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mirkwoodshewolf · 4 years ago

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The trial begins; Roger Taylor x reader x oc male

*Author’s note*

Well it’s been a LOOOOOONG time since I did a Rock Angel update but I finally got the time to do it and finally finish the DARKEST chapter of the Rock Angel’s life. So everything from here on out will be either PURE FLUFF OR PURE ANGST. Now I did my best to research actual court trial procedures plus using my brief knowledge of the justice system from a couple classes I took back in college but if there’s anything I got wrong and you’re actually studying court system/law enforcement PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLLLEEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSE LET. ME. KNOW.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@ixchel-9275

@simonedk

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@queensdivas

@queendeakyy

@geek-and-proud

@wormzteef

@queen-paladin

@starswin

@isabella-bby

@5sos-wdw

@bohemiansweede

@onebigfangirlworld

@ssa-sadboi

@naturalswifty89

@labessieisallama

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Six months of physical rehab, a year of therapy, and 2 surgeries later, I was finally able to get back to some normalcy. Of course the nightmares were frequent every night and of course the kids, especially Kelly, suffered a great deal of it as well.

During my rehabilitation in physical therapy, I had done a court case against James Woods for unprofessional hiring and neglect of care for his client’s safety and managed to sue his ass for over $275,000. Not only that but Hollywood Records fired his arse and once his name became public, no record company wanted to do business with him ever again.

But of course the main trail against Steve was still to come. Due to the restrictions of his uncle no longer able to help him out anymore, Steve’s bail money was set for $75,000. And since no one could afford to bail him out, Steve remained in prison until the trial date set for March 19th.

I was currently sitting on a tire swing in the barn at mom’s and Misha’s place. Since the news were running my story everywhere, Jack thought it best to keep us and the kids away from the city press so we went to his parent’s farm to hide away from the stress. The sky was cloudy and it was slightly chilly out today but I barely acknowledged it due to my nerves as the trial date was drawing near. I soon felt a jacket come around my shoulders and a soft voice said.

“Reminds me of when you rain out during that rainstorm when Prenter revealed your secret to us.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you didn’t mention that arsehole’s name right now dad.”

“You’re right I’m sorry. But hey be thankful this time you’re in a barn and not out in the pouring rain. After that day you got sick for 4 days.”

“Yeah. And you and Deacy were there to take care of me the entire time. Hell you skipped an entire rehearsal to take care of me.”

“You’re my daughter (n/n). I’ll always be there to take care of you. Even when you don’t want me to.” He said as he leaned up against the tire swing and swayed us from side to side.

Since being released from the hospital, while Deacy went home to tell Ronnie and the rest of the kids I was fine, and Brian had to go back for his solo tour, Roger elected to stay with me and the rest of the family to help take care of us.

He called Dominque and his side chic of his decision to stay with me till the trail was over and the two women accepted his decision (which was a shocker on Debbie’s part. I knew Dominque understood).

“What’s going on in that head of yours lovey?” he asked me. He stopped the swaying and came in front of me, his hands holding onto the rope.

“I’m terrified dad.” I admitted. “With the court date—I know I’m going to have to face him and it—fucking terrifies me. You know he’s gonna be looking at me the entire time. But I can’t just abandon the trial, otherwise he’ll walk free with hardly a sentence.” He sighed deeply.

“I know this isn’t easy for you. Hell if it were up to me, I would’ve never allowed it to come this far. I’m your father and I failed to protect you.”

“But you didn’t know dad. In truth it’s really my fault. I should’ve spoken up about this to you and the guys before it escalated it the way it did.”

“Hold it right there. Don’t go blaming yourself now (Y/n). This was in no way your fault.”

“Then it shouldn’t be yours.” He nodded. “I just……what if I don’t have the strength to stay in the same room as him? Or what if the law gives him a slap on the wrist like they’ve done before?” Roger came around and wrapped an arm around my collar bone, his chin resting on my head as his other hand rubbed my left arm up and down.

“Because unlike before where they couldn’t prove he did those things, the news has proof of his attempted murder of you. Your lawyers have pulled up all the evidence of the additional charges that you and Jack want to charge him with, he can’t win this time. Your prosecutors won’t allow that to happen.”

“I just wish Freddie was here to help me with this.”

“So do I love. So do I. But do you know what he’d tell you right now?” I looked up at him and he looked right at me. “He’d tell you. ‘Buck up darling. You go to that courtroom, look that fucker in the eye. And show him he didn’t win. That he can’t win. For while he may be the Big Bad Wolf, you are the Lioness Queen.’”

Dad hugged me and I placed my hand on his arm that was still wrapped across my collar bone and leaned my head against his chest.

*March 19th, 1994. One hour till court hearing*

Back in New York City; Dad, Jack, and myself had just arrived at the New York airport. Waiting for us was my lawyer Mr. Barnes and the rest of the Prosecuting team. And of course the media wanted a piece of me before the court hearing. So Jack and Roger were sandwiching me out of the eyes of the media, while my lawyers were diverting the cameras away from me till we got to the car.

“Mrs. Kline do you have anything to say on behalf of this case!”

“Do you believe Steve Harrison should be given the death penalty?”

“Did you engage any intimate relationships with Mr. Harrison?”

“My client has no comments at this time!” Mr. Barnes stated firmly to the press as Jack quickly guided me inside the car. Roger came in after him followed by Mr. Barnes and the others.

The driver immediately headed for the courthouse and Mr. Barnes told me.

“Alright so Mrs. Kline. Just to review you are still willingly to make your testimony on the stand, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Now I know you’ve been through a lot and his DA team will try to push your buttons but I must strictly advise you to keep your composure and your temper because if you bat an eye once or raise your voice for any reason, the DA will use that to their advantage.”

“I’ll do my best. Truthfully, I just want this whole mess over with so that I never have to see him again.” Jack took my hand in both of his giving it a comforting squeeze, while dad rubbed my shoulder.

“Understood ma’am.” The rest of the drive was pretty silent until we arrived at the courthouse.

As we entered inside not only were their lawyers, security guards, and various other people there for other trials, the rest of the NYC press was also there.

“THERE SHE IS!!! THE ROCK ANGEL!!!” A female reporter called out. Once again we were horded by a swarm of cameras and microphones/tape recorders being shoved in our faces.

“My client refuses to speak or make any comments at this time! Now all of you please move back! Can we get security over here!” soon enough police and security made their way through the crowd and tried to back off the vultures. But New York press people are as tough as they come, when they want something they’ll do anything to get it.

They proved themselves strong and determined to get a word out of me, but I just held my shades over my eyes and kept my head down to avoid any cameras getting a picture of my face. Finally after what felt like forever, we arrived at the room where my trial was being held.

Already the room was packed with people, the media that was allowed to document this case had their cameras set up and their recorders ready to record what they needed.

My attorneys guided me towards the desk where we would be sitting at while Jack and my dad took their seats in the crowd just two rows behind us. I sat down inbetween Mr. Barnes and Mr. Wilson, the leading Prosecutor and we all waited for the moment of truth for Steve to arrive.

About 20min. later, the DA team came in and walking in between a very large fat man and a thinner older man with white hair was Steve Harrison. In chains and in that infamous orange jumpsuit.

When his eyes looked directly at me, I once again saw that empty look in his eyes. There was just nothing there in those piercing brown eyes of his. But spreading across his face was a smug grin. It was faint but I could see it clear as day as he kept staring me down.

“Don’t look at him. He’s trying to provoke you.” Mr. Wilson, the Head Prosecutor whispered to me. “Just look at the Judge and block him out.” As the courtroom continued to fill in with people as well as the 12 jurors, I felt my heart beating faster and my palms grew sweater by the second.

“He’s still looking over at me, I can feel it.”

“Again don’t let him get under your skin. I’m told you’re called Mama Lioness for a reason, now let me see that.” Mr. Wilson whispered to me again. I took a deep breath and recomposed myself. “Atta girl.” He encouraged me. As 9o’clock struck, the bailiff said.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Mayweather.” We all stood up and soon coming in was a man around his 50’s, maybe even 60’s, wearing prescription glasses which emphasized his blue eyes. He was a tall, lean man standing well over 6ft tall.

“You may now be seated.” He said with a soft but commanding tone as he took his seat at the podium. We all sat down and he opened the files. “The charges against the defendant Steve Harrison include attempted 1st degree murder, aggravated stalking, and 1st degree kidnapping. How does the defendant plea?”

“Not guilty your honor.” Steve’s obese lawyer proclaimed. Of course he’d plead not guilty.

“Very well. We shall began with the opening statements from each side. Prosecution, you have the floor.”

