#oh well. this is a practice sock. if it sucks it sucks. I'll either try a different method or hope practice improves it

[kittlyns]

Sock progress: I completed my first row of knit + purl stitches and it only looks kinda fucked up. Took forever tho cuz I keep forgetting what kind of stitch im supposed to be doing

[pavlovianfuckery]

i'm not as think as you drunk i am

A/N: Re-uploading all my fics after having a slight mental breakdown and deleting everything, bone apple tea and all that anyway

AO3

The Master-masterlist

Fandom Masterlist

Summary: Is it a booty call, is it a date? Nobody knows, but I sure had fun writing it.

Pairing: Blaine DeBeers/F!Reader

Notes: banter, kinda soft piv sex, no use of y/n

Length: 4500~ words

It's late and he's drunk. Not four sheets to the wind, but enough to make him slightly softer at the edges. Curled up on your worn down old couch, the table littered with half-empty takeout containers, you can almost imagine that this is something like a date. You'll take him to bed, of course, eventually. Or he'll take you. But right now, this is...nice. Not that you're entirely sure what this even is anymore because these booty calls, regular as they have turned out to be, traditionally do not include wine or food. Or him sprawled out against the cushions, nonchalantly swinging his feet up to rest in your lap.

"Oh, so I'm a piece of furniture now?" Wrapping a hand around one of his ankles you briefly consider tickling him, but that's probably the alcohol talking and you doubt it'd go over well.

"That depends." He pops an eyebrow at you, drawing the words out a bit. "Do you want to be?" You know he doesn't mean it literally but the images leap into your mind anyway and the thought of being made to serve, restrained and casually used, makes your cheeks flood with heat. Hiding behind your glass, you hope that he doesn't notice it, but either he's more perceptive than you thought or it's you who's not very discreet because you can practically see the gears in his head turning. It's a bit slower than usual but not by much and then he chuckles, eyes widening. "Wait, are you into-"

"I swear, if you're going to poke fun at me I'll fucking sit on you." That sounded way better in your head and it doesn't have the effect you had hoped for.

"You really need to work on your threats, doll." He drawls, thoroughly unimpressed, "I could give you a few pointers if you'd like."

"I'm sure you could." You put down the glass with perhaps a bit more force than planned, then dig your nails into the sole of his socked foot, making him jerk away.

"Watch it, or I might use you like a foot-stool or something." Sitting back from you with a smirk, he hastily adds, "But you'd probably like that."

The fact that you know that he's goading you doesn't keep it from working. Straddling his lap you trap him between the full weight of your body and the back of the couch. As threats go it really leaves something to be desired but it's not a bad position to be in, all things considered.

"Why do you have to be so mean to me, hm?" It's only mostly the alcohol that has you gliding the tips of your fingers over his collarbone, sliding them up to gently wrap around his throat. You've always liked his voice, but being able to physically feel it when he speaks sends a hot little shiver through you.

"That doesn't sound like a 'no' to me." Putting a hand across the small of your back, he pulls you a bit closer.

"It's not," As you bend down to kiss his neck, you can't quite resist the urge to pull his shirt to the side and bite down at the join between neck and shoulder, muffling your words against his skin, "but you don't have to be such an asshole about it."

"You looking for an apology, or...?" He trails off, all but melting underneath you as you suck at the sensitive spot high on his neck.

"You offering one?"

"Fresh out of those, actually." Slipping his hands up under your skirt he squeezes your thighs, fingers dimpling the soft flesh. "Keep doing that..."

It's hard to reconcile the image of the cold and calculating killer with the man who so readily leans into your touch as if it's the most natural thing in the world. It's something you try not to think about too hard and you're not really sure what that says about you, but it probably isn't good.

He's all easy smile and loose limbs as you reach up to lightly scratch your nails across his scalp, not caring that it makes his hair point in at least seventy-five different directions. Moments like these are what makes you dread what will happen once he gets tired of you like you know he eventually will, and thinking about it makes something ugly twist in your chest. He probably won't even notice it when he crushes your heart in his hands like it's a small bug, but you keep offering it up anyway, so hopelessly drawn to him and the mask he wears in equal measure. It reminds you of how you always wanted a pet tiger as a child, something vicious to everyone else that would still let you cuddle it at night. It's ridiculous of course, because this isn't a cartoon or fairytale. He's not a pet and he's not yours, not really.

You admire the bruises slowly blooming in your wake. It's a shame they'll go away so quickly but that does seem to fit the pattern of your life lately, everything you want slipping between your fingers like smoke. Giving his hair a gentle tug you half expect him to fight you, so it's a nice surprise when he simply gives in and tips his head back. Even when he's just humouring you, the vulnerability of the gesture still pleases some base and altogether animal part of your brain.

"You always this bossy when you're pissed off?"

"'m not pissed off," you mumble in between littering his neck with little nips and kisses, "but do you really have to tease me all the damn time?"

"Funny, I thought you liked being teased." His voice turns breathy and a bit higher pitched in what is obviously an imitation of you. "Please touch me," he whines, "oh please, I need you, I'll do anything, just please let me come..." Hearing those words out of his mouth like that sends a rush of heat through you and you're not quite sure whether to be mortified, turned on or a bit of both.

"You're such a fucking dick, you know that?" Sneaking your free hand under the hem of his t-shirt you pinch the soft skin of his side hard enough to make him jump and let out an involuntary huff of laughter.

"Stop that," grabbing your wrist he pulls your hand up, trapping it against his chest. Letting go of his hair you go to do it again with your other hand, just to end up with both hands splayed against his chest as he grips you tight. Even if you were upset for real it'd be hard to stay that way when he's like this, relaxed and smiling and enjoying getting under your skin perhaps a little too much. For a moment you waffle between wanting to throttle him or kiss him, but end up settling on the latter.

