ass into an advantage?"

"I'm not going to be an advantage to you," she repeats. "So you can just kill me, really, that's easier on both of us."

He scoffs. "Again, not doing that. But take your time. I have a couple more nests to clean up."

"You really think I'm going to agree to being turned?" she asks, bewildered. "I'm a hunter. Are you sure you thought that through?"

"You will," he replies. "Trust me."

"I don‘t," she clarifies. "Even if I'm not currently throwing silver things at you."

"So you don't want to hear about the nest in Žižkov," he remarks.

She groans inwardly and asks the stupid question. "So you're not going to kill all of my hunter friends?"

"Oh right," he states. "I won't. If you agree to be turned."

It knocks the wind out of her. "What?! You just forgot the extortion part?!"

"Sorry," he actually replies. "So yes. I think you will agree."

Fuck. How could she- she's not cuddly or anything, not even polite, pretty prickly actually if you ask anyone but Clint, but sentencing them all to death - but she's going to do worse if she's a vampire. The perfect dilemma. Hurting people either way. She grabs the silver knife, he already looks annoyed, but she only slits through her left palm, hissing at the sting. Blood on the blade, blood in her palm, blood dripping on the cobblestone. He sniffs, involuntarily, fangs coming out, eyes turning into animalistic slits, growling. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just suck me dry," she says. "Really. I'd prefer that over turning into a monster."

He comes closer, though he clearly doesn't want to, the scent drawing him in. Apparently, her blood doesn't smell bad at all. She holds out her hand, waiting. He growls, prancing back again, moving incredibly fast. Pupils blown. He's shifting so much, breathing in the scent, dragged towards the source, yanking himself back, trying to escape but not really wanting to. She waits, afraid, hand shaking, more blood dripping down. She smells it, too. He growls again, fangs bared, resolve growing thinner and thinner, though he is way more controlled than any other vampire she's ever met. He's still a monster and she never wants to be like him. He has the face of a hungry animal, starving animal, predator. She wiggles her fingers, pressing out more blood. He sneers, sniffing, nothing remotely human about it. Her hand's still shaking, even more.

He flings himself at her, too sudden for her to see, she tries to slash at him but he knocks the knife out of her hand easily, dislocating her right shoulder in the process. Good Lord, he's strong. He yanks her left hand towards his face, breathing rapidly, all tight, she's got tears streaming down her face because fucking shoulder, his eyes are almost all black now, fangs just a few inches from sinking into her hand, but he stays there, blinking rapidly. She groans, get on with it, make the pain-

"What did you put in there?" he snarls, sounding not even remotely human. "What did you put in your blood?"

She presses her eyes shut, praying he'll just do it already, kill her already. "Nothing," comes out as a faint whisper. "Just do it. Suck my blood."

He growls, yanking her hand even farther up, she moans in pain. Just end it already. Just do it.

She's pushed back, all of a sudden, at least a dozen feet, crashing into the chairs of some outdoor restaurant, the pain becomes even worse, she rolls about, groaning, whimpering, trying desperately to breathe. Run over by a truck, that's the feeling. She preens her eyes open, just in time to see him- not fly but jump, black cloak flaring, onto one of the towering ring buildings, 30 feet, 50 feet, she's too broken to estimate, then jump again, seemingly carried by the wind, and he's out of her field of sight. She groans, pressing her eyes shut for just a second and then dragging herself up, limping back towards the tower.

#blood and stone #buckynat #vampire au #natasha romanoff #black widow #bucky barnes #winter soldier #fanfic #my writing

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yasxgamal · 4 years

Photo

Basic Information

Full name: Yasin Gamal Pronunciation: ee-ah-ceen gah-mah-l Nickname(s): Yas, E. Birthdate: November 20th, 1986 Age: 34 Zodiac: Scorpio Gender: Male Pronouns: He/him/his Romantic orientation: Panromantic Sexual orientation: Pansexual Nationality: English Ethnicity: Egyptian Current location: London, UK Living conditions: Yas' place is a one-bedroom mess. It's a good flat, spacious and in a good location, all things considered, but he's not the best at decorating. Apart from the very odd artwork or two hanging crookedly on the walls, there isn't much more to it. He keeps his space clean and tidy when he has the time to do that, but it's not a very personal place. Also probably smells like smoke most of the time -- or, air freshener if he's trying to impress you.

Background

Birthplace: London, UK Hometown: London, UK Social Class: Wealthy if you count the parents' money, Middle if you consider his own money and lifestyle currently, and his tendencies to waste it all on cigarettes. Educational achievements: A really fancy degree in Computer Sciences and Computer Engineering at the most expensive college in the UK Father: Omar Gamal Mother: Safiya Gamal Sibling(s): Samir Gamal and Aisha Gamal. Birth order: Samir, Yas, Aisha is the youngest. Pets: Ramen, the stray cat that crawls in through his window and occasionally spends weeks sleeping inside, and then disappears for months on end. Previous relationships: One big relationship in college for 3 years, a miserable breakup. Then mostly only casual things after that, none he would consider true relationships. Arrests: N/A Prison time: N/A

Occupation & Income

Current occupation: Programmer for the Time Machine project Dream occupation: Programmer for the first working Time Machine Past job(s): College Era: various internships, waiter, freelance photographer for kids' parties, freelance I.T., tech teacher for the elderly, tech teacher for children, coder and manager for a pornographic film company's website. Post-College Era: has helped coding and programming several apps and softwares independently, then a stable job at GoodCore Software Ltd. as SQA Lead. Spending habits: Yas spends a lot on cigarettes and technology, but everything else he doesn't care enough for. In debt?: No Most valuable possession: Emotionally, his own laptop or phone, and all the photos and memories stored in them, as well as his work. Legally and monetarily, though, it's the BAFTA statuette from his sister, which he now gets to keep for a year because he won a bet (it's fine, she has more than one).

Skills & Abilities

Physical strength: Average Speed: Average Intelligence: Above Average when it comes to all things technology, Average on some other subjects. Accuracy: Average Agility: Above Average Stamina: Above Average Teamwork: Great in environments where everyone is delegated a certain job and he gets to do his thing in his corner to add to the mix. When it comes to people wanting to mess with his codes, he gets a bit stubborn and difficult to deal with. Shortcomings: often lets his pride ruin things, a bit of an inflated ego when it comes to his work, bad at communicating. Languages spoken: English, Arabic Drive?: Yes Jump-start a car?: No Change a flat tyre?: Yes Ride a bicycle?: Poorly Swim?: Yes Play an instrument?: If you count the guitar lessons in his childhood (he does) Play chess?: Yes Braid hair?: No Tie a tie?: Yes Pick a lock?: No Cook?: Yes, the very bare minimum, and he hardly does it.

Physical Appearance & Characteristics

Faceclaim: Rami Malek Eye colour: Greyish green Hair colour: Black Hair type/style/length: Shaved on the sides, originally short on top but it grows out too fast and he can't be bothered to get a haircut, so it grows out curly. When it starts to become a mop and look like he has a helmet of hair on, he cuts it short again, and repeats that cycle. Glasses/contacts?: No, but they're needed. He has shit eyesight and no one ever forced him to get glasses so he never did. Don't ask him to read any signs that are far away. Dominant hand: Right Height: 5'9 / 175cm Weight: 154 lb / 70kg Build: Slim Exercise habits: Nonexistent, but he does a lot of walking Skin tone: Olive (Type IV) Tattoos: The initials of his siblings, A.S. in a simple font, on the bottom of his ribs on his right side. They all have matching ones. He continuously tells them the joke that they should get a fourth sibling with an S name, so he can get A.S.S. tattooed instead. Piercings: None Marks/scars: Several small scars around his legs and arms, from climbing around and getting into trouble as a middle child desperate for attention. A more notorious scar runs up behind his left elbow from a night in college when he got wasted with his friends and had an accident with a knife (don't ask). Clothing style: Black, a lot of black. The most colourful thing in his closet might be a dark grey jumper. Very minimalistic in the sense that he never wears patterns or colours or graphic tees, it's always just very dry and kind of bland. He probably could get into fashion if he wanted to, but he feels bad spending so much of his hard-earned money on the high-fashion stuff. Also he can frequently be spotted wearing those compression gloves/braces on his hands, for carpal tunnel syndrome Jewellery: A couple necklaces that have no emotional attachment besides "I thought they were cool so I bought them", but he's never without them, even when they mostly just hang inside his shirts. Dabbles in rings if he's feeling fancy. Allergies: None Diet: Consists of mostly snacks. He occasionally buys the healthy kind, like a couple granola bars or some fruit, but if he's going through a big project, he'll only snack. Anything easy to eat with one hand goes. He does, however, understand the value of nutrition and that he needs to fuel his body properly every once in a while; when that happens, he resorts to ordering food from some healthy restaurant nearby. It's basically a couple salads a month and then nothing but Doritos for days straight. Physical ailments: Carpal tunnel syndrome happens often enough that it's almost chronic, because he doesn't usually take breaks or stretch his wrists out like he's supposed to. Back pain from sitting all day (and bad posture) is also so present that he barely notices it anymore.

Psychology

MBTI type: INTJ Enneagram type: Type Five Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Temperament: Somewhere between Phlegmatic and Melancholic? Element: Water Emotional stability: Who is she! Introvert or Extrovert? Introvert Obsession(s): Outdoing his siblings, no matter how much he loves them Compulsion(s): Working to the point of forgetting to take care of himself Phobia(s): Acrophobia and atychiphobia Addiction(s): Cigarettes/Vaping Drug use: Sometimes wrongly and terribly pops an Adderall when pulling all-nighters. Has smoked weed before, but he doesn't love the slowness of when he gets high. Alcohol use: Not very often nowadays, but the occasional blackout still happens. He's known to become a completely different person when he drinks, much more loose and fun and happy, so he does it sparingly Prone to violence?: No Prone to crying?: No Believe in love at first sight?: Yes, but doesn't think he's the type to ever experience that, since it takes a while for him to get close to people, so he believes in it as an abstract concept

Mannerisms

Accent: RP English Speech quirks: A lot of pauses between words and sentences, since he often thinks a lot before he speaks. The occasional ums and uhs and some stuttering if his mind is working faster than he can speak, too. Hobbies: Photography, playing video games, reading novels (graphic or otherwise), finding passive-aggressive memes to send into the Gamal siblings groupchat Habits: Stealing wifi, smoking and vaping, ordering delivery of everything instead of getting it himself Nervous ticks: lip chewing, tapping fingers, bouncing one knee, scratching his neck/jaw or touching his nose Drives/motivations: It's all for the glory, babey Fears: Never achieving anything grand Sense of humour?: It goes as far as memes and roasting his loved ones, but not much further than that. He's usually not comfortable enough to crack jokes, but you might get a sarcastic comment or two if you're lucky. Deep down, he can be sharp and quick-witted, but it doesn't come out often, unless he's having drinks. Do they curse often?: Hecc yes, probably as a form of rebellion against his posh parents

Favourites

Animal: Tarsier Beverage: Strong black coffee with two spoons of sugar Book: Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes Colour: Green Food: Zalabya Flower: Jasmine Gem: Peridot Mode of transportation: Walking, and if not, the metro Scent: Oranges Sport: Tennis Weather: Rainy enough that he doesn't feel anyone's judgement for staying inside all day Vacation destination: Japan

Attitudes

Greatest dream: Finally being famous for his work Greatest fear: Never achieving anything big enough to make him happy, and being forever miserable because of it Most at ease when: Left by himself or enjoying someone else's company that he's truly comfortable with, probably in silence, doing his own thing Least as ease when: Forced into environments where he has to put on fancy clothes and pretend to be enjoying himself when he's not. Alternatively: when he's going on hour 32 without any sleep and he's denied more coffee Worst possible thing that could happen: Achieving greatness but realising he needs something else in order to feel fulfilled and be happy Biggest achievement: His degree and hopefully the first working Time Machine Biggest regret: He doesn't like to say he regrets things, so there's nothing he'd call a huge regret. But if he had to say something, he'd probably say it was not telling that one high school crush that he liked them.

#yes i did choose a borderline pornographic photo that has nothing to do w my character #in hopes to thirst trap everyone #and what about it??????#rami deserves this #( task 001 )#( task )

3 notes · View notes

oghoneytryst · 6 years

Text

sunflower.

where harry meets an endearing fan who has resilience for her not-so-uncommon situation.

a/n: hi, this is just a lil idea I thought of. it takes place on the night of the casamigos party but it’s not meant to be a really late halloween piece or anything. this is the first time I tried not to use y/n, an experiment that’s harder than one would think especially when writing in third person. anyway, thank you for giving this piece a chance, I really enjoyed writing it. happy reading!

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Her eyes sprinkle shut and reopen in a series of blinks. She rubs at their weariness, squints so that her vision can un-blur and refocus on the man across the diner. She repeats this frantic pattern, though it doesn’t make it any easier to digest the fact that Harry Styles sits in the same vicinity as her, a mere few feet away.

This man she idolizes is breathing, existing at the same time as her, in the same exact place with a crowd of other curious and hungry individuals. Prior to this October night, she envisions this moment in her wildest dreams. She envisions herself mustering up enough courage to walk up to him, to take a picture with him, even engage in a once-in-a-lifetime conversation. She envisions how warm his embrace is, how sincere his smile is, how charming his eyes are.