“Thank you your honor.” Mr. Barnes stated as he stood up. He paced around the front of the courtroom and made his opening statement, “Ladies and gentlemen of the court; Obsession is a dangerous thing. We all feel it. Whether it’s for the next best product, or for someone we want in our lives. And my client has been a victim of one man’s obsession for more than a year and a half. The defendant Steve Harrison not only put her through a living hell but also her entire family. Harassing, assaulting and even kidnapping my client’s eldest child. All for the sake of a delusion he had in his mind. But he had the conscious to know what he was doing was wrong. Mr. Harrison plotted, articulated and chose his methods on how to harm my client and her family and last June he almost achieved his goal when he put those two bullets in her before a live audience.”

“Thank you Mr. Barnes.” Judge Mayweather spoke. Mr. Barnes came and sat down beside me as the judge continued, “Defense council, you may give your opening statement.” Steve’s lawyer stood up and stood before the court.

“Abuse, fear, and control. My client has dealt with these issues his entire life. His uncle manipulated him into pleasing his every demand for he was the only father-figure he had in his life. My client wanted to do everything to please his uncle’s every demand. But it was not also just his uncle, it was also the so called ‘Rock Angel’ that had seduced him into thinking she actually cared for him.”

Excuse me?! I almost wanted to raise my voice and call Steve’s lawyer out for his accusations but one stern look from Mr. Wilson told me to keep my mouth shut, less I risk making myself look bad before the jury and call this a mistrial.

“Not only that but also the threat’s from the Angel’s husband also caused my client great fear and anxiety. He felt like he needed to defend himself so as we begin this trial I ask you, the jurors to see that it was my client who was forced into committing these acts as a means of protection. Not out of his own desire, but for his own safety. Thank you.” He bowed his head before taking his seat.

“Right then. We shall now begin with the 1st charge of attempted murder. Prosecutor Wilson, do you have your first witness?”

“We do your honor. Prosecution calls Jack Kline to the stand.” Mr. Barnes stated. Jack stood up from the audience and proceeded towards the stand. Once he was there, Mr. Wilson held the Holy Bible and held it out to Jack, who then placed his right hand on top of it while raising his left hand in the air. “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

“I do.” Jack replied before taking his seat at the stand. It was then Mr. Barnes came up and proceeded with the direct examination.

“Mr. Kline can you tell us what happened prior to the concert shooting last June?”

“My wife (Y/n) was finishing up the last leg of her tour. On March 4th, 1992 we received a letter from Steve Harrison.”

“And what did the letter say?”

“It said a lot of things. About her about me but what really caught our eyes was he wrote and I quote. ‘I’ve had enough of this bullshit. If I can’t have you, no one can. So you better perform with one eye on the audience and one eye on the shadows. I’m going to kill you, you fucking bitch’.”

“And according to you and your cousin Jensen, who was acting as her head security. He tried to harm her, is that true?” Mr. Barnes asked.

“Yes. At her show in Atlanta he snuck in through the screen room and tried to kidnap her.” Mr. Barnes nodded and said to the jury.

“After his arrest in Atlanta, police reports said they found zip-ties, a bottle of chloroform and a 6in steel blade hunting knife. He was detained for only 8 weeks when his bail was made by an anonymous payer.” He turned back to Jack. “What happened the day of the concert at Madison Square Garden?”

At that point I saw Jack tense up. He shifted uncomfortably before he said.

“My wife was up on stage performing her favorite Queen song, which she made a cover of per Freddie’s request, and just before she ended the song. Steve, in police uniform, came up behind my wife and shot her in the back. As she lay there on the floor he shot her again in the stomach. Then I—” he trailed off as he glared towards Steve who looked at him blankly.

His eyes were just soulless as they stared up at Jack. While Jack’s eyes were full of hatred.

“I then watched him take her wedding ring right off her finger before smirking at me. Like he was proud that he took my wife’s life and the symbol of her being my wife, my equal.”

“Thank you, nothing further your honor.” Mr. Barnes walked back to his seat. Now it was Steve’s lawyer’s time to cross examine my husband’s statement.

“You said that Steve wrote you a letter. Directed to both you and your wife is that correct?”

“Yes. Yes he did.”

“Said some crude stuff about you and your wife, correct?”

“Yes. Called her some stuff I’d really rather not stay and do things that no other man should do to her.”

“Objection!” Mr. Barnes exclaimed.

“Overruled.” Judge Mayweather said.

“Ladies and gentlemen I have here in my hand a copy of the letter written by my client. It is a hefty one I give you that but let me direct your attention to page 3, 4th paragraph. My client has written in detail. ‘On Halloween night of 1992, your husband physically beat me and then with no reason at all, sicked your dogs on me. I had to get 25 stitches on my leg and 30 on my right arm.’ Did you order your dogs to attack my client?”

“Only because he broke into my house after he assaulted me first!”

“Ladies and gentlemen I also have here in my hands the police report of that night. Let the record show that my client in no shape or form, physically break into the Rock Angel’s home . The door was wide open, there were no security cameras. So who’s to say that the dogs didn’t attack my client outside of the house?” I looked to the jury and some of them were actually believing what the Defense was saying. “Now Mr. Kline you do realize that dog attacks are a serious offense. Especially according to California law, right?”

“Objection your honor! Steve Harrison still entered the premise illegally by accounts to his restraining order!” Mr. Wilson stated as he stood up.

“That is true. Defense counselor best you alternate your question on that remark.” Take that you son of a bitch. Steve’s lawyer turned back to Jack and he said.

“But you still confirm that you allowed your dogs to attack my client?”

“Yes. Because your client was about to attack my 6 year old daughter and 2 year old twin sons.”

“Nothing further your honor.” Steve’s lawyer said. Jack was then allowed to go back to sit beside Roger.

The court continued on and after briefing for a half hour recess, the trial continued and finally I was allowed to take the stand. I swore under oath and my lawyer questioned me.

“Now Mrs. Kline what can you tell us about Steve Harrison when your first met him? Did you at all have anything to do with hiring him?”

“No. His uncle hired him as a favor for his sister, to ensure that Steve finally got himself a job.” I took a pause there thinking back to the day I first met Steve. “At first he seemed like a nice guy. He seemed to know what he was doing so it wasn’t like he was unqualified. He got me to my appointments on time, kept my schedule in check. And remained professional for the first year and a half of being hired.”

“Now you said he remained professional after a year and a half. Care to elaborate on what changed between you two?”

“It was 2 months after the Freddie Mercury tribute concert, the start of summer 1992. I was recording my last album ‘Fly High Mercury’. I barely slept in a week; Steve was there helping me out. We talked about the album, then it transitioned into family talk. As we were talking he started to get a little too close to me, actually even pining me up against the wall of the studio. Next thing I knew, his lips were on mine. He was kissing me without my consent.”

“And as you claim, everything went downhill from there?”

“Yes. The gifts, the constant phone calls, the harassment in the studio. Going off on delusions telling me things like why did I marry Jack Kline? That our kids should’ve been from his sperm. Telling me how in the music industry singers are always cheating on their spouses and I’m no different. That we could have a separate life together while I continue to rise to the top.”

“Which meant you sleeping with him while he helped make your name bigger?”

“Yes. But I refused. Because I’m not like those women who will sleep around to get what she wants. I’ll get it my way through my resources and strengths.” Mr. Barnes nodded at me with a slight grin at the corner of his face.

“Nothing further your honor.” Now it was the defense attorney’s turn.

“You’ll get through the music industry through your own resources and your own strengths.” He asked in more of a questioning tone as he came up towards me.

“Along with the support and love of my family.” I added.

“Interesting. Mrs. Kline isn’t it true that you first began your career with the help of Queen’s help?”

“Objection your honor! How is this relevant to this case?” Mr. Wilson proclaimed.

“I’ll be getting to that your honor but Mrs. Kline must answer my question.” The greasy, obese man stated as he leaned closer towards my podium. I could just smell the disgusting cigar breath off his lips.

“Mrs. Kline, please answer the question.” The judge told me to do.

“They—helped me with my confidence in getting in front of an audience. But at the time I had no idea until hours before the show that’s what they were going to be doing.”

“And then afterwards you continued to use Queen’s resources to help you gain the fame you got in just under a year when most artists especially female singers can hardly get to that degree of fame on their own?”

“Objection your honor! He’s badgering the victim!” Mr. Wilson tried to suade the judge but judge Mayweather overruled it.

“I—we did have the same manager. But how is that different in the case when John Reid was managing both Queen and Elton John over 20 years ago?”

“Mr. Russell, I do hope you’re going somewhere with this because at this point you’re starting to try my patience.”

“Your honor this woman claims to use resources and her own strength, when, in fact, she manipulates men into getting what she wants in life. You said that you hadn’t slept in a week when recording the album? As we all know lack of sleep causes delusions and false memories of events. What if you merely imagined that my client tried to kiss you that night in the studio? And then afterwards had become so paranoid that you antagonized my client to be the villain in this court case!”