The kiss is a bit clumsier than usual but no less sweet for it, and as he finally loosens his grip you waste no time putting your hands right back under his shirt. Gliding your fingertips across the familiar planes of his chest you toy with the thought of having him like this, right here on the couch. You're certainly dressed for it, all you'd need to do is get his fly open and pull your panties to the side. It's incredibly tempting, knowing that he could be inside of you in just a few seconds. As he grabs your hips and rubs up against you, your already fragile sense of self-control starts to crumble. You can feel him through the denim, lovely and hard and all for you. It'd be so easy, and it takes almost every ounce of willpower to pull away.

"Bed?" Between his roaming hands and eager mouth it's getting hard to think, let alone talk. "Don't want to fuck you on this stupid couch."

"Does it feel like I'd mind?" He just tangles a hand in your hair, pressing up against you again. You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck.

"No, but I do." It's less about the couch itself and more about not wanting to rush. Any other night it'd be fine but right now you just want to pretend, even if it's just for a little while.

Actually making it to the bed is not as easy or as quick as it should have been, but it's hardly your fault. With the way he keeps crowding you against every available surface, tugging at your clothes and mouthing at every inch of exposed skin, it's impressive that you make it at all. It's a graceless stumble every step of the way, and when the back of his legs hit the edge of the mattress all it takes is a small push to have him on his back. He moves to sit back up nearly straight away, but you put a hand on his chest.

"Stay."

"See?" He leans back on his elbows with a lazy grin and watches as you undress. "Bossy." It doesn't take long but you try to make a bit of a show anyway, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time.

"You like?" The time spent agonizing over the choice of underwear doesn't seem to have been wasted, and you let him get a good look before undoing the clasp of the bra, letting it fall to the floor.

"You could say that." He watches as you slowly slide the panties off, inch by inch until the lacy garment hits the floor, leaving you bare. Seeing his knees open a fraction wider and his breath growing heavy at the sight of you is certainly an ego boost, one you've sorely needed. "Fuck, doll..." he breathes, hands clenching on top of the covers. "Do you have any idea how badly I want to taste you right now?"

"Yeah?" You step closer, putting one leg on either side of his knee. "C'mere, then." He gets close enough that his breath wafts over you before you rake your fingers through his hair again and pulls his head back, tutting. "Not like that." Rather than shake your hand off he watches with rapt attention as you slip a finger between your soaked folds. Usually you wouldn't push him around like this but between the lust and the alcohol he's pliable enough to let you, even if it's only in such a small way. He could turn away as you tap his mouth with a slicked-up finger, but he doesn't. "Open."

He's so pretty like this, looking up at you with naked want in his eyes as he lets you slip the tip of your finger between his lips. Chances are he'll get you back in some petty way later, but then again he might not, and right now you can't quite bring yourself to care about which one it's going to be. As you let him go he leans in to put his mouth on you, but rather than let him you put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"You don't want it?" He frowns, skimming his hands over your thighs.

"And give you more to tease me with? I'll pass. Besides," you sigh, hooking your fingers in the neckline of his shirt, "I have plans." Maybe 'plans' is overstating it, but it'd be nice to just once be somewhat in control rather than him fucking you incoherent just to turn around and tease you about it afterwards.

"Do you, now?" As he pulls you down for a kiss, you can taste yourself on his lips. From there it's something that's only half a fall as he scoots backwards on the bed, dragging you down with him. Rather than let him get on top, you scramble to get back on his lap and in the end you manage to be just a bit quicker.

"Just be nice," you giggle, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt. It'd be quicker if he did it himself but he lets you pull it off, helping you along when you fumble. Even though you know very well what this is, the casual intimacy of it still gets to you. The way it makes his hair more mussed than usual has your heart softening in your chest until it feels like it could stick to your ribs like taffy, and the alcohol only carries a small part of the blame for that. Then his hands are on your waist, holding you still as he bends down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth. As he swirls his tongue over the sensitive nub you can feel your core reflexively tighten, clenching around nothing. It's a sweet kind of torture and as you slide a hand around the back of his neck, you're not sure if you're trying to push him away or pull him closer. "I said be nice," you gasp, giving his hair a little tug. He hums and drags his teeth on the way as he reluctantly lets go.

"You saying this isn't?" He presses a sloppy open-mouthed kiss to the tip of your other breast, not giving you a chance to respond before closing his lips around it and for a minute you simply rock in his lap, savouring the delicious little shivers running through you. It makes you ache and despite trying to hold it back, a small mewl manages to slip out as you go to push him away. You had hoped to hold out at least a little bit longer but your hands move almost of their own volition, reaching for his fly and popping the button open. As much as you enjoy the tight jeans in theory, being the one trying to get them off is nowhere near as fun. Thankfully he doesn't let you struggle for too long, actually co-operating for once as he kicks them off, pulling the socks off too while he's at it.

It appears you're not the only one to put some extra thought into the choice of underwear because the black boxers encasing his hard cock is a step up from the usual. It might be a small thing in the grand scheme of things, but you appreciate the effort all the same. He throbs under your hands as you cup him through the thin fabric and for a few drawn-out seconds, you're the one desperate for a taste. Pulling the boxers down has his cock springing free, hitting his belly with a soft fleshy sound, and as you wrap your hand around the base of it his breath grows heavier in anticipation. When you can't deny yourself completely and dip down to swirl your tongue over the swollen head it makes his hips buck, and the shaky little moan you draw from him goes straight to your core.