In spite of this, she never envisions the flashy Dodgers uniform that he currently wears to be in any of her daydreams. It is a garish thing. She’s not sure if the Swarovski crystals are part of the attire or part of alien skin; she doesn’t think that it’ll surprise her if he reveals himself to be of an entirely different species. He’s a unique breed, one that adores extravagance and is just too wonderful to be real.

Her eyes burn into his back, so much that she expects him to turn around with suspicion. On his upper, ELTON spaces evenly across in blue lettering and crystals. The corresponding 1 reaches from his middle down to his lower, but the back of the chair he sits in conceals the bottom half of the number. His accessories add a bit of spunk to the outfit; a matching blue hat with bold pink sunglasses. She discreetly grins in amazement. His costume is a pure representation of who he is: daring and dramatic.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” the waitress pulls her out of her thoughts, check in hand. Her head snaps back into reality and only then does she notice the way her mouth ignominiously gapes. Any second longer and she’s sure she would have started drooling.

She clamps her mouth shut and forces a smile up at the waitress. “Thank you,” she mumbles, reaches out to grab the leather check presenter, and diverts her eyes to the empty plate on the table in front of her. In a swift motion, she opens the small folder and slides her card out from one of the flaps. “Do you have a pen I could borrow, please?” She looks up and mimes a pen in her hand which scribbles invisible lines into the air.

The waitress nods. “Of course,” and pulls out a single black pen from the dozens that clip to her apron. She hands it to her customer with a gentle smirk, sneaking glances at the handsome man in front of them. “He’s cute, huh?” the waitress says, then looks to the woman who clicks the pen and opens up the calculator app on her phone.

She doesn’t have to look up to know whom she speaks of. “Uh, yeah, he is.” It is risky for a waiter to discuss something inappropriate with their customer, but the woman doesn’t necessarily mind it. If anything, she is grateful that the waitress risks it with her than some aggressive lunatic who doesn’t know how to speak kindly to other human beings.

“Such a nice guy, too,” the waitress presses on. “Always gives good tips.”

She doesn’t know if that is an allusion to give the waitress a steady tip, but by now she has already finished her calculations to fit with her budget. She slaps the booklet closed after staining her signature on the receipt with black ink. Her eyes trail up to the waitress in curiosity, reads the letters collectively on her nametag: Sahara.

“Really?” she asks, handing the check presenter back to its rightful owner. “Is he ... do you, like, know him?”

Sahara smiles as the woman places her card back into her wallet and stuffs all of her belongings into her shabby bucket bag. “He comes here a few times. Orders some chicken tenders and fries. Maybe a milkshake, when he’s feeling a little crazy.”

The woman laughs at this, and her mind immediately imagines the scenario. She can picture the intensity in his brow as he reads through the menu, even if he is already certain of what he wants. His voice is calm and gentle as he orders his meal, but then an idea sparkles in his green eyes. He licks his lips, yearns for the taste of a delicious milkshake, and decides that it is a good idea to ease up on the smoothies for once.

“You should talk to him,” Sahara says, once again interrupting her thoughts. She scolds herself in her head and wonders what dorky look must have been on her face this time.

She shakes her head. “Oh ... no, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just ... I don’t want to bother him. He’s clearly with some friends.”

“It’s not like you’ll be the first to interrupt. If it makes you feel better, I think he prefers that you go up and introduce yourself rather than stalk him like an endangered animal and take discreet videos of him when he’s not looking.”

The woman tilts her head at this strange accusation. Sahara nods over to the table at their right where a group crams into a single booth. Though neither of them look in his direction, she can see the cunning smiles on their faces, and a couple of phones angle toward him on the table. Her heart suddenly grows heavy, especially when she realizes that it is too chaotic in this diner for Harry to notice.

“I don’t know,” she says, the devil and angel at war on her shoulders.

Sahara shrugs. “Alright, doll. Just a suggestion. Not sure when he’ll be back though. Los Angeles is a big city.”

"Yeah. Thanks, anyway.”

“Not a problem. Have a good night.”

Before she can thank her, Sahara is off to another table, tending to the customers over the quality of their meals. She looks around the table and double checks to make sure that she doesn’t leave anything behind. She’s been tight on money as of recently, so replacing miniscule items because of her forgetfulness is something she doesn’t want to waste her dollars on.

Her eyes look for Harry again. While his chair faces forward, his side profile is on full display. His body shakes as laughter erupts through it, the fingers of his right-hand grips a glass cup of water. His pink lips close around the straw in a smirk, sucking in the liquid as he focuses all of his attention to whoever speaks with him.

He’s beautiful. She doesn’t think it is possible for him to look even more beautiful in real life, but he does. It’s twice now that her eyes absorb his appearance on their own, without the aid of a picture in a magazine or on a digital platform. The first had been at the last show of his tour, his second night at the Forum. Her seats were decent, off to the side but enough to wonder for a split second if his eyes had met hers.

She stands up from the table, hangs the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and opens up the Uber app on her phone. It almost passes her mind how she has traveled into a different part of the city tonight, her bicycle safe at home, and her car long sold to some stranger on Craigslist.

The entrance is to her left. Harry is to her right. In any of her daydreams, she is brave enough to cross her path of existence with his. It therefore comes as an impulsive shock to her as she bears him one more loving glance before speeding to the left. She knows that he is enjoying himself and that he needs these moments to feel normal – although, in her mind she wonders how normal he can really feel while dining with Cindy Crawford’s family. So, she continues to walk forward and pushes the idea of his sweet embrace out of her head before she can convince herself to crawl back.

“Hey!” a voice shouts, but she pays no attention to it. There are dozens of chattering voices in this diner right now, and she thinks there are little odds that one of them speaks to her. It isn’t until an abrupt finger taps twice on her shoulder that she looks up from her phone in confusion.

She quickly turns around and notices Sahara the waitress huffing in front of her, hands on her uniformed hips. “My pen,” she says, gives the woman a kind smile at the accidental theft she makes. “You have my pen.”

“Oh.” She locks her phone, shoves it into her back pocket, and loosens up the drawstring on her bag. She sifts through the endless black hole and feels embarrassed when her hand pulls out the familiar black pen from somewhere in the side. “Sorry,” she says, clicks it before handing it back to Sahara. The waitress tells her that it is no problem, bids her another farewell, and dashes off once more.

She wonders how much of a difference that pen makes. Sahara clearly has dozens of them on her, all of varying colors, so how significant can that pen be? Enough to run after her customers apparently, but it still doesn’t make much sense to her.

About to turn around, her eyes gravitate toward the curly-headed man at the other side of the diner. She lets them linger, admiring him for a few seconds, suddenly feeling lost in this place. If she leaves, she cannot get back in; a burly security guard stands in the way of the double doors. If she leaves, she will never get the chance to thank him for his music that has become therapeutic for her during this difficult stage in her life. She will never get to tell him her name, to hear it fall from his tongue and lips with delicate sincerity.

It can’t hurt.

Before she changes her mind a second or third time, she tightens the drawstrings on her bag and walks up to his table. Her chin tilts upward, eyes firm on her target, and ignores the cold sensation in her bones. She is going to do it. She will. She almost does, but just a couple feet away from him she feels herself freeze. Her heart races, her forehead gets sweaty, and her feet plant firmly on the tile floor.

I can’t do this.

Despite her thoughts, she doesn’t make a move to walk away. She doesn’t think she can. The lively atmosphere of the diner mixes with the nerves in her body and chains her to the floor. If she doesn’t move now, someone at his table will surely point her out.

Oh my god, what am I going?

She looks away. Her front teeth bite down on her bottom lip, and she turns away before turning back. Her body fidgets in the middle of the walkway, at war with her mind, and she cringes over how strange this must look to any onlooker. In the end, she closes her eyes, inhales and exhales deeply, and opens herself to the world to turn back to face him.

There has been a fair amount of spooks in her short lifetime, especially now with the Halloween season in full effect. Yet, to her, there is nothing scarier than facing Harry Styles, only to find his eyes already staring.

His body turns to the left, a warm smile on his face. She imagines that his eyes must look the same, if not for the bedazzled pink sunglasses that moderately hide them. Her jaw drops a couple centimeters before she picks it back up, swallows harshly, and lets out a nervous giggle. Her hand manages to send him a twinkly wave, to which he reciprocates flawlessly.

“Hi,” he greets her, the dimple on the left making her heart clench. She takes a short moment to process the fact that he sees her, that he smiles at her, and that he is actually talking to her.

“...H-Hi,” she says back, sending herself a positive affirmation for completing such a minimal task.

“How are you?”

His voice is deep. It’s so nice to hear it authentically rather than having it travel through a microphone and out the speakers of a sold-out arena. “I’m good,” she answers, ends it with a smile and a nod, almost as if she reassures herself. “How are you?”

He lets out a measly laugh, noticing the way she nervously fumbles with her bag. “I’m fine, thank you,” he says, but from his behavior this entire night, she knows that he is more than fine. He is happy, and it is remarkable and relieving to see him this way.

She nods repetitively. “Of course, yeah, that’s cool.” In her daydreams, she is interesting enough to come up with a hundred different conversational topics. She imagines impressing him with her intellect, wooing him with her charm. In this moment, her tongue hides in her mouth, words suddenly disappearing from her vast vocabulary.

“What’s your name?” he ends up asking, saving her from complete and utter embarrassment. She pauses for a short second, searches her archives for the most basic piece of information about her, and recites it loud enough for him to hear. He repeats her name, sounds out all of the syllables, and devours each letter in his English accent. “I like that,” he says. “It’s nice. Pretty.”

Her mouth opens again. “Oh, oh thanks!” she smiles, feels herself burn up. Harry Styles has just told her that her name is pretty, and she responds with: “Your name is pretty too!”

Harry laughs at the grimace that crosses her face. “Thank you, I appreciate that.” He leans on the table with his elbows, looking back at the woman with his head raised so that his cap cannot block his view.

She’s being remarkably awkward. Harry has done his part. Now he looks up at her and waits for her next move. He doesn’t seem to be the initiator of conversation, a fact that makes her job so much more difficult.

“Sorry,” she blurts, a word he has probably heard a million times before. “I’m being weird.”

“No, no, it’s alright—”

“This is a lot to take in.”

“You’re fine, love—”

“It’s just that you mean so much to me.”

Harry pauses. His mouth gapes, only a little, before it closes in a shy smile. She wonders why there is a sudden blush in his cheeks, his eyes searching the floor. He has probably heard those same words a countless number of times as well. Can it be that he is so humble that it still affects him every time someone says it to him? Does he stay up at night and ponder how it is possible that he impacts people’s lives, and that they love him, even if they do not know him?

“Really?” he asks. His eyes dart back up to her, which makes her notice how amazing he is at eye contact. It is incredibly intimidating, but his persona is so welcoming and sweet that she feels herself easing up.

“Well, of course,” she raves, stepping closer to him. The other people at the table talk amongst themselves, paying no mind to her. Like Sahara had said: she’s not the first to interrupt. “I know you probably get this a lot, but your album is amazing. I listen to it all the time.”

“Wow.” He grins widely, so much that she can see those two precious front teeth of his. “That means a lot to me. Thank you.”

“No, I should be thanking you! I cried the first time I heard the album in full. But in a good way! You’re an amazing songwriter, by the way. I kind of thought about tattooing a lyric, but tattoos are kind of expensive so that’s going to have to wait. It’s okay, though, I’m not rushing into anything. I have other things to take care of first, but it would be cool, you know?”

She doesn’t notice how she rambles, not even when he chuckles to replace a response that he can’t seem to find an opportunity to get out. His laughter is so lovely, her ears feel as if they’re falling in love. He overwhelms her senses, especially when she breathes in a whiff of his unique scent. It all feels so magical.

“...so that’ll just be a plan for the distant future, but hopefully not when I’m old and pruney. I don’t think it’ll look as good, and I’m not very tolerable with pain as it is. Anyway, the album’s great, it was even better live. I cried again, a lot actually.”

He manages to sneak an inquiry in when she takes a moment to breathe. “Really?” his eyebrows shoot up, hidden by the sparkling cap. “You went to one of the shows?”

“Yeah!” she exclaims, recalling how happy it had made her to see her idol so passionate on that stage. “You did amazing. It drained a lot of my energy though, emotionally and physically. I had a feeling you were going to sing Girl Crush, but it still stuck a knife into my heart.”

Harry smiles. “In a good way?”

“Of course,” she reciprocates the gesture, “and well, you definitely know how to close a show. I don’t understand how you were able to perform Kiwi three consecutive times, but wow, it was quite a sight to see.” She swallows down a laugh when she remembers what she had said while leaving the Forum: crackhead Harry is insane, I want whatever he’s taking. “It was just a really great experience overall. So, thanks for that.”

“My pleasure,” he replies. She praises herself for the minute or two of steady conversation, but the pause that quickly ensues sticks her at a dead end. She has already thanked him, has already heard her name fall from his lips. She doesn’t want this moment to end, but what more is there to do?

“Uh...” her voice trails off as she struggles between two options: ask for a picture or ask for an autograph. For some reason, she feels that it is too much to ask for both. After all, he’s not in this restaurant to please others. He’s just here to have a good time. “I don’t want to be a bother, but do you mind signing something for me?”

Harry nods immediately, his entire body now shifting to face her. “Of course, love. Not a problem.”