“I know what happened as clear as day that night in the studio. And I wasn’t imagining what I saw!” I snapped furiously at him.

“Mrs. Kline control your temper or I will have you placed under contempt of court!” Judge Mayweather warned me.

“Nothing further your honor.” Steve’s lawyer spoke before returning to his chair. I was then called off back to my chair and I brushed my fingers through my hair anxiously.

“Just breathe. Don’t let the jury think they might’ve seen a false allegation in this case.” Mr. Barnes whispered to me. I took a few deep breaths before recomposing myself.

Finally it was Steve’s turn to take the stand.

His defense team started off by asking pretty much the same questions Mr. Barnes asked me. How he got the job, what was it like working for me. And of course Steve tried to paint himself as the victim and I’ll admit he was a damn good actor. Some of the jury was actually swayed by his performance.

I was petrified that even here in the Supreme Court of New York, Steve Harrison was gonna walk away with a slap on the wrist like he has been for the past 2 years.

For five days the trail continued on the same way, people taking their turn on the stands, each side providing their evidence to the jury with each charge we were doing against Steve.

On the 6th day it was time for the final claims as well as closing statements.

“Mrs. Kline, can you describe to us the day when your daughter disappeared from school?” Mr. Barnes asked me.

“Well….” I adjusted the microphone in front of me and said. “I was busy planning my next upcoming tour and Jack had to work overtime at the car dealers. But we had asked my cousin in law Jared go pick her up. The school requires a full on sign-in sheet of additional guardians who are allowed to pick up the students in case the parents can’t pick up their students.”

“And you had Mr. Ackles name to that list correct?”

“Yes. Along with his wife, brother, sister in law and my in-laws as well as the remaining members of Queen.”

“And how did you know that Kelly had been taken my Steve?”

“Jared had called me from the school and told me that Kelly had already been picked up by someone and after an hour and a half, that’s when I got the call from Steve himself. Telling me to meet him at Bull Creek.”

“And did at any time did you give Steve Harrison full permission to pick up your daughter?”

“No. None of my Rock Angel team had authorization to go to Kelly’s school.” He then pulled out a file of Steve’s forged note with my signature on it that gave him clearance to pick Kelly up.

“Now as you can see here, I hold in my hand the actual documented note of Mr. Harrison’s forged letter of Pick-Up for one Kelly Kline. Her school codes states, that if there isn’t any documentation of said people to pick up the child in question, they must provide a note signed by the parent themselves in order to pick up the child.”

“Objection!” Steve’s DA proclaimed.

“Overruled.” Judge Mayweather stated.

“Knowing this; Mr. Harrison printed out the letter of documented proof that he had access to pick up Kelly Kline. He then forged Mrs. Kline’s signature as you’ll see up close here.” On the overhead projector he had both my real signature and Steve’s forged signature with my name on it. “Now as you can see it’s practically identical. But if you look very closely there is a difference.” He then put a magnifying glass up to my last name. “You’ll notice how she writes the K with a curved slant at the top right line for the K itself. While on Mr. Harrison’s forged signature the corner line is completely straight.”

“Objection your honor! Everyone writes their signatures slightly different every time. This shows no proof that my client forged her signature.” Steve’s DA proclaimed.

“If I may your honor before I was interrupted by my assistant council, I have more proof on why this letter was not signed by my client.”

“Proceed.” The judge granted him. He then removed the two comparisons and pulled up a paper where I was forced to give my signature ten times.

“As you can see here this is my client’s handwritten signature. Now look at the K’s.” he pulled the magnifying glass up to the top corner line to show each one had that exact same curve. “Each one of her top corners has that slight curve to them. Ten. Times my client has written her name. And all ten times each K had that curve on the top corner. Not once does she alternate how she curves it, or accidentally do a straight slant. Each. Top. Corner. Is curved.” The jurors all looked at each other, some of them nodding. “So it proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Harrison forged my client’s signature to gain access to her daughter, kidnapping her in order to gain my client’s attention. Forcing her to a remote area where god knows what he could’ve had in mind. But my client isn’t some damsel in distress.” Mr. Barnes turned to look up at me.

“Mrs. Kline you may return to the Prosecutor’s table.” As I stood up and walked down Judge Mayweather called for closing statements. Steve’s DA came up and the fat man stated.

“We all have our obsessions; we all make mistakes. But my client is not insane. He gave Mrs. Kline everything she ever wanted, he kept things professional and it was all due to the paranoia of a celebrity that my client Steve Harrison was bullied, manipulated and forced to take drastic measures to defend himself from the public eye. He is not the villain in this story, he is a victim. And it is up to you, the jury, on who you wish to believe. The money of a celebrity, or the desperate plea of a victim corrupted by the music industry.”

My eyes narrowed at the obese man but I turned my head away as my Prosecutor Mr. Wilson stood up. The middle aged African American paced the courtroom as he said.

“Celebrities aren’t just about the money. It’s not as easy as we may think it is to get as big as they are. They go through struggles financially, mentally and sometimes physically. Now my client did have help but she had her fair share of struggles. As a young woman in an all-male industry they wanted to change her image, to make her follow the typical female artist crowd of showing too much skin, exploiting themselves. But the Rock Angel refused to let that be her image. And she kept that image strong, but there’s also another risk of being a woman in the spotlight. She’s more likely to attacks. Not because she asks for it because she doesn’t. Steve Harrison saw (Y/n) Kline not as she was trying to be but who she was. A famous person whom he believed belonged to him. He used his uncle’s position as her manager to get close to her, and meticulously planned to worm his way into her life. But when she refused to accept his dominance, he snapped. He stalked, harassed, kidnapped her daughter, and finally attempted to murder him. All because she said the one thing men don’t like a woman to say. No. No she wasn’t going to fall for him, No she wasn’t going to leave her adoring husband and kids for him, No she wouldn’t be his. And Steve Harrison took offense to that. And if he goes free, then what’s to stop other men like him going free that don’t know what the word ‘no’ means?”

Mr. Wilson came back and sat down beside me. I placed my hand on top of his and he gave me a soft smirk and nod.

“Alright, jurors the decision is all up to you. We’ll reconvene once the jury has reached their verdict.” Soon the 12 jurors left the courtroom as did the rest of us.

Jack, Roger, myself and my legal team were in the court cafeteria drinking some coffee as we waited for the verdict to come in. Jack and I sat close to each other while Roger sat across from us. He was currently reading some magazine meanwhile my stomach was tossing and turning.

“Six days and it all comes down to this. God I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Don’t give up just yet baby. With the forged signature and the note they found at his apartment of his plan to shoot you, there’s no way he’s gonna walk scot-free.” He kissed the corner of my lips as we continued to wait.

20 long minutes later and Mr. Barnes’ cellphone rings. He reached in his coat pocket and picks it up.

“Yes?” he straightens himself up. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Alright we’ll be there Sam.” He snaps at us. “It’s in.” my heart stops as the three of us look at each other and quickly stand up.

Back at the courtroom, everyone is silent as the jurors come back into the room. The leading female juror, an Asian woman around her mid-40’s held the paper in her hands and handed it to the bailiff. He walked over to the judge who signed it before giving it back to him. The bailiff walked back to the Asian woman and Judge Mayweather asked.

“What say you?” I held onto Mr. Barnes’ and Mr. Wilson’s hands as tight as I could, my legs were shaking under the desk as I looked at the jury. She looked down at the paper and read out loud.

“In the matter of Steve Harrison vs. New York. We the jury find on the account of attempted 1st degree murder—guilty.” I let out a choked gasp. “On the count of aggravated stalking, we find the defendant……guilty.” At this point tears were pooling under my lashes. “On the count of kidnapping in the 1st degree. Guilty.”

Thank God! He was guilty on all charges! Some people in the crowd even cheered at Steve’s conviction. On his end, his face dropped entirely as he lowered his head in shame. His DA’s shook their heads in defeat, his lawyer patted his shoulders and whispered to him.

“Then by the state of New York, I hereby sentence Mr. Harrison to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Court is adjourned.” Judge Mayweather stated before banging his gavel once and left the podium.

I hugged Mr. Wilson and thanked him repeatedly. He embraced me back and congratulated me. I then turned to Mr. Barnes and embraced him and he gladly embraced me back. I turned towards Jack and Rog and they were elated with victory. I went over to Jack and the first thing we did was kiss.

He picked me up and spun me around, our lips still connected with each other’s as Steve was being taken away. We separated and I made sure to lock my eyes on him and he turned to look at me. I narrowed my eyes at him and lifted my chin up high, showing him that I wasn’t weak, that he lost and he’d never hurt or even see me or my family ever again.

Soon he disappeared from the room to be transported to the New York penitentiary for attempted murder, aggravated stalking and kidnapping in the 1st degree.