Straddling him again and capturing his lips in a kiss has him swearing softly under his breath. With no barriers left it's difficult not to give in right away, especially when he's sliding so deliciously between your folds, groaning into your mouth when he narrowly misses your opening. All it takes is a soft push to have him on his back and spread out underneath you like a work of art, letting you see every expression as you grind down on him, making his tip rub over your clit. Even as he grabs your hips with a frustrated noise and angles his hips to try and slip inside you keep doing it, rubbing against him over and over until you're both soaked in your shared juices.

Finally taking pity on him, or perhaps both of you, just a slight change of angle has him pressing at your entrance. Easing down on him torturously slowly makes his fingers dig into your hips, and apparently yours isn't the only patience starting to wear thin because he keeps trying to impatiently thrust up into you. Holding yourself above him on trembling thighs, you splay your hands over his chest, gently holding him down.

"Don't move, just let me," you bite your lip, slowly sinking down inch by inch until he's buried inside of you up to the hilt. After holding off for so long, having him pressed so deeply into you makes your walls flutter weakly and you have to force yourself to be still for a few seconds. When you leisurely roll your hips he moans, but other than tensing up as you move he stays still, or close to it. For once he's letting you take what you want without having to beg for it, and it feels so good. Hands gliding up to cradle your breasts he lets out a long shaky exhale, brows furrowing as he glances at where you're joined.

"You should fucking see yourself right now..."

Maybe it's the wine and maybe you're reading too much into it, but the way he says it has your heart skipping a beat anyway, the yearning rising into your mouth and throat an almost tangible thing. He's filling you up so perfectly and as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, his name tumbles from your lips in a whimper.

"B-Blaine..." The slow build of pleasure is so delicious and it makes you want to savour it as much as possible but trying to keep the pace gentle proves difficult, even more so as he sneaks a hand down to let you grind against the pad of his thumb. "I... oh, you feel so good." You do your best to drink it all in, every moan and gasp falling from his lovely mouth, every expression on his face as he lets you use him like this. Every detail to be filed away and kept close, because you want to remember this. "You're so...fuck, you're being so good to me..."

It's the sweetest kind of ache and it just keeps building and building until you almost can't stand it, so tense and ready that you're almost pushing him out. How the fuck are you supposed to ever want anything else when the way he's looking at you right now makes it hard to breathe?

"That's it, that's my sweet girl," His voice is so soft as he talks you right up to that razor's edge, still barely moving. "You can come, go on..." It almost feels mean, because he never talks to you quite like that. That tiny grain of doubt chafes at you just enough to keep you from tipping over, but only barely. It hurts, enough to make your chest heave in a quiet sob and a few tears sting the corners of your eyes. Through it all he's still talking, all gentle encouragement, and the worst part is that it works, keeping you right there on the cusp.

"I want, I need..." You're not going to beg, you're not. A few tears spill over as you dig your nails into his chest, panting. In the end, you don't need to beg. He just spreads his legs a bit wider and uses what little leverage he has to thrust up into you again, slow and gentle and deep, exactly how you need it right now. When you finally come it's like a tide pulling you under and you sag as it washes through you, nearly collapsing. The waves of pleasure have you convulsing around his cock until you're almost dizzy with it and for a second you think that you might start really crying, it's so overwhelming. As it starts ebbing away you bury your face in the crook of his neck, boneless and wobbly as you pull his scent deep into your lungs. It feels as if your brain has been stuffed with cotton wool and it takes you a few seconds to even notice how he's throbbing inside of you, still hard.

"Sorry," you kiss his neck, feeling a bit embarrassed. "'m sorry..."

"Don't be." A quick roll has your positions flipped, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he grins at you. "Not done with you." You're too spent to really argue as he gets up on his knees, pulling you with him. Then his hands are at the back of your thighs, pressing down and spreading you open until you're almost folded in half like a piece of flesh-and-blood origami. Everything is almost too sensitive and as he gives a few experimental thrusts the tip of his cock drives right into your sweet spot, drawing a garbled noise from you. He wastes no time in abusing the angle mercilessly and thoroughly until he's got you keening underneath him, drooling helplessly into the sheets.

"I'm, I''ll," gasping, you fumble for words that feels as if they're actively fighting against you. Everything just feels so much. "I'll make a mess," you finally sob, too overstimulated to do anything but go limp and take whatever he gives you.

"Good," he moans, voice low and rough and positively filthy as he hungrily watches his cock slide in and out of you, "Really fucking want you to." Before you can even respond he's rubbing at you again, every stroke of his fingers bringing you closer and closer until your entire body feels like a spring that has been coiled too tight, right on the edge of snapping. It's humiliating how he can tear you apart so utterly.

"I want it," the words slip from your mouth in a desperate, drawn-out little whine, utterly pathetic. Then he's slowing down, and you think you might actually start crying.

"Yeah?" He has the audacity to laugh at you, breathless and lovely and utterly infuriating. "Ask nicely, then." He drives into you, watching your face as you absorb the words. "Just say 'please'." Whatever tiny shred of dignity you have shrivels up and dies, because it's just too much.

"Please," the word slips out so quickly and so easily that you're nearly ashamed, but it doesn't matter, nothing does. The only thing you can think about right now is how he feels inside of you, so close to giving you what you need. "Please, oh please..." It's wavering and drawn out and probably makes you sound like a broken record but apparently it's good enough because he's moving again, rubbing into that one spot until your entire body feels as if it's filled with static, buzzing and needy. You can feel him throb inside of you and it has the fuzzy thought floating through your mind that if he comes now and leaves you hanging, you're definitely going to cry. The way he's got you pinned down and spread out means that he can see every twitch as you fall apart around him and somehow, that's the thing that really pushes you beyond the point of no return. You want him to see what he's doing to you.