She smiles with gratitude, thanks him again, and pulls at the drawstring of her bag. She knows that a picture will help her remember the moment more clearly, to recall what his smile looks like and what she wears on this fortunate night. She doesn’t even have anything specific that she wants him to sign, but the idea of having something for her eyes only makes her feel special. It makes the moment far more memorable than it already is.

After searching through her bag, she decides to pull out her planner from the bottom. It is a little something that she tries to utilize as often as she can, especially given her situation. She flips through the book and tears out a single lined page from the back, the word notes in the header. She hands it to him, the left edge torn a mess, and drops her jaw in realization.

“I don’t have a pen,” she admits, as if the world will suddenly end. With the paper in his left hand, Harry points up a single finger as to say one moment and turns to his friends. He asks if either of them have something to write with, to which the other individuals in costumes begin to search whatever belongings they have brought along with them.

“Right here,” Cindy announces, presenting the pink gel pen from her small purse before handing it to Harry.

Holy shit, Harry Styles is going to sign a page from my planner with Cindy Crawford’s pen.

“Thank you,” he says, then stands up from his chair. “Here, sit,” Harry tells her, to which she does a double take.

“Sit?” she repeats. He nods his head, walking around his chair only to sit in the empty seat next to it.

“Yeah, I don’t want to have you standin’ there all night.” He pushes the seat back for her, uncaps the gel pen with his mouth before remembering that it is not his. He quickly shoves the cap on the other end of the pen, sparing her a look that says whoops! and sets the page down on the table.

“Uh ... okay.” She hesitantly complies. “I’m not taking anyone’s seat, am I?”

Harry shrugs. “Just mine.”

“Are you taking someone else’s seat because I’m taking your seat?”

She finally situates herself on the warm chair, somewhat uncomfortable that she joins a table of very important people. She does relax knowing that she no longer towers over anyone else; it screams for attention.

Harry gives her a look. “No! What kind of a person do you think I am?”

“I don’t know, maybe a very busy one. Definitely kind, probably a little stressed at times, I totally feel you on that.” Harry smirks, which makes her shoulders cocoon awkwardly. “Oh, that was rhetorical. Right. Sorry.”

“No worries, I’m only teasing,” he assures her. “Is there anything you’d specifically like me to write?” Harry hovers the tip of the pen over the page. He is in full preparation for this favor, and all he needs is her permission to surge on. She responds with a combination of a shrug and the shake of her head. “It’ll be a surprise then.”

He winks at her, and she feel her fingers tingling. “Guess so.” Her eyes divert to the ceiling. She doesn’t want to ruin the surprise of whatever he is writing.

“Am I keeping you from someone?” he ponders aloud, shifting his eyes to her before proceeding with his scribbling. “Is someone waiting for you?”

“No. I came here alone.”

“Alone? On a Friday night? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s a Friday night. I don’t know that many people in the city, and the few that I associate with are probably out drinking their feelings away. I know I’m just going to end up being the designated driver and having to mother a bunch of drunks. While it is good practice, and as much as I want to keep them safe, I’d rather use my treat yourself Friday for something a little more enjoyable.”

“Treat yourself Friday?” Harry repeats, smiling down at the paper. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard of anything like that before.

“Yeah, so basically, the last Friday of every month, I just do that. Treat myself. Spend the day however I want. I don’t use a lot of vacation days, so I try to take off work whenever I can so that I can have the entire day free. If I want to go out to Disneyland, I’ll do that. If I want to stay in bed and watch movies all day, I’ll do that. It’s just a little reward to myself for getting through the month.”

“That sounds sick. I really like that. So, tonight, you’re treating yourself with some Mel’s?”

“Yeah, today was more of an adventure day. Exploring parts of the city I don’t usually go to. It was a little hard, the baby doesn’t really like me walking everywhere, but part of treat yourself Friday is to commit to any—”

“Wait,” Harry bluntly interrupts, his hand stopping in the middle of the page. He looks up at her with an apology in his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off, but did I hear you say baby?”

She thinks back to the words that have just come out of her mouth a moment ago, then simpers and nods. “Uh, yeah, I’m uh...” Her smile grows wider, but she can’t exactly find herself saying it aloud. Instead, she pulls back the end of her t-shirt, which is sizes larger than she actually is. She grasps as much material as she can, smoothening the front so that it shapes and cradles her growing belly underneath.

Harry’s eyes begin to glow. “You’re pregnant?”

“Indeed I am.”

“Wow. That’s incredible! Congratulations. How far along are you?”

She thanks him with a shy giggle. “Almost 14 weeks. It’s been a crazy transition, but it’s also been a very eye-opening one.”

“I can only imagine. That’s a delight to hear,” he says her name, and now he thinks it is one that he will never forget. “So, the father, does he worry about letting you go off and spend the day by yourself? Y’know, in case something happens?”

At this, the woman’s smile falters. She releases the fabric of her shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles while searching her lap. “I uh, I actually don’t know where the father is. Well, I do, I know who he is, but I don’t ... you know.”

She suddenly grows self-conscious. There is not one person in this entire diner that knows her personally, but she fears their eyes are all on her, judging her for the situation. Yet, when she looks up at Harry, his eyes drown with comfort and understanding, perhaps even a bit of empathy.

“I’m sorry. Can I ask why?” He slightly frowns, his soft voice lost in the overlapping conversations of the diner. “If it’s alright?”

“It’s ... kind of a long story.”

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I’m all ears either way.”

She feels her heart warm at this. It is one thing to know about his kindness and positivity, but it is another thing to actually experience it for herself. It sometimes feels like a sob story every time she recites it for someone new, but she doesn’t particularly worry about that with Harry. From the way he looks at her, she knows he’s being sincere.

“Okay ... it’s a little cliché, but basically, I met this guy at a bar last year. He was the lead guitarist for his band playing that night, which I found very ... appealing. My friends noticed him looking over at us, so after a few flirtatious glances, they invited him and his band over to our table after the set. Little did I know, I would end up dating him maybe a couple weeks later.”

Harry snickers quietly. “Rock stars, huh? Like pests, you can’t get rid of em’.”

She smiles in embarrassment. She tries to not let it show that she admires Harry in a similar, but much brighter light. He is, after all, a handsome man.

“I guess we just really got along. I ended up spending a lot of time with him, which was fine for me because I really liked him. He really did become this ... important part in my life. Months later, he quits his band and tells me that he’s going to pursue a solo career in LA, asks if I would go with him. I basically fell in love with the guy, so obviously I said yes and we moved into a small apartment in the city. Everything was great, spending lots of time together, practically the same. We even went to your concert together, but to make a long story short: one night, no condom, pregnant me.”

“Pregnant you,” Harry confirms, as he has seen her belly with his own two eyes.

“Right. So, pregnant me is scared, which is reasonable. We’re still really young, striving for our own careers and purposes in life. While I was, y’know, scared shitless, I never ... I never doubted the love I had for him. I didn’t know what was going to happen, how much my body was going to change, but I knew that I loved him. I love this baby too, because they’re ... it’s us. He always said that we were in this together. Wish I hadn’t been so naïve to believe him.”

“You’re not.” Harry frowns. “It’s basic human decency for someone to keep their word. It’s not your fault for putting your trust in someone you love.”

She smiles sadly at his words, then continues. “I expected his shock when I told him. Maybe even some disbelief, but I thought after some time he’d open up to the idea. Instead, he’s telling me that he can’t do this anymore. He says he loves me, but he can’t support me and the baby, not when his career is this close to skyrocketing. So, he breaks up with me and gives me a couple weeks to find a place or a friend to live with.”

“He kicked you out?” Harry asks, a hint of surprise and anger.

“He wanted to be a rock star, I guess. Rock stars don’t want to have their place littered with baby toys and pregnant-woman messes.”

Harry purses his lips at this. He flips the gel pen with his slim fingers, then shakes his head. “That’s not true. Real rock stars don’t abandon their families. Real men don’t run away from their shit, pardon my French.”

She giggles at his bluntness. “It’s ironic, huh? He wants to be a rock star and here I am, talking to one of the biggest in the industry.”

Harry blushes. He may be a little narcissistic at times, but most compliments have him all bash-like when they’re face-to-face. “Can’t believe he had the nerve to attend my concert and then do what he did,” he grumbles. “I mean, did he even read what’s on my merchandise? He didn’t even have to buy the shirt, it’s on the bloody bag. It was painted all over the arena, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t know. I guess he’s as oblivious as he is a jackass.”

“That’s right.” He laughs. “I’m sorry to push on this so much, but do you ... have someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there someone that’s helping you with this? Family, or somethin’ like that?”

She gives him a disappointed look. “Well, I have family,” she explains, “but they don’t live here. On top of that, they were really angry with me for leaving with him. So, they haven’t disowned me, but they’ve made it pretty clear that this is not their problem to deal with. My parents said that if I was responsible enough to move to a new city with my boyfriend of less than a year, then I’m responsible enough to take care of myself.”

“Oh. I’m ... sorry about that.”

“Tough love, I guess.” She shrugs. “They’ll still visit, maybe even spoil the kid like grandparents do. For the most part, all I have is myself and the occasional friend that is willing to drive me to work every morning.”

Harry stays silent. He doesn’t know what more he can say to her. Nothing can change the fact that she is a single pregnant woman left to raise a child on her own.

A short moment passes as the two simply stare at each other. She absorbs the strange atmosphere lingering between them, but is afraid to point it out in fear that it is only her. Harry breaks away first, focuses back on the letter, and signs it off with his bulky autograph.

“Here you go.” He hands her the sheet, then caps the pen to return it. The woman takes the page and eagerly folds it in half to stick in her bag. She doesn’t want to ruin the surprise, so she reserves it for when she gets back home.

After thanking him again, she makes a move to stand up. Her eyes roll instead, a sigh releasing from her nostrils. “Damn. All this time and I forgot to call an Uber.”

“What? You’re taking an Uber home?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a car. I wasn’t going to have enough for rent this one time, and it was already late, so I kind of just made an impulsive decision to sell it. It’s okay, though, I’m managing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a major difference, but all it really means is that I can’t leave a place whenever I want. It really teaches me some patience. Guess The Office is just going to have to wait.”

Harry stares at her. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he indicate that he is planning to. She dejects at this and realizes that she speaks to him as if he is her therapist. As if he is someone that she knows personally, rather than a stranger that she looks up to.

“Sorry. I’m rambling too much. Anyway, I should be going. Or, in my case, wait for my Uber outside. Thanks again for the autograph, and for sparing me your time. It means a lot. Sorry for all of the word vomit, again. Nice meeting you.”

She doesn’t know how she can be any more embarrassing, but she doesn’t give herself an opportunity to find out. Her body works quickly as she steps up on her feet, maneuvering around the space between Harry and the empty chair, then quietly ambles on to the entrance.

“Wait, wait!” he calls out her name. To say she is perplexed is far beyond an understatement. Her heart drops in her chest, confirming his soft command in case her mind convinces her otherwise. She stops and turns around to find him speed-walking up to her. “Why don’t I take you home?”

She blinks up at him. Is she dreaming? Is this another daydream? Of course, in those, she isn’t a single pregnant woman who rides Ubers home regularly.

“You ... what?”

“Please, let me take you home. I don’t mind at all, it’s the least that I can do.”

"Wh – the least that you can do for what?”

Harry shrugs, sliding off his pink bedazzled glasses. She meets with his green eyes, alluring in person, even more so in this close proximity. “Just for you,” he answers. “Ubers aren’t always the safest way to get home. I want to make sure that you get to your ... The Office safe.”

She gives him a benign smile. “It’s a show.”

“I know. I don’t think I’ve ever watched it before. I’m being serious, though. It’s no trouble. Please.”

“I don’t want to take you away from your friends...”

“That doesn’t matter. We’ve come from a Halloween party. The night’s practically over. Please don’t make me ask again, or have to say please again. Please.”

He is so charismatic and endearing that she has to laugh. She never expects her night to include Harry Styles offering her a ride back to her place. It sounds ridiculous and unimaginable, so much that her daydreams have never conjured up such a thought.

“I think it might be a little bit out of your way...”

Harry deadpans. “Really? Are you just coming up with random excuses now?”

“No, it’s true! You probably live in like ... I don’t know, the mountains or something? Beverley hills? Hollywood? I’m miles away from there.”

“Alright,” he says, sliding his sunglasses back on his face. “That’s it. I’m taking you home. I don’t want to hear it.”

He shushes her by bringing his index finger up to his smiley lips. He suavely turns around and walks back to his table to inform his friends of his departure and to say his goodbyes. He makes sure to give everyone around the table an individual parting, whether it is a kissy cheek touch or a firm handshake. A short minute later, he returns back to his new passenger, then leads her to the guarded entrance.

“Just give me a mo’, darling,” he tells her, walking up to a man on the inside of the glass doors. She watches the two discuss, the sensation of prying eyes practically scorching her at all angles. There is a lot of head nodding between Harry and the man, but their conversation finishes with a kind handshake. Harry saunters back to her, his pink lips puckering with a melodic whistle. “We’ve just got to wait for the car to pull up,” he explains, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Kind of like an Uber,” the woman retorts, then avoids his narrowing yet playful eyes.