As we left the courtroom, my lawyer James Barnes said to the media that Steve Harrison had been found guilty.

“Mrs. Kline, anything you’d like to say?” before Mr. Barnes could say anything, I placed my hand on his arm and stood before the cameras.

“What happened to me, happens to everyone around the world. Most of the victims are women and some are men. They feel like they’re alone when this happens to them, but they don’t have to be. So this is my message to those who are victims of stalking, assault, or abuse. You are not alone. There are thousands of others like you out there, but if you don’t speak up, you’ll end up one of the millions of unlucky ones that end up dead. Which is why I’m starting up my own organization. ANGELS AGAINST STALKING. To help victims, like me and you, to get the proper care and help you need to protect yourselves. Even when the law can’t do that.”

I walked down the steps of the courthouse with reporters coming after me with follow up questions about my new organization and more on Steve.

But all I did was get into the car and made a phone call to a special friend. The phone rang a couple times before he answered.

‘Hello?’

“Miami. I need a favor.”

In the next couple of month thanks to some investors that Miami knew, I had set up ANGELS AGAINST STALKING in 3 locations. One in West London, one in New York, and the other in Tokyo, Japan. The media was spreading the news of my organization far and wide and I personally saw to it that the Officers who would work there were not only a part of the city’s police, but took the stalking cases seriously.

They were solemnly swore that if a person calls in regularly for someone stalking or threatening them, they need to take it seriously. If verbal threats were told or they violated a restraining order, they were to take immediate action and give the victim protection.

A profiler was also assigned to ensure that no one took advantage of this system so that no money needed to be wasted on a false story and an innocent person didn’t have to suffer.

People who had been stalked in the past were brought in and coached in how to become therapists because no one but a victim would understand what a true victim is going through.

Soon enough by the start of the summer 1994, ANGELS AGAINST STALKING was up and running and phone calls were coming in and donations from any of my concerts would go to this organization to help keep it running and maybe one day the laws would change against stalking and law enforcement would take it seriously instead of brushing it off or accepting bribes from the assailants family.

If there’s anything that this hellish experience has taught me, it’s that you can’t let your attacker, abuser or stalker show them you have lost the battle. You need to keep fighting, by any means necessary. Even if law enforcement can’t protect you, find a way to protect yourself.

Surround yourself with loved ones, take self-defense classes, keep those you love closest to you. Then when the time comes, document what happens and finally show everyone in law enforcement that you were right.

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everyhowlmarksthedead · 5 years ago

Text

“SHOULD I TRY?”

GILLY LOPEZ X READER

@chibsytelford asked: Reader sees Gilly, Coco, EZ, and Angel in a bar and they all have been eyeing her up, Coco, EZ and Angel all try their luck with her but she is only interested in Gilly. He finally gets enough confidence to ask her out on a date 😊

Serie Index. Chapter 1.

Word count: 2115

Author comments: I hope you all enjoy. English isn’t my first language, I’m sorry if I have some mistakes with grammar. At first, it's gonna be one-shot but I truly like this idea, so I'm gonna write three chapters. Who knows? Maybe more.

You can't remember when was the last time you went out with your friends aka work-mates. But it's friday and have some beers and dance it's better than stay at home with Netflix on and eating cold pizza. So, here you're in front of the mirror. Black shorts high-waist and a body of the same color. Your hair is a goal to anyone this night, falling on your back like a brave waterfall. You also decided to wear those pair of Nike classic shoes, because night is young and you're not a high-heels fan. Make up on point, something soft and natural. You can't be more proud. And of course, a good outfit needs a leather jacket. Belongs to your mother, he gave you at your sixteen' before you found it in an old box, with some 80's stuff. Vintage as fuck.

You meet your friends at “Freakin' out”, a bar where you can listen and dance all kind of music; pop, latin, rock... Lots of cultures at the same local. It's one of your favourites places of Santo Padre, people there is kind and fun, the only things you need after a looooong week working without a break. “Hey, (Y/N)!”, you know Debbie is already drunk when she starts to shake a hand on air with a lot of energy and a happy smile in her lips. Oh, for god's sake. You also know that probably you'll have to bring her home, 'cause she'll not remember her own name at the end of the night.

“What's up, guys?”, you said, giving a hug to everyone at your table. You take a sit by Alex's side, your best friend. You met him four years ago at the supermarket. A random day talking about tomatoes and carrots, 'cause you love cook and those ones are your worst enemies in a sauce. That was pretty fun and you two always remember that fact when you're drunk. “What are you drinking, hm...?”, you ask looking every drink on the table with curiosity.

“Tequila!”, Debbie is on point, everybody start to laugh loudly. You shake your head before getting up to your way to the bartender. You wait with your arms supported on the bar, having a look around you. People dancing, drinking, talking about all and nothing, having a good time. And then, before you put your eyes again in the bartender, you can see a specific table. Leather jackets, tattoos, shitty faces, empty beers and rings decorating their fingers. Bikers. The Mayans ones. You know them, not personally, but who the hell didn't heard before about them in Santo Padre. They make the rules.

“Oh, god, please not tonight...” you whisper to yourself when one of the Mayans gets up and walk to your position. Supporting his worked body against the bar, he looks to you from top to down. You try to ignore him, making him believe you didn't notice his presence.

“Yo', I'm Angel, but I can be whoever you want me to be”, he offers you a hand waiting to be shake. A funny smile in his lips and you asking in silence to yourself if this works with other girls. It's not gonna work with you. You're not into bad boys.

“Great, congratulations”, you answer turning your no-friends face at him. He knows. You're not that easy.

“Hey, I'm tryin' to be friendly, what's wrong with ya'?”, he asks pretending to be offended, before he starts to laugh at you.

“I have a lot of friends, thanks”.

“Do ya' know who I am?”

“Yes, I buy at your father's carnicería”, you look at him, ignoring the fact that he's a Mayan and he wants to let you know.

At that moment, he already knows he's not gonna impress you with his Harley. So, he nods in silence and comes back to his table. You can see how his crew palm his back with peals of laughters for the lost battle. Another fallen soldier. A minutes later you come back to your table too, holding a beer between your fingers.

“Only you could say ‘no’ to a Mayan... Sweet Jesus, (Y/N), you're fucking crazy”, James shakes his head. You shrug having a sip of your drink.

“Well, I actually said ‘no’ to /this/ Mayan”. Of course you've been looking at them all, and you have your interest put in one specifically. But you have the suspicion that he's not gonna ask you out.

The night go on. You dance with your girls for long minutes and good latin songs. You're hips moves so easily that seems like you've been dancing all day long. Of course, alcohol has a lot to do on it. Also you're fucking happy you decided to put your Nikes shoes, when you're friends start to complaining about the pain they feel on their feet.

Without wanting, you collide with someone at your back. You turn at him putting your hands on his chest, with a loudly laugh in your throat. “Oh, god, I'm so sorry. You ok?”, you ask, before you know another Mayan is in your way. The younger one, maybe the one they call ‘prospect’. He nods smiling with a sweet gesture. EZ Reyes. You knew him at his father's shop two months ago.

“Are you having fun? Sorry 'bout my brother's shit”, he says pointing at him with a finger, just for a moment.

“Yeah, it's been a long time since I hanged out with my friends. And... don't worry about him. I can imagine how is him”.

“Really? Please, tell me”.

“He's not you. But you already know it, smart boy”.

“So, this fact lets me share a drink with you, ah?”

“Nice try, prospect”, you palm his chest with a hand, shaking your head before leaving him in the middle of the dance floor.

You come back to your own crew, they're looking at you with a incredulous gesture. Your mates think you're terrible and probably you're gonna die alone with this attitude. For the next five minutes, James and Shawn argues with you about you should accept a drink of one of them. You roll your eyes getting up and looking for a cigar in the inside-pocket of your jacket. You need some air after four beers and the loudly voices of your friends pushing you into the Mayans. It's not what you need and you start to think maybe Netflix and cold pizza was a good plan too.

You leave your back against the wall, with a leg flexed. Smoke goes out by your nose. Fresh air always help with this kind of situations, you can't stop thinking about the idea that you're almost on your twenty seven and you only had one boyfriend. The most asshole of all. You broke up with him last year and he continues calling you to tell you your a fucking shit, before starts to cry and telling you how much he miss you. He also went to your work a couple times with flowers. You hate flowers. You hate him. You have a horrible taste to choose men, so you prefer to be alone. But, that doesn't mean you don't wanna hang out with the Mayan your eyes are on.

“Bonita, have one?”

“Sorry, what?”, you turn to the man at your left. More tattoos than man, actually. He's looking the cigar between your fingers. In silence you give him the packet, so he can pick wichever he wants.

“You smashed Angel's ego, gurl'”, he says to you, adopting the same position by your side.

“I can do it the same with yours. Look, I go to war everyday, you're not gonna intimidate me”.