This isn't like the first time, this is sharp and urgent, almost painful in its intensity. As the first little spasm hits and you gush around his cock, the noise bubbling up through your throat isn't quite a scream. Through it all you're dimly aware of him hushing you, fingers digging into your legs as he fucks you through it. As you start to come down from your high he's still going, but he can't be that far behind. It makes you ache to touch, to pull him close, but your own legs are in the way and he's keeping you pinned down. Not that being able to watch is a bad thing because he looks a gorgeous mess like this, jaw slack and brows knit together in concentration as he loses himself in you. When his release hits it bends his body like a bow until he's hunched over you, gasping and tense and pushing into you as far as he can go.

He's trembling as you wrap your arms around him, not caring about the thin sheen of sweat making you stick together. Somehow it feels like overstepping to hold him this close but you run your fingers through the wild halo of his hair anyway, letting him be the one to pull away first. It takes longer than you expect it to, long enough for him to go soft inside you and his come to start seeping out, but you don't mind. Pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder, you can't quite hold back a giggle.

"My legs are killing me." He's already nearly slipping out but it still feels like a loss when he rolls away, perhaps because you know he's going to leave. He always does. Stretched out next to you and still a bit out of breath, he looks nearly as spent as you feel as he heaves a deep sigh. For a long time he doesn't say anything and then, there it is.

"I should go."

"Not yet." It's not 'no' and you're not asking him to stay, so it's fine. Rather than respond he sighs again and closes his eyes.

So he lingers, after. Lets you rest pressed close, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, gently tracing the contours of his face. He looks softer in the early morning light, dozing in the afterglow. As you run a finger over the fine lines around his eyes his lids flutter, eyelashes tickling your fingertips.

"What're you doing?" He hums, scrunching his nose at you.

"Nothing." Touch feather-light, you trace the thin line of his mouth, pausing to press a quick kiss to the scar by his bottom lip. Everything about this moment feels indulgent and almost selfish but until he tells you to stop, you're going to let yourself have this one small thing.

"Doesn't feel like nothing." His breath puffs against your fingers and he's still not looking at you, which somehow makes it easier.

"Just...thinking."

"About?"

Voice thick in your throat, you hesitate, and then-

"That if you're not careful, you're going to make me fall in love with you." It's flippant and a bit rushed, as if that makes it less terrifying to say. The seconds tick by unbearably slowly and then he frowns. It has your heart sinking in your chest, but it's not like you expected anything. Turning over you're glad that he's not looking, because that would definitely make it worse. Any minute, the mattress is going to dip and he's going to get up and leave. As you feel him shift behind your back you try to steel yourself, as if that's going to help. Then his arm slips around your waist, his breath tickling the back of your neck.

"You should go to sleep."

After the initial disbelief dissipates you have to fight the impulse to try and weave your fingers together like you're in some sappy romance novel. Instead, you gently wrap a hand around his forearm, ruffling the fine hairs with your fingers.

"Okay."

And for once, he stays, at least until you fall asleep.

⁂

The Master-masterlist

Fandom Masterlist

If you liked this spicy snack even a little, please consider supporting your local smut-slinger and hitting the reblog button on the way out, perhaps even drop a comment if you're feeling generous, it really helps with the motivation side of things a lot!

[lezliefaithwade]

A Breath of Fresh Air

The summer after my first year of theatre school, I was sleeping on the living room floor of my cousin's apartment in Toronto, trying to figure out what to do with my life. My cousin had been an actor before he became a quadriplegic in a car accident, and as I unadvisedly bemoaned my unemployment status, he said something like, "Seriously? You're complaining about your life? Don't make me burst a colostomy bag." He was right, of course. I wasn't in a wheelchair, though I did have a stepmother who had rendered me homeless because of her dislike for me. She was always saying things like, "Your hair can't be as ugly as that hat you're wearing." Or simply refusing to invite me to things like Christmas dinner. I always admired people with families. My boyfriend at the time was one of five kids who were always doing things together. Their house was always full of noise and activities. Even as a shiksa, I felt more at home there than with my stepbrothers and sisters, who never lost an opportunity to point out that I was weird. I wanted to stand up to them, but not wanting to cause my father any grief, I held my tongue and sought refuge elsewhere. It occurred to me that perhaps I was using the theatre as an opportunity to say things through characters that I couldn't find the courage to express myself.

The Toronto Star was still open on the kitchen table, and I rummage through the Want Ads, that dirty part of the newspaper near the back where complete strangers will soon become complete assholes in your life by forcing you to work menial jobs in humiliating uniforms for minimum wage.

"Find anything?" my cousin called from the bedroom, where two attendants helped wash and dress him.

"Social services are advertising for camp councilors to work with emotionally challenged kids."

"Oh yeah," He said. "That might suit you."

I'm not sure I knew what he meant but, I was beginning to think I'd outgrown my welcome. My cousin probably would have encouraged me to join the circus if the option had been available. Knowing my living room days were numbered, I thought it best to make an effort and apply.

I had no experience teaching drama—no experience working with kids and no experience going to or working at a camp. Despite all that, I was hired. It's worth noting that it's probably not a good sign if you get a job with no qualifications whatsoever.

My official position was Drama Councillor, and I prided myself that with only a year and half of theatre training behind me, I was well equipped to help others benefit from the wealth of my experience. I imagined myself, Maria Von Trapp, teaching children how to sing while they looked at me adoringly. Somehow, I conveniently blocked out the rebellious early stages she experienced and skipped straight to the good parts. Also, I might add, forgetting about the Nazis and having to climb over a mountain. Still, visions of me biking around camp with a group of happy campers behind me filled me with a sense of self-satisfaction.