In the interim of their waiting, the pair engages in some more small talk. She mentions his Halloween costume, to which he boasts over, speaking highly of the people who had made it for him as well as the origin of his idea. This leads to a conversation about music, where she names an artist that she loves and Harry recalls his experience meeting them. It somehow leads to more pregnancy talk; her specific cravings and strange antics she acquires, as well as how much she hates not being able to sleep on her back.

When the man at the doors informs the two that the car is ready, Harry turns to her with a serious demeanor. “Erm, there’s not much I can do about this, but there will probably be some people out there. Photographers, fans...”

“Oh.” She nods and clutches her bag tighter.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s totally out of your control, I get it.”

Harry nods as though he disagrees but doesn’t want to press it any further. He takes off his pink sunglasses, turns them around, and holds them in front of her frazzled face. She looks up with bemuse, frozen as the sunglasses inch closer and closer. When the two tips touch her cheeks, she flutters her eyes closed, permitting him to slide them on. As her heart compresses with tenderness, she feels a slight weight falling against her hairstyle, not fitting on her head quite right.

When her eyes open, his face is bare, and his luxurious curls pat down in a weird style. “Just in case,” he says, almost in a sad way. He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes the style a bit, not quite accomplishing much.

She only nods to assure him that it is okay, that she understands. She second guesses herself – the ambience is so strange, she can’t be the only one to notice. He goes on to inform her that when the doors open, the two will simply walk out, she in front of him and both behind the security guard. The car will be straight ahead for her to climb in first, but he also advises her to look toward the ground on her walk there.

She can’t find any words to express how she feels about all of these precautions. The doors open, and her bones feel like ice cubes in the already freezing liquid of her blood. She does as he says, follows the burly man that steps in front of her, guiding her to the vehicle. Her vision moves to the concrete, a slight commotion of excited voices and camera shutters on either side. The name Harry flies around like a swarm of bees, both endearing and chaotic. Harry, I love the costume! How are you doing, Harry? Harry, can you look over here?

Lifetimes seem to pass before she reaches the car, the back-right door open as a helpful hand guides her in. She thanks him quietly, but she’s not sure if he hears it before Harry climbs in after her. The car door shuts abruptly and conceals them both in the tinted windows and sleek black doors of the backseat.

“That was fun,” she mumbles, taking off the hat and the glasses and setting them on the seat in between them. She wonders if anyone had even noticed her.

Harry responds with an eyebrow raise and settles himself into the cold leather seats. She notices how the material begins to heat up, warming her bottom and the back of her thighs. The driver greets them both, and after Harry reciprocates the welcome, he explains to him the current situation.

“No problem,” the driver replies. “The address?”

“Oh, here, I can pull it up on my phone’s map—”

“No, no,” the driver cuts her off as she looks up quizzically from the bright screen. “It’s okay, you can just tell me the general area.”

The woman tilts her head. When she looks to Harry, he gives her a small smile. “He knows his way around,” he tells her.

The driver’s eyes gleam at her through the rearview mirror. She responds with a timid smile and recites the area of her neighborhood in the same manner. It’s a part of the city that people don’t tend to boast about. Tourists and newcomers picture the downtown area when they think of Los Angeles, or even the houses up in the hills. Her neighborhood is more discreet, but she doesn’t mind it so much. It’s calm, it’s as quiet as it can be in the city, and it is right in her price range.

“So ... how do you like LA?” she speaks up when the silence becomes a tad bit too uncomfortable for her. She’s thankful that the city lights are the only illumination in the car. He can’t see her cringe at her spontaneous question this way.

Harry shrugs. “It’s nice. I’ve had a house here for a while. Hasn’t always treated me good, but it still has lots of memories. Good ones.”

“Nice. That’s nice. Crazy, though. You’ve probably been living here since you were a teenager. You’re so young, but so accomplished at the same time. Or not! What do I know? I don’t know your aspirations. You’ve got a long way to go, mister, your career’s not even a decade old.”

She doesn’t know why her tongue refuses to shut up, but it always drags on for too long before she realizes it. Either way, he responds with a chuckle every time. “Not yet. Almost there, though.”

“Right. Eight years,” she says under her breath. “Don’t forget to tweet next year.”

“What was that?”

“Huh? Wh – nothing.”

Harry eyes her suspiciously, but then the ends of his mouth curl upwards in a smug. “I try to settle down when I can,” he explains. “I didn’t get the chance to do that for a while.”

She frowns at his words. She knows how overworked he and his friends had been. It’s disheartening when she really thinks about it, but his life now – he’s as relaxed as a rock star can be. Stress is a given factor, but he seems to be more in control of his life than ever. That brings her enough peace of mind.

After the decent-length car ride to the general area of her neighborhood, it turns out that the driver does need to use a GPS to guide him the rest of the way. He has never been asked to drive around this area. She offers to talk him through it – just make a left here, and then go on for like, a few lights – but he assures her that it is much easier for her to relax and for the faceless voice to help him. Before she pulls out her phone, his fingers are tapping away on the built-in stereo touchscreen.

Harry peers curiously through the closed window, observing all of the complexes and houses with chipped paint and rusty cars. She doesn’t say anything, nor does she really want to. What more could impulsively ramble out of her mouth, offering far more insight than is necessary?

She releases a calm breath once the car eases to a halt on the street of a familiar up-down duplex. The sound of the doors simultaneously unlocking is all it takes for her to bid her farewells. “Thank you, sir,” she says, exchanging a look with the driver through the rear-view mirror. She turns to Harry as the lights inside the vehicle fade on. “And thanks again, Harry. I don’t know how many times I’ve said it tonight, but this was really nice of you to do.”

He dismisses it with a shrug. “Just common curtesy.”

“It’s not as common as you think. Anyway, I really appreciate it. I hope you have fun ... uh, doing whatever it is you’re doing now. Can’t wait for the new album. Goodnight.”

She flashes one more beaming smile before slinging her bag over her shoulder and pushing the door on her left open. She hops out foot-by-foot, ignoring the strange look Harry had given her, which is the last memory she will have of him for this never-ending moment. The sadness instills as she slams the door shut as quietly as she can – tomorrow is Saturday, a perfectly fine working day for her neighbors. She feels her heart weigh heavy on the gravel street as she rounds the back of the vehicle. With the wide duplex high in her sights, she steps a few steps forward and onto the curb of the sidewalk, in tune with the serenity of the night until she sees Harry’s vague figure standing next to her.

“Oh,” she says in surprise. There is also a slight fear due to the surrounding darkness. “Hi again. Did ... What happened? Did I forget something?”

Harry shakes his head. He steps to the side and shuts the back-right door of the car. “No. Nothin’ happened. Just want to make sure that you get home safely.”

“...I am home.”

He looks to his far left, then turns to his far right. He even stretches his neck a bit to peer over the vehicle’s top. “Strange home. Doesn’t seem to be ... any walls as far as I’m concerned. Nothing to keep you safe from the outside world. Not even a roof.”

She realizes what he means, which makes her playfully narrow her eyes at his slight sarcasm. “I think I can make it the few extra steps on my own.”

“Nothing wrong with being cautious.”

“I’m pregnant, not defenseless.”

“I know that. My conscience is almost as powerful as my ego, unfortunately.”

She can’t help the laugh that roars through her. With modest shame, she purses her lips and twiddles her fingers against them. “Fine. C’mon then. I could’ve finished season five by now.”

She leads him past the wide sidewalk and into the general confinements of the duplex’s property. Her trail heads up a flight of stairs against the side of the building, to which she turns her head and says, “I’m on the second floor,” over her shoulder.

“I see that,” he butts in. “I don’t see you holding onto the railing there.”

She discreetly rolls her eyes as her right hand slides onto the dirty railing, hovering over it in between every few steps up. In a few seconds, she reaches the balcony in front of her door, loosening the drawstrings of her bag to search for her keys.

Harry arrives just after her, huffing as he leans an arm on top of the balcony railing. It’s not much of a view – the roofs of other residential buildings, back yards, and maybe a few interconnecting streets – but it strangely gives him a different perspective than what he has become accustomed to. The jingling of keys distracts his subtle thoughts. He watches her pick out a specific one out of a few.

“Why’s there so many?” he asks, trying to figure it out for himself in the split second it takes for her to respond.

“Well, this is for the gate,” she says, demonstrating a silver key as she inserts it into the grooves of the cage just in front of the door. The two step out of the way as she pulls it open, his eyes dawdling on her hidden belly. It creaks in agony and he pushes it back as far as it can go. “And this,” she says, revealing a similar but different silver key, “is for the actual door. The rest are a secret.”

She is quick to unlock the heavy door, turning its tricky handle to push her way inside. It is pitch dark in her living space, but Harry can make out a small kitchen somewhere on the right thanks to the moonlight. She takes a gentle step in and turns around to face him with a knowing smile.

“I’m home now.”

“Of course. Lovely home. Looks roomy, from what I can tell.”

“Not so much. I share the place. It was the best I could do on short notice, but this makes the rent a bit easier.”

Harry nods, his eyes naturally sparkling without the pink tint of his sunglasses. A moment passes, but she doesn’t know if it is comforting or awkward.

“Um ... thanks for the ride?” she tries, mocking herself as a broken record.

Harry chuckles warmly. “Not a problem. I’m glad to have brought you home safe.”

“That I am. Home safe. In my home ... full on some Mel’s. Ready to rest in my bed.”

“Sounds like a great way to end treat-yourself-Friday.” Harry bows his head once more, then stares intensely into her eyes. “It was lovely to meet you tonight,” he says her name, the last time he will ever have the chance to say it to her. “You’re very ... brave.”

She scrunches her face at the word. “Brave?”

“Yeah. With the, uh, situation you’re in. Is it wrong to say it like that?”

“No,” she laughs, “I call it a situation all the time. My baby might as well join the cast of the Jersey Shore by the time I pop them out.”

The joke makes him laugh, but he settles down very quickly. “Well, yes, your situation. It’s very courageous of you to be so strong. You just seem to ... power through.”

“I’d hardly say that’s the case,” she says timidly. Her hand instinctively reaches up to caress the swell of her stomach over the soft material of her excessively lengthy shirt. “I’m just living my life. Existing as the days go by.”

“I know, but ... I don’t know, it just seems different. Like everything is menial compared to what you’re experiencing.”

She shrugs and looks to the floor. “I mean ... I guess. I’m not the only one experiencing it, though. It’s a tough world. We just have to do what we have to do. But I’m doing okay.”

“Proper,” Harry says, which makes her pick up her head. “That’s good to hear. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

She tries not to dismay, but she knows it will hit her severely when he is gone. For a silly moment, she believes that the night will play on forever. The reality of it is that he is Harry Styles; a busy life awaits beyond her own, but it is nice to dream.

“Okay,” she croaks out, watching as he grabs ahold of the gate and begins to gradually swing it toward her.

With her hand on her belly, a single thumb running over the expanse, she scoots herself back into the unit with quick and short steps. His eyes gander at the faint outline of her belly, remaining there until he is certain that the loud gate will not crush her when he closes it. Once it clicks into place, she locks it from the inside and he spares her a lighthearted gaze. The two never seem to part their eyes from then on, not even with the cage between them.

“It was really nice to meet you, Harry. Thanks for talking to me. And for taking me home. And making sure I got home safe. And the autograph, too.”

“You’re very welcome.” He steps back, stopping just at the edge of the first step. “Goodnight.”

She gives him a measly wave, to which he responds with a subtle nod and plops down the stairs at a steady pace. She watches him until he reaches the ground, to which she steps further into her home and closes the front door. She doesn’t think she can bear watching the dark vehicle drive away, so she doesn’t bother having a peak out the living room window and instead locks the door and trudges to her room.

She hopes that she is silent enough to not wake up her roommate. She walks into the last door on the right of the small corridor past the kitchen and living room. Her room smells fresh, though her bed is unmade from her eagerness to leave this morning.

She locks herself in her private quarter, toes off her shoes at the door, and meagerly steps forward. She stops and turns to sit herself down on the mattress that sinks with her added weight, then uses her hands to push her entire body back and up the bed. She rests against the swarm of pillows and settles into a comfortable position on her side, staring forward at the blank wall.

A few seconds pass before her hand reaches toward the nightstand on her right. She pulls on the lamp’s chain to give herself some fair lighting, then pulls her bag up by its single strap. Her heart beats for the sole purpose of reading the ripped sheet of her planner; an excitement bubbles in her chest.

Her arm sticks in to sift mindlessly until her fingers grasp the folded page. Once she takes it out, she places her bag to the floor and runs her thumb over the paper. She doesn’t waste another second to unfold it, her curious eyes scanning over the sweet message he had written above his autograph. She reads it over a dozen times, smiling giddily to her tired self, before forgetting about her binge-watching plans and succumbing to a peaceful sleep.

#honeytryst

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Best Bike Racks For Garage Storage

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Need the best overhead Bicycle rack so your bicycles won't get harmed by Water or sharp pieces on the carport floor? This carport roof bicycle rack will get the assignment wrapped up. More up on Geekwake.

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#bikeracks #bike #bikegarage

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drabblemeister · 6 years

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Prompt!Night

Pairing: JayTim Prompt: “You just shoved everything under your bed, didn’t you?” -Courtesy of @chibinightowl Author’s Note: Who doesn’t like prompts? Also, I will never turn down an excuse to write a college au setting, hahaha!