“Oh, really? I was sniper”, his proud smile points at you, turning his face to look at you a little better. Probably he thinks ‘between soldiers’ could be easier to share some drinks. Poor deluded.

“I work at a preschool”.

“Shit, gurrrrl”, he laughs having a puff away. “I'm Coco”.

“(Y/N)”, you say then. “Are you all try to ask me for a drink, or a date, or something like?”

“Eres muy bonita, we had to try”, he nods.

“Yeah, for sure. . . Is the only thing you matter about? I mean, I'm more than an ass and tits”, you throw the cigar to the floor when it finished, with a sigh in your lips.

“Hey, Coco! We're leaving!”, EZ voice makes appereance, few meters away. The crew have their helmet in their hands, near of the motorbikes they drive. Probably you're never gonna see them again, and you start to feel bad about the fact that the one he likes you didn't propose nothing. The man by your side shake his head one time saying goodbye, walking to his mates. Another sigh comes out. You start to move your legs with resignation, feeling a little like the Mayans you fucked up. Maybe he's not for you in anyway. Maybe there's no men for you, in the way you want. Find someone who shares similitudes with you it's hard. You're not complicated to understand or to treat, but looks like in Santo Padre is only bad boys or asshole or both.

“Go, try it, don't be stupid”.

“You don't have nothing to lose”.

“C'mon, Gilly”.

You can't avoid to hear the guys talking to the fourth one, pushing him away of his own bike. You try not to smile 'cause it's pretty fun how they think you're gonna say ‘no’ to him too. They're wrong. Very wrong. Secretly you've been watching him from your table, from the bar, from the dance floor, trying to get his attention. Yeah, he looks exactly like Angel, EZ and Coco. But he also looks like a good guy. You heard before some jokes he made and you have to tell that he's pretty fun.

“Fuck, Gilly. Go ask her”, EZ push him into your way, making you stop your steps.

“Oh, hey...”, he says with a hand on the nape of the neck. He looks nervous, maybe he's gonna sweat in a moment. Is trying not to look at you from top to down, keeping his eyes on yours. You cross your arms on your chest, with both eyebrows up waiting for another word. But he doesn't say anything, staring at you in silence.

You snort rolling your eyes. It's not your night, it's not your week. You turn around your feet, taking the door to pull it and go back to your table, maybe you'll finish your beer and go home.

“Wait, wait!” You hear his voice again, a big hand pushing the door to not be open. “I was... asking myself... if you...”

“Yeah?”

“Ifyouwouldliketohaveadatewithme?”

“Fockin' Gilly”, Coco talks sitting on his bike.

You look at him for a moment, before giving all your attention to the shy big guy in front of you.

“A date. You and me. You know... A date”, he repeats, more or less the same question.

“I thought you would never ask”.

“So... you want?”

You give him your phone, just to make it more interesting with the “I'll call you” shit men usually do. You're one step ahead as your three older brothers teached you. With a smile, he takes it typing his number.

“I'm Gilly”.

“Yeah, I heard it because your sniper friend”, you finally say. “My friends are more pretty than me”.

“You've been talking about maths and children with the guys”, he says then, pointing the fact that he's not like Coco, EZ and Angel. You can't avoid to smile, getting down your eyes at your shoes. You leave a lock of hair behind your ear.

“I'll call you”.

“I hope so”.

#gilly lopez x reader #gilly lopez #mayans mc #mayans mc x reader #mayans x reader #mayans mc imagine #angel reyes #coco cruz #ez reyes

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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

Text

Catch Me If You Can (28/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

A/n: I know everyone is caught up in JJ Sneed land if my dash is any indication, but I know some people are itching for a new chapter today! So here we are!

Also, everyone go check out this FANTASTIC piece of artwork from @imagnifika | here | because it’s awesome, and I’m still blown away by it and seeing this story come to life in someone else’s eyes! Let me stare at it forever. Thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke for reading all these words and being a great encourager! 💙

AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @stunningswan @eala-captian @galaxyzxstark @xellewoods @mariakov81 @ultraluckycatnd @royalswan @shey-starsfury @superchocovian @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @notoriouscs @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @qualitycoffeethings

-/-

There are technically eight different types of cookies, and it all depends on how exactly they’re baked or, well, not baked. This isn’t something Killian knew until about two o’clock this morning when he was googling cookie recipes desperate to find something other than chocolate chip cookies to bake. But then he got sucked into a wormhole of research and discovering the difference between rolled cookies, bar cookies, and dropped cookies.

Seriously. There is an entire website on the history of cookies. He looked at it for an hour. It’s kind of insane.

It’s also not really important to him, but weird things happen in the middle of the night, especially since he hasn’t been sleeping well the past few days and his mind needed to focus on something concrete.

That’s also how he ended up wandering to the nearest twenty-four-hour market at three in the morning to buy ingredients for black and white cookies, buckeyes, and sugar cookies. He doesn’t even know how or why he picked those three. All Killian knows is that he’s been stress baking for days now, something that’s a bit hard to do when he’s trying to take it easy on his right arm, and he’s pretty much wiped out all of his cabinets of the good ingredients.

His refrigerator, however, looks like a bakery threw up inside of it. He really needs to take some of the things to Liam and Elsa, but when he went to their house yesterday, all Addy and Lucy wanted to talk about was his arm and Emma and even though it was completely innocent, it was too much for him. He can’t quite go back to give them cookies if all they’re going to talk about is Emma.

Every bit of this is his fault. He owns up to that.

But it’s still too much.

The fact that Ariel, Eric, Will, and Robin are all pissed beyond belief at him doesn’t help. He’s sure that for the four of them things will go back to normal soon. He doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks they will. He’ll never be able to clutch his shoulder again without having someone yelling at him to go see a doctor, but that’s likely for the best.

(Killian should have gone to a fucking doctor.)

They all deserve the multitude of sweets in his fridge. He’d take them to each of their apartments now, but they’re all still too pissed that he lied to them over and over again. Plus, they’re leaving for Boston tomorrow morning and likely busy even though today is their last day off from the small break that they got after Labor Day.

He’s not leaving for Boston. He’s staying right here sitting on his ass surrounded by cookies.

Emma’s going to Boston. At least, he thinks that she is. She should be. He’ll have to ask her when she comes over.

When she comes over.

Emma is coming over today. In about fifteen minutes actually, and that’s entirely why he’s been stress baking (more than usual) throughout the entire night. Killian doesn’t even know how he looks right now. There are probably some major bags under his eyes and his hair is all over the place, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he had flour or icing or even both smeared all over him.

Shit. He hasn’t shaved in four days.

For some reason, it’s that that thought that has Killian dropping his piping bag he was using to frost the sugar cookies to turn the corner in his apartment and run down the hallway to get to his bedroom so he can shower. In the past few days, in all of his moping and self-inflicted misery, he managed to pick up all of Emma’s clothes and hung them in the closet. That might be a little too hopeful thinking, but it seemed like the natural thing to do.

The sticky notes, though, have stayed exactly where they are, and he looks at them before quickly twisting the nobs on his shower and stepping inside the moment the water gets to an acceptable temperature. He doesn’t have much time, so Killian picks up his body wash, leaving Emma’s where it is, and scrubs over his body while doing some light stretches with his shoulder. He needs to put another ice pack on there.

That’ll have to come after this.

Six minutes later, Killian is out of the shower. Two minutes after that, he’s dressed in a pair of his gym shorts and a t-shirt, one from a charity game he played last year, and after looking in the mirror, he knows that he doesn’t have time to shave, not if he wants to brush his teeth again.

He should probably brush his teeth for…reasons.

That’s optimistic.

Killian can’t help it. For four days he has felt his entire world crumbling around him, and it’s been his fault. He’s known that it was. There was no denying it even when he most wanted to, and he’s wanted to a hell of a lot.

Missing the rest of the season, possibly having to miss parts of the play-offs which could mean that he could miss the World Series, is obviously crushing. There’s no denying that. The game has been his life for nearly twenty-three years, and he doesn’t want to keep screwing things up. His track record might not show that, but it’s true. He’s going to try to be better. He’ll go to all of his therapy, tell those who need to know when he’s hurting, and he’s not going to overdo it. He’s not.

But as much as all of the stuff with his job is killing him, not having Emma to talk to is worse.

The game was his life for so long, and while he doesn’t want to say that Emma is his entire life now, she’s up there in the most important category.

Probably topping the list.

Everything about his life has her mark on it. From the clothes in his closet and the bottles in his shower to the coffee creamer in his fridge and the throw blanket that she left on his couch. There are all of these physical signs that show how she’s changed things, but he knows that a hell of a lot of how Emma has impacted his life comes in the way that he’s more conscious about spending times with his loved ones or the fact that his demons don’t seem to find him as much in the dark of the night. The smile that was missing for so many years has found its place again.