As I packed my knapsack with deet and a secret stash of Twinkies, I thought of how only three weeks earlier I'd been in New York walking through Central Park and savoring Cappuccinos at outdoor cafés on Columbus. Now, here I was, ready for something different. The wilderness, I imagined, would be a welcome change—fresh air and loons instead of smog and sirens. I thought smugly about my classmates sweating behind visors at take-out windows shoveling fries into cardboard cups or wrapping sandwiches in tinfoil. Thumbs up to adventure, I told myself. The fact that I'd never once in my life enjoyed the great outdoors didn't factor into my mind. All of this changed with each accumulated minute of the 391 Kilometer drive north.

It was late afternoon when I arrived at the compound. Overcast, sullen, it was a place so secluded you'd need flares to find it. It had that distinct aura of someplace time forgot. A place left behind and neglected. In the brochure, the sun was shining, flowers filled the meadow, and you could practically hear laughter floating off the page. What I was looking at bore more of a resemblance to a situation in a Stephen King novel where camp councilors discover a pack of hungry teenage zombies have lured them to a seemingly idyllic retreat. Situated right in the heart of black fly country, I spent most of my days swatting insects so big they seem Jurassic.

During our orientation, child care workers warned us that children with mental health needs tend to run away - a lot and to keep strict attendance records and all eyes on them at all times. "These kids are resourceful and clever," they cautioned. I couldn't imagine being so determined you'd risk your life by escaping through the woods that surrounded us, but then again, I'd never been around children who weren't allowed cutlery before either

I shared my cabin with three other women with who I had absolutely nothing in common. Delia, a humorless 27-year-old cooking instructor who answered every question with a monosyllabic grunt, Jennifer, a 26-year old tennis instructor with massive blond ringlets who talked so quickly she sounded like a record on high speed, and an older aboriginal woman named Sunny who made us all dream catchers and offered advice about how to heal ourselves on days when we'd feel spent. "Remember, these kids need us," she said while purifying our cabin with sage. As I glanced around my assigned bunk, taking in the spider webs and loose floorboards, I had that sinking feeling that comes when you know you've made a terrible mistake. Before long, I was eating copious amounts of peanut butter on stale bagels amid a never-ending supply of starch. I'm not sure who thought it was a good idea to feed children with challenges like anxiety, depression, hyperactivity, and eating disorders copious amounts of sugar and carbs. It certainly did nothing to help them or me.

On the first day of class, I sat everyone in a circle. "Welcome to drama class," I said with a smile. "Let's begin by sharing with everyone a little bit about ourselves. Anything at all you'd like us to know?" A hand went up.

"I'm Tracy, and I hate my stupid ass brother. He can go straight to hell."

"Okay," I said, "That's a start. Who's next?"

Another hand. "I'm Jonathan, and this place sucks so much I wish it would burn to the ground!"

"Fair enough. Anyone else?"

"I'm Jo. I'm schizophrenic. So sometimes I'm Rachel and Julia. You'll know the difference because Rachel has a British dialect, and Julia talks slang."

"O-kay." I glanced at the social workers who sat on the edge of the room and looked at me with an expression that basically said, "We can't wait to see what you do next."

"Let's write a play," I suggested. "Write anything you want. Once you're happy with the work, I'll shape it into a cohesive piece that we'll rehearse and then present at the end of the season talent showcase."

The kids liked this idea. The showcase was a big deal. It was an opportunity for them to blow off some steam and express themselves to friends and family in a creative way. My only stipulation was not to use profanity. As the weeks passed, I was impressed with how well they all threw themselves into this project—all except Eric, the oldest boy in my 12 to 15-year-olds. Eric often wandered around the rehearsal space, unfocused and sullen.

"Any ideas for your piece?" I ask, checking in to see if I could help.

"I'm thinking," he'd say and then pace.

With three weeks left in the summer, I took my well-deserved week off to decompress. My boyfriend came up from Toronto and drove me to his parent's house at Post and Bayview, where caterers were preparing the tennis courts for an outdoor party. I walked into his mother's living room, and she gasped. "What happened to you?"

I didn't blame her. I hadn't spent much time looking at a mirror the past four weeks, but one glance at the large one in their bathroom told the full story. My hair was ratty; I had scabs on my knees, bruises on my arms and legs, and I was sunburnt. I was wearing a vintage skirt and blouse that was probably more Value Village than vintage and a pair of worn, scuffed purple moccasins; in essence, I was wearing slippers on my feet.

"Please take her to the mall and at least buy her a pair of shoes," his mother said, handing me her credit card and then rushing off to make sure the stuffed alligator would float in the pool. That week I ate my way through rugelach, hamantaschen, brisket, and bagels while his family watched me with awe and disgust.

Back at camp, the smell of burning insect repellent greeted me along with the news that the sailing and tennis instructors were sacked for disorderly conduct. Never mind, I had renewed energy and a sense of purpose. There were costumes and props to make. Sound and lighting effects to create. And we needed to rehearse. It was only a tiny stage somewhere on a remote camp in Northern Ontario, but the excitement was palpable. I was excited. This would be the best talent show ever, and my kids were going to blow the socks off everyone there!!!

"Eric," I said, "How's your piece coming along?"

"I finished it," he mentioned casually

"That's great. Can I see it?"

"I want to surprise you. You're going to love it, though. I promise."

I patted myself on the back. Eric had a breakthrough. All my encouragement and patience had paid off. Perhaps I'd helped him have a developmental breakthrough.

"Can you tell me what it's about?" I asked.

"The Beatles."