"Come on," Jason says, and the words don't feel right because Tim thinks he may have forced them. It's not that Jason really wants him to come over, it's that Tim’s asked and now Jason feels obligated to invite him. But even still, Jason quirks an eyebrow in question, as if to ask, you gonna follow? And Tim moves before he can really think about it, because yes, he will.

It's funny how they fall into step; how Tim notices but he's not sure if Jason does. Tim's used to finding those odd details, to thinking too hard - and Jason, well, his eyes are always up, taking in the people around him, soaking up the world like a sponge. In this moment, they feel like complete opposites. Tim can’t remember a time he’s been this nervous.

Counting sidewalk cracks, his pulse stumbles, every step bringing him closer to where Jason lives. It's weird, because Jason's been to Tim’s dorm, but never the other way around. And it's silly because underneath the nerves, Tim’s actually a bit excited, wishing he could pinpoint the precise moment his feelings changed.

At the same time, this awkward feeling - the tightrope of learning you’ve fallen for your best friend - is the one thing he doesn’t want to analyze.

They arrive soon enough; by that time, it's obvious there's a game tonight. Students flood out on a Friday, drenched in college apparel, laughing as they make their way towards the stadium. As Jason holds the entryway door open for Tim, a group of girls take advantage. One has blue ribbons in her hair and when she smiles at Jason, he doesn't notice.

Tim wonders if his neck is red, realizing that Jason's attention is on him instead.

"What did you want to do tonight?" Jason asks. It’s an innocent question that Tim catches in a different light and he laughs because he's an idiot.

"Um," he says, because he hasn't thought that far. He was just jealous that Dick had been over, and also that pretty girl from Jason's lit class. It's stupid, feeling left out of something so small, but Tim finds he's feeling kind of greedy these days. He's also a little embarrassed, hoping Jason hasn't noticed.

"Wow," Jason comments, tossing a salute at a passing R.A. that waves. "I think hell might be freezing over."

Tim frowns as Jason leads him to the stairwell door, where they're both met with an onslaught of game-goers.

"What? Why?"

Jason laughs and points up the first flight, shooing Tim along. "Tim without a plan. It's, like, apocalyptic."

Shoes squeak against the plastic cuffing of the stairs. Tim's hand slides along the rail, sticking to the warm metal. He’s quiet for too long, tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth.

Behind him, Jason snorts. “Tim without a witty retort; somehow also apocalyptic.”

At that, Tim throws a look over his shoulder, expecting to catch one of Jason’s trademark smirks. Instead, he notices that Jason’s eyes are questioning, which makes Tim hyper aware of everything - the thrumming of his heart, the heaviness of his steps, the way it’s hard to breathe thinking that they’re going to be alone together, and god – why did he ask to come over in the first place?

“I’m–” Tim starts, but Jason cuts him off.

“Here,” he says, and he takes two stairs in one step, coming to Tim’s level. He’s playful when he catches Tim’s arm and drags him forward; even more carefree when he tugs Tim through the 3rd floor entry and catches him in a sudden headlock, mimicking the way they used to wrestle around in high school, when things were different.

In an attempt to free himself, Tim stumbles, feeling flustered when he can’t get a good grip on the sleeve of Jason’s leather jacket. It’s not surprising when Jason lets go, darting forward a few steps because he knows Tim’s wrath when it comes to taking advantage of his height – and he’s not quite fast enough because Tim does manage to kick him in his calf. Jason laughs and it’s its own sort-of music, dampened only by hallways chatter. The sound gets stuck in Tim’s head, at least until he realizes that Jason’s got his back pressed to a door and his hands are raised in surrender. Tim’s pulse takes off at a gallop. His eyes dance between the door handle, the palms of Jason’s hands, and not so subtle smirk that plays Jason’s lips.

He says, “I just need you to wait here for a moment.” Tim gives him a look. It’s the type of sentiment that means Jason wants to tidy-up first, which is ridiculous, because Jason’s the tidiest person Tim knows. He puts his colored pencils back in order. “Really?” Tim asks.

Jason says, “Just one minute,” before disappearing and Tim tries not to laugh. Then, as he waits, he tips up and onto the balls of his feet. His palms feel damp. He wonders if Jason’s ever made Dick wait before going in.

To Jason’s credit, it takes less than a minute before the door pops open – but Tim, being Tim, simply lingers in the doorway. He tries to play off his nerves.

“Have you hidden your secrets?” he asks.

Jason puffs a laugh. His eyes look like a new shade of blue. “What secrets? You know everything about me.”

Tim wishes that statement were true.

In worn denim, forehead dusted with tousled hair, Jason explains, “I hadn’t put away laundry yet.”

Considering he’d been alone in his room for less than forty seconds, Tim states, “You just shoved everything under your bed, didn’t you?”

Jason’s cheeks go a little pink. “See? You read me like a book.”

Tim hasn’t read a book as difficult as Jason since his AP course last fall, and even then, he’d been blessed with cliffnotes.

Since there’s no reason to wait, Tim decides to enter Jason’s room; the window is open and an evening breeze tickles the hairs at the base of his neck. Outside, the world sounds like a whirr of bicycles and distant, bubbling laughter.

When he turns around, Jason’s fiddling with his desk lamp, and Tim’s first thought is that everything is so...so clean. Jason’s half of the room is immaculate; a made bed with perfectly downturned covers, everything seemingly having a place.

Even Jason’s dorm-mate has his shit together, and Tim sees that they have a shared calendar where they’ve marked who will be gone and when.

Tim can’t remember the last time he and his roommate have even said hello. Tim’s not even sure the last time he’s seen him.

“So?” Jason says, and he looks around a bit dramatically. “Let me guess. We have the same floorplan?”

“Ha ha,” Tim says, waving him off. They do, but you’d never know by the amount of junk Tim has scattered everywhere. When Jason comes over, they always have to make space. Here, the room feels twice as big.

When he doesn’t say anything else, Jason raises an eyebrow at him. “You can, you know, sit down.”

Tim blinks at him. “I’m afraid to touch anything.”

Jason smirks at that, but ends up patting his bed in a lure. “Ah, yes, Your superpower. Anything you touch will magically turn into a thousand electronic devices that I may or may not trip on.” He’s referring to Tim’s room. And, while the visual is not entirely untrue, the comment is offensive enough for Tim to close the distance between them and flop onto the bed. It creaks under his weight and also raises when Jason stands to slide off his jacket. Tim follows the movement; Jason’s wearing a white tee underneath, and it clings to him in a way that makes Tim’s eyes dart to the floor, to the walls of the room - to anything else.

But Jason says, “Hey,” and Tim finds his attention snapping back. He’s caught off guard when Jason squats in front of him, between his legs because Tim had thought to sit casually. He feels the red on his face, the way it crawls down his neck; he hears himself swallow when Jason reaches forward and presses the back of his hand to Tim’s forehead.

“Seriously. Are you okay?” Jason asks. “You’ve been acting so weird today.”

And Tim’s desperate to find something else to look at, something not Jason’s eyes, or his freckles, or his lips. He thinks his heart might beat out of his chest. The smell of worn-leather has already stolen his breath and he can feel his hands shaking.

“I, uh…”

And Jason somehow finally meets his eyes, and there’s a distinct moment when Jason pauses, like he sees something; like he sees what Tim’s seeing, like he suddenly notices that the world is tipping, that they’re alone, and that Jason’s fingers are dangerously close to capturing a loose curl of hair that’s fallen haphazardly across Tim’s forehead.

“Oh.” Jason says.

Tim looks at his lips once he says it. Jason must notice, because he licks them.

The breeze isn’t cool enough; the lights are too bright.

Time crawls. Jason’s gaze drops to Tim’s lips.

Tim lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The door the the room jostles. There’s no real warning before Jason’s roommate bursts in, but Jason’s quick on his feet, standing awkwardly, dragging a hand back and through his hair as he turns his face towards the window, taking a deep breath of night air. He’s flushed.

Tim’s up too, awkwardly threading his fingers together as he summons a vestibule of artificial politeness. He manages a hello before he’s pretty much saying goodbye, halfway to the door, where he can escape out and into the world and try to figure out what the hell just happened.

He’s in the hallway, adrenaline driving his pulse to a thrum, not two doors down from Jason’s when a hand wraps around his wrist and tugs him back. The momentum trips him backwards. He’s not surprised to see that it’s Jason, but he’s terrified that Jason chased him down.

He can’t do this. Not now.

He tries to think of an excuse. He wills his mouth to move - he’s a smooth talker. Say anything–

But Jason kisses him and it’s liquid gold paired with confusion; a rush of lips pressed to lips, a desperation paired with unsurety and nervousness and other emotions Tim doesn’t associate with Jason at all. But Tim takes it because he’s hungry and because his heart is racing, and because Jason is a flavor that shouldn’t exist.

By the time it ends, breathing doesn’t come easily. Tim licks his lips and tastes Jason and that realization makes his skin feel hot. Jason looks just as lost, which is an odd look - one Tim’s never seen him wear.

“I didn’t know,” Jason says, his gaze searching.

Tim swallows. “Well…” his eyes dart away. “Now you do.”

When Jason leans forward, it’s to press his forehead against Tim’s.

When he says, “Yeah,” he almost sounds relieved.

#jaytim #ladelle writes #prompt #i do love a nervous tim

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fatathlon · 5 years

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IRONMAN 70.3 Indian Wells – La Quinta – Race Recap

* A video version of this race recap can be found on my YouTube channel here.

A triathlon is a game of contradiction.

You spend hours, weeks, months training for something that lasts moments of your life. Improve at one sport by mastering three. Train slower to race faster. Race slower to race faster. Do it alone, surrounded by people. Never see a finish line as the end.

One of the most challenging contradictions is the trap of identity. To do well, you have to immerse yourself in training for long periods of time. It can become you; consume you. And then what is objectively a meaningless act of physical exertion assumes a station in your life that it never deserved. And you are left with nothing but finish times and medals, to gather dust because nobody cares.

I thought about these contradictions a lot during my training for my first Ironman 70.3 race in Indian Wells – La Quinta California. It seemed fitting in this vein of contradiction that I would train in the cold and snow in order to race in the warm desert. I hoped that by recognizing the contradictions inherent in what I was doing, I could avoid that most challenging trap, and come away with an experience, rather than just another race.

After Musselman in July, I took a break for a few weeks, and then started training again. I had a few minor injuries, which were challenging, but for the most part my training was consistent. I did some bike fitting and got a set of aerobars on my bike. Winter arrived early in Vermont; we had snow on the ground before Thanksgiving. So most of my riding was indoors. I ran outside as much as I could. And weather doesn’t matter in the pool, of course.

Swimming was a major area of focus for me this fall. I got a second swim analysis and really worked on my technique. I was able to take another ten seconds off my 100-yard time, and by December I was swimming faster on average than I ever had.

I had also been trying to eat smarter, both to be healthier and to drop extra weight. With the help of a friend, I definitely had some success here, though it added some stress to our family routine. Kids like what they like.

I was a little concerned about flying my bike to California, because I had only done it once before and I didn’t have to assemble it myself when I arrived that time. So I broke it down and packed it up at the bike shop so I could get guidance with questions that I had and hands-on help from Darren, my friend who owns Vermont Bicycle Shop. I felt a lot more confident once it was all ready to go.

The flights were pretty uneventful, and we made it to San Diego in one piece — including my bike. One of the first things I did was put it back together; I wanted to make sure I would have enough time to solve any problems that came up. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be any and the assembly went pretty smoothly.

The Catamount, my custom Orbea Terra, ready to ride

We spent a few days with my brother’s family in San Diego, hiking at Torrey Pines and playing on the beach. It was a nice way to get acclimated to the environment. It wasn’t as warm as I thought it would be, but it definitely was a lot warmer than Vermont. Locals on the beach were dressed in winter coats and hats, but our girls thought it was the perfect weather for swimming in the Pacific.

Before long it was time to drive to Indian Wells. The amazing scenery on that drive took us all by surprise. We stopped for a moment but the day before the race was very busy so there wasn’t a lot of time for sight-seeing.

After getting the family settled at the hotel, I had my first Ironman athlete check-in experience and got to see the pro panel, which included the eventual race winners Lionel Sanders and Paula Findlay. I checked my run gear in to T2, a little overwhelmed by the enormity of the transition area. Then it was time for a half-hour drive to the swim start and T1, to see the swim course, check in my bike and decontaminate my wetsuit before hanging it on the racks where it would stay until race morning. I made sure to mark it well so I wouldn’t have any trouble finding it.

My day would have gone quite differently if it hadn’t been for my teammate Lacy. She and her husband gave me a lift to the shuttle buses, which was already a great help by itself, but when she mentioned her water bottles I realized I had forgotten something at the hotel. Specifically, all of my hydration. It was still sitting in my refrigerator. They drove me back so I could retrieve them and I was so grateful. Luckily we were up early enough that it didn’t affect our day — we got on a bus with no waiting and were off to the start area.

I knew the water would be cold. The reported temperature that morning was just under 59 degrees. There was no warm-up swim. We stood in line at the rolling start for a long time before finally getting into the water. And then, finally, after everything, I was racing.