Emma didn’t fix his flaws. They’re all still there. But she has inadvertently helped him to be a better person.

Even if he is still screwing up and will continue to.

Killian loves Emma, and there is no denying that. None at all. He’d never try to.

“Why does it smell like Little Debbie threw up in here?”

Killian’s head turns at the sound of Emma’s voice, and even though it causes the slightest sting to his shoulder, he doesn’t care. Because she’s real and standing in front of him wearing running shorts and a tank top, her hair tucked into a Yankees cap so that he can’t really see the green of her eyes. But he can see the timid, hesitant smile, and he never wants her to be hesitant to see him again.

“How did you – ”

She holds up a key. “I have a key. Figured it was still okay for me to use it.”

“Yeah, love.” Killian smiles and grabs a clean hand towel to dry off his hair so he’s not soaking wet. “That’s perfectly fine.”

“Good. So why does it smell like Little Debbie threw up in here?”

“Stress baking. Do you want a cookie? Or brownies? I have a large parfait. There’s also a cake that was meant for…the other day, but it’s a damn mess.”

Emma lets out a small laugh and shakes her head while her hand reaches for the chain around her neck, her fingers fumbling with it. His breath hitches at the sight. Over the past few days, his hand has instinctively clutched for it, reaching out and trying to find something to hold onto, and every time he comes up empty. He gave that to Emma because he wanted her to have it, and nothing about that has changed.

His mom would want her to have it. She’d love Emma. Killian doesn’t remember that much about her, but he knows that she would love Emma. They have that same kind spirit and an infectious laugh that makes everyone else in the room want to laugh along.

Bloody breathtaking.

And hopefully the ring brought her luck and comfort when she got to commentate the other day, and hopefully she knew that he was cheering her on the entire time. He still hasn’t heard how that went. He almost watched the replay of the game so that he could see for himself, but it felt wrong to do that without Emma and to know that most of the tape would be focused on his injury anyways.

That’s not how it should be.

And maybe a part of him couldn’t handle hearing her voice as she had to speak after seeing him leave the mound.

“I might want a cookie later,” Emma says, shrugging her shoulder. “I feel like if I start eating now, I’ll consume everything like I’m a vacuum.”

“Isn’t that how you usually eat?”

She’s closer now, so he can see her roll her eyes. “I’m still mad at you, so I’d watch what you say.”

That sobers Killian up, the playful smile tugging at his lips disappearing into a firm line, and he nods his head while his left hand reaches up to scratch behind his head. “Aye. Do you want to go talk in the living room?”

“Yeah.”

Emma turns on her heel and walks out of his bedroom, and he’s following right behind her. As much as his stomach is absolutely churning right now, Killian knows that the sooner they have this talk, the better. Unless, of course, it ends with Emma ending things between them. That’s not for the better. If it’s what she wants, it’s what she wants, but he can’t believe that it’s for the better even if he is an idiot who likes to mess things up.

Emma grabs her throw blanket from the basket and sits down in his oversized arm chairarmchair, settling herself in like she’s comfortable here, and he likes that she’s still comfortable here. That comforts him. Killian doesn’t grab a blanket, but he does sit down on the couch and pull a pillow to his chest so that he has something for his hands to do.

Is his heart still working? He’s not sure.

“How’s your arm?” Emma starts. This is probably the conversation she feels most comfortable with, and he doesn’t blame her.

“It’s okay. I need to ice it soon, but I’ll be fine. Just a lot of resting it, which is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Do you want to ice it now?”

“No, no, Swan. It’s fine. I promise. I know – I’m sorry that I lied to you.” They aren’t the words Killian meant to say quite yet, but he does mean them. “I truly am. I can’t express how much of an idiot that I am. I hid away something really damn important from everyone when I should have shared it the first time my arm started hurting. I should have gone through the steps of preventing this. I should have told you what really happened with my accident. I should have told you everything that I didn’t tell you, and I can’t imagine how shitty it makes you feel that I didn’t.”

Emma scoffs. “Pretty shitty.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I just – ” She lets out a big sigh and adjusts the blanket over her legs again. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I know you’re sorry, and I believe you when you say that. I’m sorry that you’ve been going through all of this alone and that you haven’t felt like you could tell someone, but it did…it does hurt me that you couldn’t tell me. People have always let me down, and – ”

“I never intended to let you down.”

Emma smiles, something soft and a little sad, and he swears that it breaks his heart the slightest bit. “I know that. It took running far too much, eating my weight in food, and then having Ruby talk some sense into me, but I know. And it’s why I’m going to choose to see the best in you.”

Good.

Good. This is going a hell of a lot better than he thought it would, but he’s still terrified that maybe he doesn’t deserve this forgiveness from her.

“And I you.”

“I mean, there wasn’t a lot of bad to see about me.”

Killian laughs, for what is probably the first time in days, and something inside of him rights itself so that the pieces of the puzzle continue to click into place instead of being all mixed together.

“Well, not in this particular situation, no.”

Emma’s smile is a little more hopeful now, and he watches it change as she tugs on the brim of her baseball cap. “Why didn’t you tell anyone, Killian? Be honest with me. If we’re going to continue to make this work, and I really do want to make this work, you have to be honest with me. I’m done with guys who aren’t honest.”

He knew this question was coming, has had to answer it before, but no answer seems like it’s enough. They all fall short, and he knows that’s because he fell short in who everyone was expecting him to be. In who he was expecting himself to be too.

“I was scared. That sounds like such a pathetic excuse, but it’s my truth. I have been through a hell of a lot of ups and downs in the past nine years, and I had finally gotten out of the downs when the accident happened. I worked so damn hard, love. I – ” He stops to take a breath, still at a loss for words since it all sounds ridiculous and yet makes perfect sense in his mind. “I finally had my life back on track. Things were going really well for me, and I was pissed that it was all taken away from me because some kids were drunk and driving a boat. I didn’t think I’d ever get the game back, but I did, you know? I was on top of the world, so when my arm started to hurt again, despite all of my better judgment, I figured if I never said anything, I’d never have it all taken away from me. And not telling you about any of it…I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want you to think of me as being any more broken than I already am.”

That’s it. That’s his truth. There’s no altering it or making it better or making him seem like less of an idiot. That’s simply it.

Emma said she’d see the best in him. He hopes that’s true.

For a moment he thinks it’s not because Emma is rising from her chair, and he fully expects her to walk out the door despite everything they’ve already said today and when they talked in Elsa’s office. But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she walks toward him and very slowly places her knees on either side of his thighs and leans down to sit on his lap so that they’re nearly eye level when the palms of her hands land on his cheeks and he can finally see the green of her eyes again underneath her baseball cap.

He’s now realizing the cap is his.

And it feels really damn good to feel the touch of Emma’s hands again. That’s also what has him wrapping his arms around her lower back and tugging her closer while Emma continues to rub her thumbs under his eyes in soothing circles.

“Killian, I am obviously not the most emotionally equip person in the world and am not the best with words, but you have to know that you and me, we both have shitty pasts. We both have things that we’re terrified of and sensitive to, and I think that’s why we work. You understand that I’m not going to leap head first into things, and I understand that you have this weird sense of self-loathing that you shouldn’t have. You were terrified of losing something you love. I would be too.”

“You were pretty damn good with words there.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about things.”

“I like you thinking.”

“Funny, most men don’t.”

Killian chuckles and leans forward to rest his head against Emma’s shoulder, and he takes the moment to breathe her in and breathe in the smell of her perfume. The pillow next to his has smelled like hers for the past few days, but it’s nothing compared to the real thing.

“I’m not going to lie to you again,” he mumbles into her skin while her hands start messing with his hair so that vibrations are running down his spine. “Or my family. Or my teammates. I promise I’ll be smarter, yeah?”

He tilts his head up to look at Emma, and he’s about to say something else when she leans forward and presses her mouth to his. He’s kissed her hundreds of times, probably more than that – he’s not counting – but there’s something different about the way that her mouth moves over his now. It’s slower, more passionate even if he knows it isn’t leading to something more than this, and the raw emotion of it all travels from his lips to the pit of his stomach before moving back up to his heart and constricting it.

But in the best way.

Killian has missed her.

He has missed the sound of her laugh and the way that she hogs the entire couch. He has missed the way she tastes and the fact that she never seems to put her dishes away on time. He has missed the notebooks she leaves around with all of her mid-game scribbling and the way that she can’t seem to make up her mind on what she wants to eat for dinner. Barely any time has passed, but not knowing exactly what’s coming next even more than usual has put a hell of a lot of things in perspective for him.

His love for Emma is one of the most important things in his life, and he doesn’t want to ever jeopardize it again by not being able to own up to his past and how it still has a stranglehold on his present.