"Great. Okay," and left it at that.

Talent Night arrived along with parents and family friends. The lights dimmed, the kids performed, and the audience enthusiastically applauded as each "Mighty Mite" or "Spirit of Paradise" breezed across the stage, acting out skits about fairies and monsters and assorted escapades. Finally, it was Eric's turn. Out he came, looking serious and theatrical. He cleared his throat and addressed the audience.

"This is called, The Beatles Last Recording Session. By, Me."

Three of his closest camp friends filed out and took a space on the stage. The audience was silent.

There was a dramatic pause, then the piece began.

"Fuck you, Ringo,"

"Fuck you, Paul."

"Fuck you, George."

"Well fuck you, John."

Then they bowed and left the stage.

Personally, I thought it was kind of brilliant. Needless to say, I wasn't showered with accolades about my teaching methods or the effect I had on kids. I left there having no catharsis about mental health except that giving people the opportunity to express themselves without censor is probably a lot healthier than insisting they stay quiet. I admired the honesty displayed in the kid's work. If only, I thought to myself, I could be half as brave. Wasn't that what I was spending time and money learning how to do?

A week after being home, I found myself packing, once more, for school in New York. Our term letters had arrived with instructions on where to buy character shoes, leotards, copies of The Children's Hour, and Death of a Salesman. The camp already felt like it was 391 kilometers away - soon to be 659. My father drove me to the train station with my stepmother beside him; she was there, no doubt, to ensure I boarded.

"You going to be okay?" my father asked, giving me a hug and slipping a $50 bill into my pocket.

"She'll be fine." Elsie chimed in. "You don't have to worry about her. Let's go."

But I wanted my father to worry about me. Not all the time and to the exclusion of all else, but certainly the appropriate fatherly amount.

As I settled myself on the train, I watched my stepmother pull from father from the platform to the car and thought of Eric's brilliant play. Under my breath, I whispered the immortal words of the Beatles, "Fuck you."

#stepmother #mental health #children #young people #summer camp

[estrxlar]

The Ghost Of You

04 - Learning To Receive

These chapters songs:

Moonlight On The River; Mac Demarco

Nostalgic Feel; Bedroom

New Flesh; Current Joys

——

TW: Self-harm, death.

(Not done by you, don't worry)

——

- K.S. Perspective

      Only two or three days had passed since high school had started, which meant only a couple more walks home with Y/n. They were shorter and quiet, and of course, there weren't any swerving cars.

But so far, what I had suspected was correct. She and I made amends and became buddies, thankfully.

      The only times she was left alone were when I had morning practice, and she had to have one of her friends drive her home. Either that or she would have to walk home alone. I would've loved to accompany her, but volleyball was something I didn't take lightly, and my priorities were important to me.

      Both I and my younger brother participated in volleyball and gave it our all ever since we were able to balance on our feet. Sadly, our parents were far too busy to go to any games, or even help us practice at home. But their goal was for their kids to grow up strong and steady with good grades and good stats, so that's why they made sure my younger brother and I were on top of our shit.

      Once my first year ended, I didn't expect that I would have to carry so many burdens all in one year. That's around the time mother had died from sickness, which left me with doubts, wishes, and an unaccomplished relationship with her.

      After the sudden death, our family didn't move on very well. My brother developed anxiety and depression, and he eventually had to take a break from school and volleyball. Then, my father became dull and increased his hours at work to avoid coming home to such a depressing home, leaving my brother and me to continue caring for ourselves, by ourselves.

      I, on the other hand, had barely anything to say about it. All I could do was pose as if I were handling it better than I had. Truth is, my mother's death changed my entire persona. I grew grim and gummy, deprived myself of rest, and repressed the trauma I've received. Not only did I overwork myself because of volleyball and stress, but I also grieved in harmful ways. It'd either be a blade to the wrist, or a night with a girl; anything that could help distract me from my state of deep dejection.

      It's been that way ever since. Only recently have I realized that I'm ruining whatever recovery I built up. That was all because of my best friend— Daichi— who had helped me come out about my feelings towards my mom's passing. Ever since, I've been able to learn from my mistakes, and slowly pick my life back up. I was beginning to become a better player for my team, better support for my family, and a better person for myself.

      That only happened recently. So now, I'm left with lots of things to mend, and relationships to make. I'm determined that I'll mourn more healthily than before.

——

      "Y/n!" A hopeful call leaves my lips, turning her head. As assumed, it was Y/n. Today she looked even brighter than before; she just has gotten more sleep. Not to mention she wore long socks instead of leggings, which must have been pretty hard in this weather.

      I didn't get to see her this morning due to morning practice, but I did catch her before lunch. Just enough time to tell her I won't be riding the bus tonight either.

      I look both ways of the cross hallway, before grabbing my book bag strap with both hands and jogging towards Y/n. I wasn't sure why I was so eager to see her, but all I knew was I needed a refreshing moment, and she could give me exactly that.

      "Why hello, Mrs. Refreshing!" I joke, bowing my head towards her while she giggled. Looking up, she stands there, shining by the sunlight that reflected on the windows.

      'If I could, I'd take a photo of you right here, just to show you how gorgeous you are.' I quickly put a halter on my thoughts, snapping back to a respectful filter. 'No, I can't do that. Not to myself, most definitely not to Y/n.'

      "You look nice today!" I exclaim, awkwardly patting the side of my hips while smiling at her. Hopefully, I hadn't made her uncomfortable in the first ten seconds of talking to her. The last thing I wanted was to ruin yet another relationship with a girl.

      Thankfully, Y/n responded with kind appreciation to my comment. "Why thank you, sir. And what brings you in my presence?" Her words curl in a formal British accent, adding onto our joke.