The first one or two hundred meters were tough. I was hyperventilating from the shock of the water temperature and struggling to relax and find my rhythm. I expected that, but it didn’t make it any easier. Finally I settled in, though, and found my zone. It was clear pretty quickly that I should have seeded myself further forward; nobody around me was actually swimming at the pace they lined up for. I was crawling over people all the way. My goggles half-filled with water but I ignored it since I could still see. When I finally crawled out of the lake, I had a personal best time of 34 minutes. By my watch, I had swum ten seconds per 100 yards faster than my first 70.3 in July.

As I mounted my bike, I readied myself mentally to face the biggest contradiction of the day. I had programmed the wattage target my coach and I agreed on into my bike computer, and I was going to stick to that number like superglue. The paradox of my plan was that the number was low. It was lower than I had expected. It was lower than it was at my first 70.3, and it was low relative to my power profile. It was so low that it meant I’d be doing what amounted to a zone 2 ride for the entirety of the bike leg.

The plan was predicated on the knowledge that the course was pancake flat, and that triathlons succeed or fail on the run. We would conserve energy on the bike, allowing my inertia to do most of the work, and hopefully get off the bike with enough in the tank to really drop the hammer.

So what the bike ended up being was a test of patience, rather than fitness. My heart rate stayed low, peaking only at the very start during the excitement of transition and climbing a tiny hill out of transition. I spent a lot of the time focused on avoiding drafting as much as I could, but it was pretty difficult considering that the roads were absolutely packed with riders. That forced me to surge occasionally, but it was okay because the course was so flat.

The first 20 miles flew by so fast that I was actually surprised when I saw the mile marker sign. At 30 miles I felt no worse; very comfortable and just cruising along. It was a strong contrast to my last race, where the 30 mile marker saw me doing pretty solid work. I began to get excited about the paradoxical plan as evidence in its favor continued to build. That naturally inclined me to want to push harder, but I redoubled my efforts to stay focused and in my target zone.

The highlight of the bike course by far was the Thermal Raceway, which is a private racetrack for cars that we got to ride around on. My watts went up on that section for sure, but it was a match that was worth burning. It’s a unique experience to ride your bike around a banked track with perfect pavement, designed for million dollar super cars. I had a lot of fun there.

The rest of the course was technically uphill but the gradient was so gradual, I barely noticed. I rode into T2 just 2 watts over my target. My family was cheering at the dismount line, which was a nice boost going into the start of my run.

After racking my bike and strapping on my running shoes, I started out on the final leg, to see if the contradictions would be resolved. Here I was, running in the heat and sun after training for months in the cold and snow. Here I was, having biked slowly on purpose to see if I could do a faster race. And here I was, after weeks of training at a jog, pushing my legs to go fast, and stay fast.

I have always run fast out of transition, because it takes a mile or two before my legs really feel normal and I can tell how my body is actually doing. At my first 70.3, I slowed that pace after the first aid station, feeling that I would have to conserve energy to make it through the run without shutting down. This day, though, I felt strong. I felt no such impending decline. I felt like I could hold the pace. So I didn’t slow down.

The run followed asphalt roads for a couple of miles before turning off onto a golf course, where it tracked around the greens on a winding, undulating path that was a mix of concrete, dirt and grass. There were no long straightaways, no places to hide from the course. It was highly dynamic and constantly changing.

A conclusion I had drawn from my first 70.3 was that I had been underfueled. This time, I ate and drank everything I could get my hands on during the run. I think I probably ate two or three whole bananas, a half at a time, plus several gels and all the coke, gatorade and red bull I could grab. I didn’t slow down during the aid stations; I didn’t want to lose my inertia. At one point I took a cup of ice, dumped it in my hat and packed it onto my head. The contrasts had never been more stark — at home I had been wearing winter hats to keep the snow off my head; today, I was deliberately packing ice onto my scalp.

It was a two-lap course which meant that I had to run agonizingly close to the finish line at around mile seven, only to have to turn around and do the entire thing one more time. Now I knew what to expect, though, and I knew where to push and where I could relax. Now all I had to do was hold my pace.

When the second lap of the course started to beat me, I focused on my family, waiting for me at the finish, and steeled myself in the resolve to make this all worth it. What was the point of asking so much of them, to support my training, to spend an entire day of our vacation standing around, if I didn’t make it worth it? I wasn’t going to slow down for anything.

The last couple of miles were hard and my pace started to slip a little bit, but I was still moving faster than I had ever really expected. I found my family just before the finish line, gave everybody high-fives, and then took it over the line. It was a personal best by a long margin, with personal records in every part of the race. I almost couldn’t believe it, but there it was.

If there’s one thing I learned from this race experience, it’s that you can’t always see contradictions as obstacles. Sometimes, they are puzzle pieces in a larger pattern that you can’t fully recognize until you’ve put it all together. You can’t always resist the things that don’t make sense; sometimes, you have to lean into them, make them part of your plan and see them through to the end. And that’s when you can find clarity.

We closed out our trip with a drive through Joshua Tree National Park, marveling at the natural beauty of the desert before boarding our plane to fly back into winter. With California behind us, it was time to look forward to a new year, and new contradictions.

Watch the video version of this race recap:

youtube

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writing-royza · 6 years

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Blame It On the Dress

A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone! Afraid I can’t take time to say more than that; I’ve gotta get to bed, but I hope you enjoy this little story. ^^

I do not own FMA.

Blame It On the Dress

The restaurant was one of the most difficult to get reservations to, which went along with the fact that it was the highest-rated establishment in Central. The only reason a table had opened up for the four of them was that Maes had done some very skilled investigating for the owner as military and civilian lifestyles clashed, and some sort of off-the-books reward had been in order.

Roy sat across from his rival-turned-best-friend, thankful for the high pile carpet to dampen the sound of his nervously tapping foot. He was certain that Hughes was setting he and Riza up, and in a city crawling with with soldiers, it was exceedingly risky.

"What happened that the two of you wound up in separate hotels?" Gracia asked curiously. "Doesn't she need to be closer to be a bodyguard?"

"Normally, we're able to swing an adjoining room," he answered, shaking his head. "But this time, the accommodation arrangements got left to some rookie administration clerk that messed up somewhere along the line. We didn't find out there'd been a mix-up until we arrived in the city, and by then, it was too late."

"I told you that you could stay with us," Maes said, the mock scolding clear in his tone. "But did you listen? Noooooooooo, Roy knows everything." Unable to keep a straight face, he broke into a grin at the glare his friend shot him.

"You can't fit two extra adults in your place for a week," Roy countered. "Besides, you'd drive me crazy."

For a brief second, the other man's eyes flicked to the side, looking past the dark-haired alchemist's shoulder, before his grin widened and he lowered his voice. "Maybe. But not as much as that pretty girl walking your way."

Turning to see what Maes was staring at, Roy froze, eyes riveted to the woman weaving her way through the tables toward theirs. Her hair was down, pulled back along the sides and held by a pair of subtly glinting barrettes. Her dress was a dusty red, with gold accents along the left side. It was in the Xingese style, with a high neck, and cap sleeves, divided partway up the skirt on the outside of the leg. A pale gold pashmina around her shoulders made sure that no tiny corner of her tattoo would accidentally be shown.

Riza's gaze found his, and he stood automatically as she smiled. "You haven't been waiting long, have you?" she asked, eyes going to Gracia, then Maes. "The police were diverting traffic around an accident on Second Street, so it slowed me down a little."

"No; they were just able to seat us early is all." Gracia got to her feet, stepping around the end of the table to exchange a brief hug with the blonde Lieutenant. "We're just glad you and Roy were able to make it here."

She resumed her seat, Riza taking hers across the table as Roy held the chair out for her. She glanced briefly at him over her shoulder, giving him a small smile, before he settled down beside her trying hard to ignore the sly grin on Maes' face, and the way his eyes kept flicking between the two of them.

"So," he commented, trying to divert the attention away from himself and his Lieutenant. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the first time you two have been out since Elicia was born. You sure know how to celebrate."

"Picture time!" Hughes had his wallet open on the table faster than anyone could protest. Inside was a picture of a baby girl, only a few months old, green eyes wide as she stared at the camera.

Riza smiled, speeding Roy's pulse up again. "She's beautiful. And she looks just like her mother."

"Of course she's beautiful!" Slipping the wallet back into his pocket, Maes shrugged. "Though if she looked more like me, she'd be even more good-looking." He missed seeing Gracia roll her eyes skyward with a smile. "We were thinking of going out East for a vacation some time soon, so that you two could meet her, but you got to Central before we could." He mock-scowled at Roy. "Throw my plans for a loop again, why don't you. Thanks."

"Considering some of your plans are outright insane?" the other smirked. "You're welcome."

"You don't have to walk me back," she said as they moved along the nighttime streets. Early summer in Central left the night air warm enough to go without a jacket even at this hour. No one else was about; just the two of them.

"Yeah, I know." Hands in his pockets, Roy was careful not to look at her directly; he was sure that if he did, the same thing that had been happening to him all night would start again. Losing the power of speech right now would only lead to the world's most awkward silence. "But this is Central, not East City; there's a few more lowlifes around here than back home, and I just want to make sure you get there safe."

"That takes care of me," she mused, and he could hear the humour in her voice. "Who's going to take care of you, then? I thought that was my job."

He shrugged. "I have my gloves. I only brought them because I didn't figure you'd be using a gun as an accessory." When she didn't answer, he glanced sideways to find her fighting back a smirk. ". . . How the hell are you hiding a gun on yourself right now?"

"Very carefully," she answered, giving up the battle against her amusement.

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Riza studied her surroundings, as was her usual habit as a bodyguard; as was his habit, Roy surreptitiously studied her. "I don't think I've seen you in that dress before," he commented. "Is it new?"

She looked down at herself with a non-plussed expression. "When you go dress shopping with Rebecca Catalina, she makes absolutely sure you don't leave empty-handed," she murmured. "It was her choice, and I kind of like it . . . but I went along with it mostly just to shut her up."

Roy laughed, half to himself. "She's got good taste. I think you look —" He stopped himself, both verbally and physically. Riza took another two steps before doing the same, turning back to look at him in concern. Her gaze met his, and the word on the tip of his tongue disappeared into thin air.

". . . Roy? Are you all right?"

All the years of being so careful to avoid doing anything that even resembled fraternization were screaming at him not to say the word, if he could remember it. Just the way she said his name was making his head spin. Something deep in his chest wanted her to say it again, was wishing desperately that she would.

He watched as her expression became highly alert, those brown eyes watching him in concern. "You're starting to get me worried," she said quietly, retracing the last couple steps toward him. "What's wrong?"

Still speechless, he shook his head, and forced himself into motion again. Riza fell in beside him, still watchful, only now with suspicion. Her hotel was ahead on the left, golden light spilling from the lobby out onto the dark street.

I’ll walk up with her, Roy decided firmly. I can't guarantee we're alone out here, but once we're inside . . . .

It was the most agonizingly long and silent walk of his life. No longer than three minutes, but it was beginning to feel like fifteen by the time they arrived outside the door to her room. Riza looked up as she fit the key into the lock. "Did you want to come in and make sure I brush my teeth properly?" she asked sarcastically.

"Sure." He caught the flash of an exasperated smile before she opened the door and stepped through. Following her in, he shut the wooden panel, watching as she crossed to turn on the lights beside the bed.

"Are you ready to talk about what happened outside?" she asked, over her shoulder. Pulling off the pashmina, she began folding it neatly. "I assume you didn't want to risk unfriendly ears listening in."

Roy's stomach flipped. ". . . . I'll just come right out and say it," he said, hands slipping into his pockets again as he took a few steps forward. "You look . . . there's no other word for it. You look beautiful like that." He watched as her head whipped around to look at him, the pashmina forgotten in her hands. "I . . . didn't want to say anything outside . . . like you said, in case someone was around. Not that any of the soldiers here would recognize anyone from out East, but just in case —"

"It's all right. I understand." She set the gold fabric down on the bed, turning fully to face him with a small smile. "It's nice of you to say so. Thank you."

Roy took another step forward. "It's not just being nice, it's . . . ." He hesitated, realizing that she might not want this to spill over into fraternization any more than it already had. ". . . . Permission to speak freely?"

She lifted one eyebrow, curious at the question — a superior officer always had the right to speak freely — but as well as he knew her, Roy knew she understood his reason for asking. ". . . Go ahead."

"It's not just being nice," he said again. "It's being truthful. You walked in the room tonight, and I didn't see First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, bodyguard and adjutant. I saw you. You were yourself for the first time in a while; I've seen you smile more times tonight than in the last year. And that's one of the prettiest things I've seen in the whole damn world."

The same smile spread slowly across her face as she folded her arms. "Well . . . . It's been a while since I heard you talk like that."

The weight of what he'd wanted to say finally off his shoulders, Roy shrugged. "It's like riding a bicycle. You never really forget how. How did I do?"

This time, it was Riza that stepped forward, further closing the gap between them. "I think you did very well, all things considered." Her eyes flicked down, then up in a once-over. "I have to say, you really don't look so bad yourself. It's a good change, to see you in something other than a uniform."

Roy inched forward another step. "If we were in uniform," he said quietly, "we wouldn't be standing this close. Funny what a change of clothes can do."

"And what exactly," she said softly, "are you hoping will happen before the clothes we wear dictate how we act?"

He smiled as she closed the distance by stepping into his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. "I think you know what I'm hoping for," he murmured. "But I'll hold off if you want me to."