Killian gently pecks her lips one, two, three times before trailing along the side of her neck and peppering kisses against her skin, never moving his hands from where they’re holding her to him.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, the desperation obvious in his own ears. “You have no idea.”

“I think I might have a bit of an idea,” Emma laughs as he leans back to look at her again, the brightest smile he’s seen all day stretched across her lips. “I love you too, by the way. But I still hope everyone you know gives you shit about this whole thing until we all know for sure that you’re not going to keep hiding things as important as your health.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he sighs. “Now, I don’t know about you, Swan, but my girlfriend had a very big day at work the other day, and I still haven’t heard about it.”

“Oh, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, no. I want to hear every detail. I almost watched the tape, but I figured that’d be a little miserable hearing your voice while watching myself be an idiot on the field.”

“Yeah, that would probably suck.”

“Exactly. So, tell me all about it. I’m all ears.” Emma opens her mouth, but he stops her. “Aye, I know – little pointy ones.”

Emma does tell him all about it. For a few minutes, she’s kind of fumbling around trying to find her storytelling stride, but then she settles in and knows exactly where she’s going with her tale. She’s not one to talk a lot, even when it comes to him, but when it’s something that Emma is passionate about, she could talk for hours without taking a breath.

Emma is passionate about this.

He can tell in the way the smile on her face rarely dissipates and with how she keeps using her hands far more often than she normally was. Plus, her voice gets that little bit higher in pitch, and he has to bite his tongue not to tease her about it. He also has to bite his tongue when she starts detailing all of the petty little ways that Isaac and James tried to demean her instead of acting like professionals. Emma promises that it wasn’t too bad, but Killian can tell that their little digs bothered her, especially the ones about her integrity and him.

Killian shudders at the thought of their relationship becoming public because of the hell hole that it’ll put Emma into no matter how respected she is in her field by those who actually know what they’re talking about.

A part of that will always be on him and his actions of ten months ago, but he’s under strict instructions not to apologize for that again. And right nownow isn’t about him and his own self-loathing. He’s already taken away days of both of their lives for that, and he’s not going to do that any longer.

Right here, right now…this is about Emma finally getting to do something she’s dreamed about.

He does get up in the middle of her going on about what it was like after his injury – which sounds more than horrific for her – to get his ice pack, and that causes them to trail off onto all of the exact details of his tendonitis and his treatment. He promises Emma that it’s truly not that bad, but that his case is a little bit more intense with his history and the particular severity of it all. That’s when she asks him when exactly it hurts, and the pain on her face when he tells her he can feel it pretty much any time he moves his right arm more than a few inches is not a pained face he wants to keep on seeing from her.

But it only gets worse when Killian details that sometimes it’s so bad that it wakes him up from sleep, and Emma starts to piece together all of the times she’s woken up in the middle of the night to find him out of bed at odd hours.

Bloody idiot. That’s exactly what he is.

It’ll get better though, with rest and physical therapy and a little bit of luck, and as much as it sucks, it could be worse. This could all be worse. He’s not going to let it, though, as he’s not going to be dumb enough to not get treatment and to keep pushing himself further than his physical limits.

And as much as Killian would like to be able to hover over Emma and roll his hips into hers and join their bodies together after what feels like forever apart even if it’s only a few days, he knows that he’s not quite physically able to today. Emma, though, the spirited lass that she is, lets a smirk curl across her lips as she directs him back to his bedroom and tells him to lie on his back as she takes the lead so that he doesn’t have to move his shoulder too much.

Creative solutions have always been the best solutions.

It’s glorious being joined with Emma again, feeling her warmly wrapped around him as she moves above him in slow circles that have him dying in the haze of ecstasy. His mom’s ring falls between her breasts with each movement, and his good arm reaches up to toy with it. She’s going particularly slow, each roll of her hips seemingly meaning something deeper, and as good as it feels, a part of him thinks it’s some kind of torture since she knows he can’t do most of the things he’s usually capable of doing.

The sly smile on her face when he tries to thrust up into her and go deeper inside of her tells him that he’s right.

The minx.

And if slow and steady is what Emma wants, it’s exactly what she’ll get. She’s always been one to take charge.

The heat simmering between them must eventually begin to burn, however, because the rolls of her hips become faster and she places his hand where they’re joined so that he can help her find her bliss in the few minutes before he finds his, little shocks of electricity working down to the base of his spine as he comes undone with Emma’s name on his lips and his love for her curling around each and every other word that he manages to mutter.

Almost losing her, even if he didn’t think this would truly tear them apart despite the way his mind kept convincing him that it would, has made him appreciate Emma in ways that he hadn’t before.

He thought he appreciated her in every way, but there are always things to learn.

“I have so many damn cookies,” Killian laughs later, after they’ve cleaned up and crawled back under the covers, a new pack of ice on his shoulder and his body pleasurably aching. “I have no idea what I’m going to do with them.”

Emma laughs against his chest where she’s curled up, her hand over his heart and her feet tucked in between his calves so that they’re back where they belong. “I would say I could take them with me on the road trip, but then I’d have to check a bag to get them with me through TSA. Or maybe not. I’m always confused on the food thing.”

Oh.

He’d nearly forgotten that life was moving on outside of his bedroom and this bed and the freckles scattered over Emma’s skin. The only clothing she has on is the necklace, and he’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“So, you are going to Boston then?”

Emma hums. “And then Detroit after that. I have off for the Blue Jays, though, so I’ll be coming back home instead of going to Canada.”

His hand scratches against her back, drawing lines and words and anything that he can simply to feel her again. “I hate that I’m not going to be traveling with you.”

“It’s going to be kind of weird,” she whispers before pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m going to have a hotel bed to myself.”

“To be fair, you pretty much always have the bed to yourself even when I am around.”

“You have been forgiven for about two hours now, and you’re already talking shit about my bed hogging. That’s a bold move there, Jones.’

“Oh, I know,” he yawns, his lack of sleep catching up to him even if it’s only six in the evening, “but I’ve slept alone for a few days now, and let me tell you, it’s glorious.”

Emma scoffs against his chest before sitting up so that she’s looking down at him under her mess of wild blonde hair that’s curling over her chest. “You’re being an ass.”

“Well, we have undoubtedly decided that I am an ass, right?”

“Pretty much.”

Emma’s arms stretch over her head, the muscles of her stomach on display, before she’s rolling off of the bed and standing up so that he has a particular good view of her ass that has his body humming. But then she’s walking to his dresser and pulling out a t-shirt to put on. She obviously pulled it from the back because it’s an older one he hasn’t seen in years, and he imagines he’ll probably never see it again with Emma’s penchant for stealing his things.

“You going somewhere, love?”

“Yeah,” she sighs as the t-shirt lifts from her thighs when she’s pulling her hair back up into a messy bun on the top of her head. “You have a bowl of icing in your kitchen, and the TV in the living room is better than the TV in here. If we’re not going to the US Open because I don’t want to leave this apartment until I absolutely have to, I’m going to watch it here.”

“Do you want me to join you?”

“Eh,” she teases, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t really care. Apparently, I am a bed hog, so I’m leaving you here to have the entire bed by yourself while I go lounge about on the couch eating the sweets you made while you were mooning over me.”

“You’re impossible.”

Emma winks. “And you love me for it.”

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 17: The Show Must Go On

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Because tomorrow is no longer guaranteed the gang decides to spend a night at the theatre. In which Cal despises Shakespeare, Garrus and Krom go on an unofficial first date, and Taylor confronts his father.

[READ IT ON AO3]

He’s honestly surprised the director even bothers reaching out to him.

“Given everything your cousin has told me about the problems you have going on right now, I’m sure this isn’t really a surprise. I’ve taken the liberty of filing a personal leave of absence for you.” And Taylor just knows that was the happiest day of Antoni’s life…

“Even though you can’t be in the show, though, you’re still welcome to come Sunday. Hoping that, obviously, things have cleared up on your end by then. Just text me your head count before noon day-of, okay?”

It’s the first real and true good thing to happen without immediate consequence so far. And of course he tries to blow it off, tries to tell everyone he has absolutely no plans to put anyone else at risk just for the selfish sake of seeing a play he’s worked on for months and doesn’t even get to be in.

Not that anyone lets him finish before they straight-up tell him he’s wrong, he’s going, and if all hell breaks loose then they’ll deal with it when it happens.

“But the wards —”

“The wards have proven themselves useless,” Garrus interrupts with no small level of frustration; accepting the vulnerability of his sanctuary hasn’t been easy on the man, “we’re just as exposed here as you would be there. And I refuse to cower in fear. If they were going to attack they would have by now — don’t stop living your life because of what might happen.”

Surprisingly, too, Katherine makes a good point; “We might actually be safer surrounded by all those mundanes. A high fatality rate isn’t what the Elders are after, that much is certain.”

It’s about the only thing any of them are certain of.

So there’s really no way around it.