      Standing normally, I explain, "Oh, nothing. I just wanted to say hi, and to tell you I might not be walking home with you today. I'm really sorry,  practice has been very necessary for our team. I-I hope you understand." I stutter on the last part, with a gentle tone to add on. Ditching Y/n for most of the week wasn't what I had planned at first, but what I had told her was 100% true. The first years, as well as the rest of us, we're in bad shape. With our spring tournament coming up, we had no time to waste.

      "Oh, that's alright. I understand. I was in volleyball too, after all. Although, I do wish you could still accompany me. It gets a little lonely.." She looks down for a minute while I contemplate my existence entirely. 'So it does bother her.' But she quickly caught onto my thoughts by my expression and came up with a solution. "If— if you'd like, I can simply stay near the gym until practice is over! That way I can see you and your boys in action, yeah?"

      Her fists pop up into the air, as a bright smile appeared on her face. If you didn't know Y/n personally, you would expect them to be cold stone and dull. But in reality, I find they're like everybody else, and have a bright side to them, just like the one that was being portrayed right now.

      Nodding with her statement, I reply hesitantly. "Hm, I'd have to ask the captain, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind—"

      "Oh, Daichi? We're buddies, he'll be alright." I'm dazed by what she'd said, pausing the motion of rubbing my neck. She and Daichi hang in completely different groups, though! 'How is it they know each other? They hang around two very different friend groups.. that is unless they have some type of history I'm unaware about.' I think to myself, trying my best to find a reason they would be friends, but I couldn't. And so, I begin my questioning. "You two know each other?"

      Suddenly, Y/ns gaze twists. "Suga, you introduced me to them during our first year, silly. Remember? I went with you from practice once. And besides that, my good friend Miya is close to him."

      "Oh, yeah! I remember that. That means you only know Asahi, Daichi, and Kiyoko, right? I've gotta introduce you to the rest of the team! I'm sure they've missed you!" I chuckle, throwing an arm around her shoulders cautiously, expecting her to reject it. But she goes on casually with our discussion.

      "That's right.. well... I'm also— sort of— friends with them. Well, except Asahi. But Kiyoko and I are pretty close."

      '?' I tilt my head at the uncertain tone she spoke with. "Pretty close?" I ask, turning into the cafeteria with my arm still around her. The room is, of course, crowded as hell.

      Still, I manage to draw out what Y/n was saying to me, leaning my ear close to her mouth for better audio. "Yes! She's one of my best friends.. we used to date and it didn't work out, but we're pretty tight!"

      'DID I HEAR THAT RIGHT?!' My eyes widen, and I immediately let go of her, tightening my hands around the strap of my school bag. A gulp falls down my throat before I ask, "Did you say.. date?! You mean you two went out?!"

      To my surprise, Y/n nods proudly. "Yes! Why, did you not think she'd go out with a girl? Or is it so astonishing that I could ever get a girl like her?" She teases, while I'm still puzzled. So many questions ran through my head at the sudden fact: was Kiyoko gay? Was Y/n gay?! Does that mean she's gotten closer to Kiyoko than anyone before??

      "Suga, calm down. It's not like we're still together. As I said, it didn't work out!" She smirks towards me, putting a finger up towards her cheek. "Why? You got a little crush on her..? I wouldn't blame you."

      "N-no! It's not like that! It's just— she never told any of us. I guess she just keeps to herself more than predicted." My sentence comes out to sound like a question, rather than a response. It wasn't that I didn't support it, or that I was surprised Kiyoko would be her girlfriend. Honestly, I was just a little jealous of both of them.

      Either way, it seemed it didn't work out. So it didn't matter now. "Anyway, we're about best friends now, so I'm pretty familiar with your team. I don't think they would mind if I came, but just in case, I'll ask Daichi and Kiyoko." She explains, before looking back towards the slowly dying crowd of students in front of the cafeteria. "I better go soon, Suga. I'll let your captain know I'll be heading over there later—"

      "Wait!" I shut my eyes out of nervousness, as my brain wires work to come up with an excuse for why I yelled that. "You used to play volleyball, right?"

      An awkward nod from Y/n is given to me, followed by, "Yes, but I was sort of just a bench warmer. Nothing big." The hands that held her lunch box gripped tighter, as she suspected I would ask her a favor much larger than a lunch.

      "Mind helping me teach one of our new members how to receive?" I say. "His name is Hinata, and he's a first year. He has great talent and has great potential, but he kind of... sucks at volleyball. I mean, from what I've heard, he practices a lot. But I just think he needs some guidance. So, want to?"

      "Uhm... I'm pretty rusty.. but sure! It wouldn't hurt, right? Besides, I think I need a break from my friends wouldn't do any harm."

      'Yes, I did it.' I thought to myself, before leading her towards the doors that led to the gym. "Alright then, right this way!"

      "Suga! Don't you need your bag?" She immediately asks, tugging on my collared shirt. But I shake my head, responding with a light smile.

      "It's already outside, I just came to check on you, is all."

——

      Up, down, and up again went the ball. Each receive that Hinata had tried had failed every time. At this point, I wouldn't blame Y/n if she wanted to leave. But there she sits against the concrete wall of the outside of the gym, licking white rice off a spoon.

      "Hinata, drop your hips down more," I say to him, demonstrating the position I had stated. "Hit the ball like you're trying to return it where it came from. Got it?"

      Hinata's light expression appears on his face once again. "Yeah, got it!" He exclaims, before getting right into position. I signal the ball is going in the air before my palm hits it in the right spot, sending it towards him.