Riza was quiet for a moment. "You're hoping for an invitation to spend the night," she said, and he could hear her smile. "It would mean I don't have to worry that you got to your hotel all right."

". . . . That reminds me . . . ." Leaning back to look at her, Roy lifted an eyebrow. "I want to know where you're hiding a gun under a dress like that."

Rolling her eyes with a smile, Riza took a step back. Pushing the divide in her skirt to one side, she unfastened a leg holster from the opposite side, just above her knee. Standing straight, she held it up for inspection, the semi-automatic nestled among the leather clearly visible. "Does that answer your question?"

Roy grinned, moving forward to slip his arms around her waist. "Sometimes I forget just how dangerous a woman you are . . . ."

"Maybe . . . but never a danger to you." She gently tossed the holster onto the bed, turning back just in time to meet his kiss lips-first. "If you're going to — come in for a visit," Riza said, speaking between breaths. "You could at least — take your coat off — stay a while."

"Thought you'd never ask."

He worked his arms out of the sleeves, lips never leaving hers, and let the dark fabric drop to the floor. Waiting just long enough for her to slip her feet out of her shoes, he backed her slowly toward the bed; her one-handed grip on his tie made sure he followed her down.

"If I didn't think you looked so good in a dress like this," he said, grinning, "I'd put a moratorium on you wearing them."

Riza smirked. "In the interest of protecting what remains of your sanity?"

"I'm perfectly sane, thank you." The grin widened into something dangerously confident as he nuzzled against the side of her neck. "It's in the interest of your protection. If I keep seeing you looking like this, I can't be held responsible for my actions." She laughed — nothing more than a quiet chuckle at the back of her throat — and he froze. ". . . Damn, I love that sound."

There was time for two kisses to the soft skin of her neck before the door was kicked in. Heavy booted footsteps rushed through the door along with the sound of gun safeties being taken off . . . and then silence.

". . . I realize this is a bad time, Colonel, but if you'd both be so kind as to put your hands up," a voice said, trying hard to cover the tone of someone taken aback.

Mentally cursing a blue streak, Roy rolled to one side and sat up, scowling at the first man he spotted with a gun pointed his way. "What? You've never gotten drunk and fallen over on someone before?" he snapped, taking care to slur his words convincingly. He looked back to Riza. "You okay?"

The man who'd spoken, who was the only one without a weapon, glared. "Your conversation, the one that determines whether you live or die, is with me, Colonel."

That one look at her had been enough; she had her usual mask back in place, and she had a plan. She just needed his input to make it work. And so he would. "Okay, okay." Roy shot another glance at the quartet of guns pointed in his direction. "But if we're going to talk, you tell your boys to put their toys away, all right?"

Smiling tightly, the man shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm not an idiot."

"My gloves are in my coat, my coat is on the floor, and I am freaking shitfaced right now." He shrugged eloquently. "Couldn't shoot straight if I wanted to. But you said you wanted my hands up, right?" Getting to his feet, listing slightly to one side, he laced his fingers together on top of his head. "There. See? Now put 'em away."

With an impatient gesture, the man gestured his thugs to stand down; they did so, putting the safeties back on. "What about the girl? What's her purpose here?"

"Her?" Roy shrugged again. "She works in the club downstairs. When the bar cut me off, the manager sent her up here with me to make sure I made it." He leaned a little too far to the right, taking two staggering steps in that direction, putting him now on Riza's right side. "Look, fellas, I'm really not sure I ought to go anywhere right now. Can you maybe come back tomorrow?"

"No," was the snappish answer.

"Too bad." Dropping the slur, Roy smirked. "That was your last chance."

Riza's hand had started inching toward the gun she'd set aside the moment he stepped between it and the gunners' line of fire. Now she drew it, beginning to fire as Roy dropped into a crouch. Five shots, one to the shoulder of each gunman and their spokesman, dropping all of them to the floor in pain.

Rising fluidly, she assumed a stable firing stance. "If any of you reaches for any sort of weapon, my next shots won't be aimed for non-vital areas. Understood?" When no answer except one or two groans came, she spoke over her shoulder to Roy. "Colonel, if you'd be so kind as to call hotel security?"

They watched the doors of the truck close on the spokesman of the attack group, before the engine started and the vehicle pulled ponderously away from the curb.

"We were lucky," Riza murmured. She'd changed into casual clothing since the attack, her hair still down. "They're affiliated with a group that's against the military, so there's very little chance of them wanting to report what they saw."

Roy shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. "Even if they did, it would be the word of criminals against that of a high-ranking military officer. With no concrete evidence, it's all hearsay; no real basis for court-martial. We're in the clear."

"Good." She cast him a sidelong glance, smiling in dry humour. "I'm not sure I should let you stay by yourself tonight, if that's the kind of company that finds you. It would be safer if you had a bodyguard present."

He smirked. "Are you volunteering for the position?"

"Of course. And you should probably stay here; they'll be checking military-held hotels with a reservation under your name. We can pick up your things in the morning." Brown eyes flicked briefly around the street, seeing no one else within earshot; nevertheless, her voice grew quieter. "Besides; I believe you were just starting in on a list of things you like about me."

#fma #fmab #Roy Mustang #Riza Hawkeye #Maes Hughes #royza #royai #fma fanfiction #royai fanfiction

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wishingforothervibes · 7 years

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~~~GOT7 REACTION~~~ S/O Walking and Tripping In Front Of Them

requested by anonymous

He left early that morning so he and the rest of Got7 could prepare for their comeback. You decide to stop by the company building to say hi to your boyfriend and to see if any of the other boys and staff needed anything since they are all working very hard for a successful comeback. You find JB walking back to the practice room from the water fountain. When he sees you, he flashes his gorgeous smile and you happily walk towards him. Being the clumsy person you are, you lose your footing and trip over your feet. JB catches you before you make a full face plant but he ends up slipping which causes you both to fall over. You land on top of him and he groans in pain but starts to laugh. You apologize profusely and quickly stand up and help Jaebum get back on his feet. You make sure JB is okay and start to rub his lower back frantically. As you huff about how much you hate being so accident prone, he tells you that its okay and that he loves saving you from silly accidents, even though sometimes you drag him down with you.

“I love how clumsy you are. It means I get to save you from silly deaths!” *laughs*

Mark

You and Mark decide to go out to eat for lunch since he had some free time. He always wants you to feel loved, especially during this stressful reoccurring era in your relationship; comeback season. Mark takes you to a cute secluded cafe spot and you internally squeal at how romantic he’s being. While ordering food, you knock over your water with the menu and some water soaks your top. You roll your eyes at your carelessness and Mark giggles at how predictable the situation is. You excuse yourself to the bathroom to dry your shirt under the hand dryer; something that is routine for you. While walking back, you notice that Mark is trying to dry off the floor under the table. You scurry over to help but end up tripping over a rogue chair. You slam your hands onto a nearby table as you manage to catch yourself. The waitresses gasp from the loud noise and your face turns tomato red. Mark begins to hysterically laugh since he didn’t even have to look in your direction to know that it was you who made the sound. He shakes his head and comes over to help you situate yourself.

“Oh Y/N....*sighs cutely*....What am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry that I embarrass you all of the time.”

“You don’t embarrass me. If anything, I embarrass you. Watch!...”

“NO NO NO MARK DON’T.....*pretends to trip and fall*.......ugh too late.”

Jackson

Jackson took a couple days to spend some time with you before Got7 had their comeback and world tour. He took you out for a day of shopping and you couldn’t help but feel blessed to have such an amazing, generous, and humble boyfriend. Since you are his girl, he just HAD to take you to the brand stores he represented, Adidas and Fendi. While you were at the Adidas store, he lined up so many different shoes for you to try on. He was so excited to see you try on everything he picked out, acting like a giddy child. You tried on shoe after shoe, track suit after track suit, sports legging after sports legging. He loved them all and was willing to buy them all for you, but you obviously did not allow him to. He huffed and asked you to at least try on the ones you really liked again. You gave in and tried on a sports outfit with matching sneakers. You hated to admit it, but you loved how it looked. You exited the dressing room and Jackson started clapping and yelling at how good you looked. You giggled and made your way over to hug him but you tripped over a rogue shoe box and you tumbled to the floor. You couldn’t stop laughing at what happened and Jackson was on the floor with you, laughing so hard that he could be heard from outside. He helped you up and looked at you with “heart eyes.” He couldn’t get enough of your clumsiness.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA OH MY GOSH THAT JUST MADE THIS DAY EVEN BETTER.”

“SHUT UP JACK! I could of died! Hahahaha”

Jinyoung

Jinyoung invited you to go to a company dinner with him and it requires you to dress up and let’s just say you are beyond nervous. You know how clumsy you can be when you are nervous and you have a feeling you are going to end up embarrassing yourself. You whine and complain to Jinyoung about how you’re afraid you’ll embarrass him but he just laughs and forces you to hurry up and get ready. You squeeze into your evening gown and started doing your hair and makeup. When you finally finish, you slip on your heels and check yourself in the mirror. You smile at your reflection, you rock the elegant look you were trying to pull off. You have to look elegant especially since your boyfriend is the one and only, Park Jinyoung. He always looks like an elegant prince. You make your way to Jinyoung. He is wearing a clean cut tuxedo and he looks absolutely perfect. You smile brightly at him and he returns the expression. Suddenly, you trip over your feet but manage to catch yourself before you fully fell down. You start to blush with embarrassment and Jinyoung walks over to you and giggles. He tucks your hair behind you ear and caresses your face. He whispers something to you and helps you settle yourself before you both have to leave for the dinner.

“Even when you make a mistake or even trip over your feet, you are still the most perfect girl in my eyes. How do you manage to make me love you even more just by being so clumsy?”

Youngjae

It’s a hot and sticky summer day and all you want to do is stay inside where there is air conditioning. You absolutely hated when it was too hot to go outside but your boyfriend asked you out for a cute date of riding bicycles and stopping by an ice cream shop. You just can’t say no to his cute face and since Got7 will be having a comeback and world tour soon, you don’t want to miss out on any personal time with Youngjae. You want to make some amazing memories. After riding your bike around the park with him, he takes you to a cute, secluded ice cream parlor. You both pick out some flavors and order a big sundae for you both to share. Youngjae leads you to a table and you two wait for your yummy sundae. After a mini flirt session between you two, the waitress interrupts and places the giant sundae in between you two. You stare in awe and Youngjae takes his phone out to take pictures of the awesome looking dessert. You notice that the waitress forgot to give you spoons so you quickly chase after her. You get two spoons and turn back around but you suddenly trip over your feet and make a tumble. You start to laugh hysterically and you hear Youngjae freak out as he makes his way over to you. He checks if you’re okay and you brush it off like nothing happened. He giggles and kisses your cheek before running off to get new spoons.

“BABE! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Haha oh my gosh, you always scare me when you fall. I’ll get us some new spoons!”

BamBam

One night, Bambam surprises you by taking you to an ice-skating rink for a fun and cute date. You are so excited but also super nervous because you know how clumsy you are, especially on ice. You help BamBam put on his heavy, clunky, ice skates but being the brat that he is, he makes putting ice-skates on extremely difficult. You push and pull at his feet and he finally gives you a break and actually helps you get them on for him. You both hobble over to the ice and slowly start to skate, hand in hand. Your face feels cold but you feel so warm whenever you’re next to your boyfriend. Once in a while, he pulls at your arm to “brace” himself since he’s afraid he might fall and embarrass himself. You let go of his hand and start to freely skate and twirl. He smiles at you and also starts to spin lightheartedly. Suddenly, you lose your balance and make a hard fall on the ice. It hurt so badly but you couldn’t help but laugh at yourself and the situation. You hear Bambam laugh loudly and hysterically as he points at you. But because he was laughing too hard, he makes himself fall and you’re practically in tears from how funny he looks while laying flat and defeated on the ice. He starts to crawl over to you like a goof and kisses your cold, rosy cheek. He tries to help you up but he keeps falling in the process. You both manage to reach the edge on the rink but not without looking like two huge messes. He stares at you adoringly and you return the gaze. You both giggle and agree to take a break from skating and warm up with some hot chocolate.

“Yaaaaaaaaa! Okay, I totally deserved that but I’m still coming to get you for laughing at my pain!”

Yugyeom

Instead of going out, you and Yugyeom decide to stay at the Got7 dorm for a movie night. You both are in sweatpants and oversize tee shirts with matching couple socks. Surrounding the mini blanket fort Yugyeom made, there’s food and sweets everywhere. The other boys also stop in for a quick snack since there’s literally so much food. In between movies, Yugyeom plays music on his phone until you decide what to watch next. He starts to dance like a goof and you soon join him. There is so much laughter and intense dance moves with the occasional twerk coming from your goofball of a boyfriend. Your socks are slippery against the hardwood floor and you suddenly fall and manage to knock almost everything over. The remote went flying somewhere in the room and you hear it shatter. Yugyeom practically throws himself down in laughter and a few of the other boys run into the room to see what happened. You and Yugyeom are on the floor heaving with laughter and there’s a pissed of JB yelling from the distance. He demands you guys to be more careful and less silly and to also clean up the huge mess you two made. JB claims to be upset, but all he can do is giggle and smile at your young love with Yugyeom and the way his kid-like brother always looks at you with heart-eyes.

“HAHAHAHAHA WE ARE IN BIG TROUBLE!”