      And it shoots right back, along with a slap against Hinata's wrists. "Nice!" He praises himself, leaving a feeling of proudness deep within me.

      I'd never been able to teach somebody one of my special skills and having them accomplish it, not the way I did with Hinata. But that was mostly because he was driven by his entire body and soul to memorize every movement in his muscles to create a perfect receive. And who had taught him that? Your one and only.

      "Would you like me to start setting for you tomorrow morning?" I ask the ginger with confidence he'd reply with a yes. Thankfully, that's exactly what happened. His eyes light up in the sun, and his hands take full hold of the ball. "Y-you mean it, sir?!"

      The cold wind hits me, as well as another dosage of serotonin from the first year."Well, I am Karasuno's official setter after all! And you wanna practice spikes, right?" I ask, placing my red hands onto my hips.

      "Exactly! I love to spike! It feels so good when you get it right, and it's cooler than anything!" He shouts. I couldn't help but laugh at his excitement, even if it wasn't the first time he'd portrayed it. Hinata sure reminded me of my past self, and I'd do anything to help first-year Sugawara.

      Y/n suddenly joins our conversation, digging into a reason why Hinata is the way he is when it comes to spikes. "You must have a thing for spiking, don't you?"

      Hinata nods, putting a fist towards his face. "Yes. I didn't have a setter throughout middle school, and I was actually the only club member until my third year of junior high. I used to get my friend in the Basketball Club to toss for me, but after I had dropped out of the club, I went to anybody that could help me practice. Take the first years, and the ladies and setters from the girls' team, too. I've made a lot of friends along the way, but none of those people could ever become my real teammates. That's why I was dying to find out what kind of setters were in high school— but now.. you know."

      Hinatas pure passion dies down once he reaches the word 'setter', and I wouldn't blame him. The person he's supposed to be paired with is his complete opposite, and frankly, a dick-head. "Well, as I said, I'm a setter too. I'll toss you a few, Hinata! Don't get all down."

      I was expecting further satisfaction, but instead, his expression twists into envy. "But it's just that if I have you throw to me now, it kind of feels like... I'm losing." He frowns, looking away from my figure in anger.

      "You're just like someone I know, Hinata!   Always competitive." Y/n says, placing her small bento to the side, and lifting herself from the shaded spot she sat in. Her hands dust off her navy blue skirt, and her blazer comes off. "Why're you so competitive when it comes to Kageyama?"

      "If you ask me, it's better to avoid making enemies with those kinds of people." I join in.

      She wraps her hands around Hinatas shoulders, leaning over his shoulder. "You know, Hinata, you're not as bad as you make yourself out to be. Wanna know a secret about Kageyama?"Without hesitation, Hinata is fully interested in what Y/n had to say. Frankly, so was I.

      "Whatever you see from Kageyama is something he's learned from other players. He wasn't always so snobby; he used to be calmer and kinder. But once he was shown what he could do with his talent, it went to his head. Don't let that become you, Hinata! You have so much potential it's insane! I've never met anybody with as much love for volleyball as you." She pulls up her sleeves, getting into position for a receive, signifying I could rest now. "

      "How do you know what he used to be like, Y/n?" Hinata asks her, sending the ball into the air. My eyes follow it, but my ears listen intently to their conversation.

     "Well, I went to the same middle school as him. When he was a first-year, I was a third. Me and my friend we're on the girls' team, while my other three friends were on the boys' team. The four of us practiced every second of the day, which meant the two teams spent a lot of time together. Everything Kageyama knows is from another player; don't think he's just magically good at volleyball. Anyway, I don't know much about Kageyama, but I do know that he's changed dramatically." She explained. Just then, the bell for our sixth period had rung, and doors were heard opening and closing, as well as students fluttering around hallways.

       The three of us pause our mini practice and gather out things where they were settled. Thoughts ran through my head as I put my school blazer back onto my torso. If Y/n went to the same middle school as Kageyama, that must mean she knows a lot about Aoba Johsai: one of our greatest enemies in volleyball. And if she knows him, could she be familiar with his playstyle? In that case, having her around would not harm the team.

      "Sugawara, I'm off." She's heard saying from behind me, while she put her school bag over her shoulders. "Thank you for having me here with you and Hinata, I'm glad I could be of help."

      I nod in response, nervously breathing through the teeth."Yes, of course. Uhm— would you like me to pick you up from your classroom later on? Either that, or you could walk to the gym after band practice." I ask the young girl, longing for more time to hang about her.

      Then, she began walking backward, meanwhile talking. "I think I'll be just fine, Sugawara. No need to worry about me all the time. I've managed without you the past couple of days haven't I?" Her h/c danced with the wind as she did so, and the corners of her lips rose as she said so.

      "That's right.. I'll catch you later then!" I manage to shout out, raising a hand for a gentle wave, but it was too late. Y/n was already turning into the doors of the school, returning the gesture.

      Somehow, she always found a way to make the chains around my heart tighten a bit more. What was it that drew me towards Y/n? Hell, if I knew. "Wow, Sugawara. You've got yourself a pretty friend! She seems nice, too." Hinata expresses, looking agar with me. "Is she your girlfriend, or something?"

      "No, Hinata. Just an old friend. Someone who may know me better than anybody, you know." Y/n; The girl who knew her way around my heart.

—

Hey everybody, sorry I've been M.I.A for a while. Don't worry, I'm not giving up on my ff!!! I would never do that. This fan fiction is super duper important.

Please note my chapters!! It lets me know you guys enjoy them.

Make sure to be taking care of yourself: drink water, go outside, eat something, and heal yourself after hard work:) It's currently mental awareness month, and it's very important to be taking time for yourself.

love you guys

- Sugawara's beauty mark