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therovingrunner · 6 years

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Surviving Life and Conquering the Grail Of Trail

The Story

Firstly, it’s taken me nearly 3 weeks to pen my thoughts down on what happened at the 10th edition of probably SA’s most iconic trail race, the Otter African Trail Run that took place on October 20th. Partly because life continued, and partly because I didn’t want the euphoria to end.

Ever since I read an article in Runner’s World, back in 2009, written by my good friend & trail mentor, Patrick Cruywagen, on his experience at the Otter, the Otter has been a bucket list event and in the back of my mind.

In fact, it was this article that got me into trail running in the first place.

Dubbed the Grail of Trail, The Forbidden Run, this iconic trail in the Tsitsikamma Section of the Garden Route National Park is only allowed to be run during the event week, as running it during any other time of the year is not only illegal, but could also see you banned from the trail.

Ironically, it was due to the illegal running of brothers John & Mark Collins that the idea of the trail race was born. Back in the day they use to run the route after first dropping off their bicycles in Nature’s Valley, driving back to the start of the trail, running it, and then cycling back to Storms River Mouth camp site to pick up their cars again.

With over 7000 steps varying in height and distance apart & almost 2400m vertical ascent to negotiate, various river mouths & streams to cross, and the continual undulating technical terrain, makes for possibly the most difficult/challenging trail run in SA. No easy feat, as this 42km stretch of trail requires 100% at all times.

The Otter is divided in a Run (8 hour cut-off) and the Challenge (11 hour cut-off), and alternates each year with the Retto (Otter in reverse) running from Nature’s Valley side back to Storms River Mouth compared to the traditional East to West running on this iconic 5 day hiking trail!

My Otter History

In 2013 I got offered the opportunity (4 days notice) to run the Challenge, and with very little training or idea what I was getting myself into accepted the offer immidediately.

That day I was handed a good old trail spanking, devoured by the trail and spat out on the other side just under 6h30 later. I recall moments where I wanted to crawl into the foetal position, and call my mom to come and get me! But once the Otter bug has bitten, that trail flows through your veins and you will be back time & time again.

My first Otter back in 2013! Image by Jacques Marais

In 2015 I entered the Otter for a second go, taking my good friend & training partner Will Saaiman along! That day I got spanked even harder as a combination of tricky underfoot conditions & soaring heat took its toll on me. Will narrowly missed out on the 8 hour cut-off. That night was probably the lowest point in my trail running career and something that broke me. Seeing Will’s face at prize giving as I got up to receive my green Sub-7 medal while he remain seated.

Although a Retto was never on the cards as I prefer the traditional or “Classic” way, I vowed to be back the next year and help him get his medal. But as life would have it, a lower back injury forced me to withdraw months before the race, but thanks to race organisers Magnetic South, I got the opportunity to do some social media work on the route and somehow still be apart of the vibe, so I tagged along to support Will, who managed to run an incredible 7h25 that year.

In 2017 we were back again, a Sub-6 my goal, and for Will, just to get that elusive Otter Classic medal. Although I managed to run a PB of 6h17, and generally had a better day out than the previous 2 occasions, I was disappointed in my result. Will ran another great race, and could now brag with back 2 back medals. I on the other hand started planning for 2019, and give it one more bash on the Classic.

This was also the year that the organisers began an initiative where runners who have done 5 or more Otters received a special medal, and adding 1+ 1, I got to the conclusion that if I did the Retto in 2018, then Otter 2019 will be my 5th (and maybe final) attempt at that elusive Sub-6.

The Goal! Image by Sue Ullyett

As luck would have it, soon after I entered for Retto 2018, Salomon, the title sponsor of the Otter Trail Run, announced the Golden Trail Series, consisting of 5 of the most technical & iconic marathon distance trail races over the world, with the Otter being the grand finale. The top 10 Men & Women after the initial 5 races would then be invited over to the Otter for what would be the most competitive international field ever assembled for a South African trail race.

To run or just see the likes of Kilian Jornet, Marc Lauenstein, Stian Angermund-Vik, Sage Canaday, Ruth Croft, Ida Nilsson and many more mixing it up with local trail stars Kane Reilly, Thabang Madiba, Christiaan Greyling, Johardt van Heerden, Megan Levinson & Robyn Owen in our back yard, would be one for the memory bank!

With Kilian Jornet. Not sure if he asked me to pose for a picture, or I asked him. Image by Alfred Thorpe/Vuurtoring

The Build-up

But life has other ideas, and 2018 has probably been one of the hardest years in my & my family’s lives. At the end of May my wife and I was involved in a terrible head-on collision, which today still has an impact on how we go around our day to day business. Nini took the brunt of the impact, and although I might not have the visible scars, it did have an impact on my lower back and my mental state at the time.

Juggling work, being a father to two incredible kids, trying to be a loving & helping husband and finding the time to train properly has its challenges, and I’m fortunate enough to have a wife that affords me the opportunity to live my passion for trail & supports my goals, especially when it comes to the Otter.

Personally, I don’t think any amount of training will ever result in an easy running of the Otter, although specific Otter training will go a long way in making it easier or more tolerable.

Since the accident, I have not been able to train as I wanted to, as at some point the lower back pain would flair up and cause discomfort, adding to an already weakened mental state! The furthest I ran in the past 5 months was 21km, the longest being just over 3h! What I did focus on was as much climbing as possible on any run, and the stair master in the gym became my new best friend.

I also decided to take the whole family along for the first time, including my in-laws, so they too could be a part of the Otter and Golden Trail Series vibe.

The goal, shared only with a few close friends in the trail fraternity, was a Sub-6, although I knew that that would be a push with the limited training distance wise that I have done in the build up.

The Vibe & Prologue

Although the skies might have been gloomy upon arrival for registration, the atmosphere inside the marque tent was warm and welcoming, as one has become accustomed to with any Magnetic South event. After greeting all the familiar faces who have become part of the Otter family over the years, it was time to get the compulsory kit check done, and head out to do the prologue.

With a slight drizzle, interrupted every now and then by a slightly heavier downpour, I decided to rather go out sooner rather than later, as the underfoot conditions would only deteriorate towards the latter stage of the day. (Apparently the elites didn’t get that message, as some ridiculous fast times were posted, lead by SA’s own Kane Reilly & Toni McCann!

On every of my previous 3 attempts I have managed to make the Abangeni (The Challengers), the top 24 runners based on their prologue times, contesting for the Grail. With the arrival of the Golden Trail Series superstars, that was basically out of the question, although I felt my speed leading into the event was better than previous years, so I would give it a bash anyway and see how close I could get.

We were warned at the prologue briefing that conditions were really slippery underfoot, especially when stepping on any exposed logs, the moss covered roots & the wooden bridges found on the trail. I sped off like a house on fire, but within the first 300m found myself on all fours having slipped in a muddy bend. On we went, and with the second, slightly more worrying slide that looked something like a drunk ice skater, I decided to pull the handbrake a bit and rather coast it in more cautiously! No one has ever won the Otter by just running the prologue, but some have ended their journey before even setting foot on the Grail Of Trail.

Prologue action. Image by Jacques Marais

Prologue done and dusted! Image Karien Ham

Race briefing that evening was a mixture of ooh’s & aah’s seeing all the international athletes being introduced. I had a great sit down and chat to Marc Lauenstein,(the current Otter & Retto* record holder and only man to run a Sub-4 in both directions) who even signed a shoe for me. My friends close trail friends know I’m a bit of a trail shoe geek and major fan of runners who can run technical trails at ridiculous speeds. That signed shoe (which also boasts Kilian’s signature on the other side) is now the centre piece in my trail memory display behind my bar!

*Polish athlete Bartlomiej Przedwojewski won this year’s Retto in an incredible time of 3:40;48

The usual cheers went up as resident Otter Meteorologist, Derek Van Dam, announced a Weather Alert Level 1 from the CNN International weather studio in Atlanta. After that, a few more hi’s & bye’s and it was time to head to bed.

It Has Arrived

It was an early night, although the usual tossing & turning started from about 3am. My father in-law was so kind as to take me to the start, partly because he wanted his daughter to look after her own kids (as he had all four his grandchildren in his car the previous day) and to make sure I actually start and not get a lift back via any of the Collins clan.

Nervous chatter, a light jog, a few snapshots of the beauty that is Nature’s Valley beach as the sun started to peak through the clouds, and the sound of cow bells started the day as the Abangeni trotted off on the initial 800m or so “neutral zone” before dibbing in at the first official timing check point, and speeding off into the distance never to be seen again by the mere mortals left on the beach.

I started in the sixth batch of 4 runners, at 07:12:30, a group that included my fellow Altra team mate Pieter Calitz, and GU’s Rohan Kennedy. The conversation with these 2 lasted all but 800m, and I said my goodbye’s as they too sped off towards the cliff face in the distance.

Our little group sets off! Image by Peter Kirk

A little later down the beach I caught up with Kyle Herring, and we chatted and coasted along hitting the time checks I wanted to achieve, including getting to Andrè Hut (+/-5km) and seeing Kilian Jornet cheering the runners on, having pulled out due to injury at this point. Kyle decided to up his pace just before the famous Bloukrans crossing (+/- 12km) as he had a faster goal time in mind, and that was the last I would see of him. My swim across Bloukrans was nothing that would make the likes of Michael Phelps or Chad Le Clos sit up and take notice, but it did suffice in getting me across while race photographers Jacques Marais & Jeff Ayliffe had a good laugh.

The swim at Bloukrans! Images by Jeff Ayliffe

Coming out the other side! Still smiling! Image by Alfred Thorpe/Vuurtoring

All went according to plan, working hard enough on the climbs without burning out, and smashing the downs as fast as possible. I was hitting my desired time goals at the various checkpoints with a few minutes to spare each time, including a quick stop at the GU munchie point at Oakhurst Hut (21km) to refill my soft flasks with water & Tailwind, and munch down a few baby potatoes.

From here it got a little tougher, with extended periods of running alone. By Scott Hut (28km), still within my time check, things started going array. The next stretch of 7km to Ngubu (35km) would be the toughest section both mentally and physically, as for the first time I was starting to fall behind the eight ball, and by the time I hit Ngubu I was 12min adrift of goal pace, knowing that the next 3/4km would be the most continuous technical section of the whole trail. With good friend Stu McConnachie catching up from behind (it also happened in 2017 with about 6km to go) my mental head space took a turn for the worst and self doubt started creeping in. This time though, Stu was struggling too, and as he would drop me on the climbs, I would make up ground again on the downs.

In 2017 Stu & I had time for a selfie. Not this time!

Just before reaching Ngubu I was about to take out my phone, call Nini, and tell her I’m not going to make it, while trying to hang onto Stu and death march it in. A familiar voice beckoned down below on the last decent into Ngubu where the familiar face of Robert le Brun greeted us with some words of inspiration. That, together with a fellow runner telling me it’s just 4km that needed to be smashed hard was just what I needed. I filled up my softflask with 1 last Tailwind sachet, basically swallowed a Racefood FARbar in 1 go, and decided to give it my all over the next 4km.

At this stage the slightest incline would still bring me to a halt, although I was able to keep a relative good pace, dropping Stu as we hit the rocky coastline. Passing the famous waterfall with about 2.5km to go I started getting the feeling that my Sub 6 was possible. A little further down the trail, trail friend, Ian Little, gave the last few encouraging words needed, and at this point I even started catching a few runners in front of me on the more technical sections! Not long after we were spat out back onto the last piece of forest single track towards the finish.

As I ran up the stairs at the start of the Storms River camp site, my daughter Janke was standing there and she ran the last 200m with me. I still don’t have the words to describe the feeling of running into that finishing chute, dibbing that timing check point one last time, looking at my watch and then seeing Nini’s face smiling at me with tears running down her cheeks!

This moment will stick with me forever! Image by Karien Ham

I managed to complete the route in 5:57, and only later would hear the tails of stress the family had looking at the big time board at the finish line, as minutes and seconds would tick off closer and closer to that 6 hour mark.

To be honest, a piece of my soul still lies on those rocks between Ngubu & Storms River, and the Otter would forever be apart of me. Better than achieving my goal though is the fact that I might have given a piece of me away that day, but I gained so much more! For the first time in over 2 years, since pulling out from a race due to my back, I found some mental toughness again.

Thank You

A few words of thanks need to go out to all that made just journey possible, and support my crazy passion of all things trail.

It would not be possible without the continuous support of friends (you know who you are) and family and some amazing sponsors.

The guys from Altra Running & Ultimate Direction South Africa, especially Roger Zeino &Alex Hawkins, thanks for giving me the opportunity to run in the best gear and with zero limits.

Grant & Mel Markey, from Tailwind Nutrition. You guys are like family, and when all else fails, I know that Tailwind won’t, nor your support & encouragement.

Kate Frost from Racefood. Your continuous support is greatly appreciated.

The gear!

To the Collins clan, Mark, John, Christine & Belen, this event would not be possible without your passion for the sport & the environment. We, as the trail community of SA, salute you, and congratulations on the 10th edition of the Otter African Trail Run.

So it’s time to up the ante, and I will be back in 2019, to once again try to survive, but more so, conquer the Grail Of Trail.

#The Otter African Trail run #Otter #Retto #Magnetic South #Altra Running #Tailwind Nutrition #Racefood #Kilian Jornet #Marc Lauenstein

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