Sunday morning he tries to take a head count. Doesn’t argue when Vera, despite the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes, insists that of course she wants to come. She doesn’t say it but its obvious she could use time away from the hospital and her mother’s bedside.

Nik’s phone vibrates on the table and Taylor glances just because he’s nearby. On really good timing the man chooses then to wander out from the bedroom — rubbing his hair vigorously with his towel.

“Kathy said she and Cade are down if we don’t mind.” One look and Taylor regrets it so bad. He’s not certain, but there’s absolutely no way all of his shirts have miraculously shrunk, right?

He totally has to buy them just shy of too tight.

Not that Taylor’s complaining. Nope. No complaining here.

Ryder gives a noncommittal grunt and shrug as he passes. “Your shindig, your choice.”

“I mean they’re our friends, so…”

There’s a pause; a lag in the matrix if you will, between when Nik stops in front of the fridge and actually opens it. Keeps his back turned as he replies, “Then the more the merrier.”

He doesn’t need to be part fae to know what that’s about — but it doesn’t hurt.

The concept of friends is plural and consistent. And just as weird for him as it is for the loner Nik is accustomed to being.

Yesterday was hard and heavy.

Today is no better from a cosmic point of view.

But its softer around the edges; the difference between being stabbed with a wicked sharp dagger and being punched in the face.

Nik all but flops down on the couch beside him; pushes the open guide on reading and interpreting tarot that Taylor’s been pouring over away with a socked foot.

“I was reading that.”

“Oops.” The only unapologetic apology he’s getting, too, so he takes it.

Its been nearly twenty-four hours since his emotional breakdown and in that time he’s learned more about Ryder — and vice versa — than would have been shared on five, six dates tops. Things that wouldn’t come up without specific and out-of-left-field context, too.

Like the fact that Nik is a cheap-ass (this he knew) who has a serious case of the moonlight munchies — two things that mix about as well as oil and water. So it makes sense now why half of the fridge’s sparse contents are signature drink and cocktail add-ons.

Does it justify the fact that a fully grown man is sitting very close to him popping green olives like pieces of candy? Not in the fucking slightest.

But he knows what’s going to happen the second Nik sees his disgust — tries his best to turn away before he’s caught. Only he’s not quick enough and its too late.

“Want one?” Nik asks even though he knows the answer.

He doesn’t have time to deflect because the man picks one up and tosses it — doubles over in laughter when it bounces off Taylor’s cheek, falls to the floor, and rolls under the nearest chair to die alone.

“What are you,” he fake-gags and wipes his cheek angrily, “twelve years old?”

His glare very nearly breaks under the sheer audacity of Ryder’s pouting face. Only nearly because there’s no fucking way he’s kissing that offensive mouth no matter how closely the man leans in. “Aw c’mon Rook — jus’ one kiss!”

“Get away from me! Ew!”

“You know you like me~”

“Wrong! Incorrect! You disgust me!”

And of course they’re joking but he’s maybe a little too loud in his protests. Earns himself a haughty snort and a glare directed at his feet of all things.

“You walk around barefoot and I’m the disgusting one.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Uh, I do — so I win.”

Despite the fact that they had spent the previous hours getting to know not only (truly repulsive) snacking habits but also (much less repulsive, like the opposite of repulsive actually) one another’s mouths, Nik follows the same pattern each time. Roams his eyes over every inch of Taylor’s face like he’s gung-ho on taking the test in his sleep — drags a fingernail feather-light over the scruff on his jawline.

Their first time hadn’t been enough to ward him away and for that Taylor’s pretty fucking grateful. But it left a mark on him. No doubt its the reason why he always takes five whole agonizing seconds between the start and the follow-through.

Like he’s giving Taylor time to pull back; to reject him without consequence.

Maybe one day they’ll laugh about it. A silly habit no longer necessary. Because there’s always a breath hidden in the meeting of mouths that tastes of bitter relief.

Nik is relieved — not once, or twice, but every single time.

Which is more than a little tragic when he gives it a deep thought. He tries not to — really, he does.

Its easy not to think about anything at all when they’re kissing.

So that’s something.

Taylor knows that glamours serve a specific purpose; to disguise the average not-human supernatural person among the average yes-human person.

He’s even come to terms with how easily they fade into the background now. How he can scan a crowd and catch a glimpse of hooves in place of boots or a tail whipping its way behind someone trying to pass by. He considers his largest achievement to be not jumping ten feet in the air at the difficult-to-describe sight of ghosts possessing glamoured bodies.

But he can know and process all of these things and still be almost alarmingly paranoid about the trio of Krom, Garrus, and Ivy waiting in line behind them, right?

Nik grabs his head before he can look back for the umpteenth time; turns it back forward with a grunt. “The only one looking weird here is you, Rook. Everyone else sees regular folk.”

And he knows that, he does. But… “Do you ever stop worrying about it, like, slipping or something?”

“Not my problem if it does.”

“Well yeah, but…” The line shuffles forward and he trails off. Probably better not to give those particular anxieties a life of their own by voicing them aloud.

He doesn’t have to anyway, apparently. Since Taylor finds himself pulled against Nik’s side, feels warm breath tickle in his ear.

“Don’t worry. You still look completely human.”

“For now.”

The performer playing Puck stands in half-costume at the front of the line with a clipboard in hand. He has a whole two-point-five seconds to remember her name — Dana? Debbie? D-something. D-something… fuck there are too many D-something names! — before its their turn to enter the theatre.

Daphne! It comes to him like a holy revelation as she starts to go through the motions — only to notice the name and double-take in surprise.

“Hey Hunter, how’s it going?” Her small-talk is strained but polite. They’ve run lines together and he can vaguely recall being educated on her literal herd of mini dachshunds once, but whatever his ‘cousins’ gave by way of excuse for him pulling out of the show is enough to make her sheepish.

He makes a mental note to corner Garrus for the full story after the show. Especially since ‘cousin’ is a more-or-less accurate term these days.

“Uh, you know,” a one-shouldered shrug, “hanging in there. You excited?”

To her credit as an actress she checks off each body accompanying him, all eight of them, without batting an eye.

“Totally. I’m just glad the actual opening night ain’t until Mardi Gras is over, you know?”

“Director didn’t let you work the beads into your improv then I take it?”

They share a laugh. She waves them inside.

Only when they’re around a corner does Taylor let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Vera gives him a nudge. “You okay?”

“Yeah — was it just me or was that…”

Cal pokes his head in between them. “Awkward as hell? No—it wasn’t just you.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

In less than a week he’s forgotten how to, well, be human. Socialize with humans, talk casually with humans. Its unnerving — not only that but it serves to remind him by the way the Coven and their pet skeleton assassin are still out there.

None of this is even close to being over and he’s already forgotten small talk?

What else might be lost along the way?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ too much about something.”

Taylor’s smile is strained and not enough to ease Nik’s doubts. What did he expect though; that one soulful look from those fathomless eyes, or a touch that sends shivers down his spine, or one of those disarmingly sincere smiles is all it would take to make him forget his worries completely?

If only it were that simple. Not that he’s turning any of those things down — no no, he’s free to keep trying as many times as he’d like.

Its a half-full house on purpose; one full run in front of a crowd before a week of changes to make the final thing as smooth as possible.

And it was supposed to be Taylor’s time to shine; a performance of understudies. He’s told himself there will be other opportunities, that this is for the best given what’s going on. He wanted to come to support his fellow actors — to celebrate in all the work they’ve done over the last few months.

He didn’t think it would be that hard to watch. Then the space goes dark and silence falls in a warm velveteen hush.

The trio of Theseus, Hippolyta, and Philostrate take the stage — a different blocking than what they used at his last rehearsal.

The heels of his palms are pressed hard to stop his tears before Theseus even opens his mouth.

To his left Vera lets out a soft noise; both sad and comforting as her tentative hand on his shoulder turns into slow circular motions on his back. And he knows the heat-leeching palm behind him is Cal. Cal didn’t even want to come — had made it very clear there was once a school play, a bad batch of cafeteria vegetables, and a lifelong aversion to Shakespeare whose details would never again see the light of day. But there he is giving comfort where he can. He’s probably glad for something else to focus on than the stage but he knows Cal by now — knows he does nothing without meaning to do it.

Just when Taylor’s sure he’s going to have to make a mad dash for the doors, however, a familiar hand slides into his. Nik’s focus is still intent on the scene unfolding but he squeezes his fingers and doesn’t seem to care about the tears between their palms.

He’s supposed to be up on that stage. He’s supposed to be sweating under the heat of the lights and praying to the thespian gods that the tape on his mic holds fast. He’s supposed to be giving the performance of his life to an audience of friends and loved ones knowing Kristin was back in New York, that his mother couldn’t make it, and that there was no one watching that was there just for him.

Instead he’s here in the crowd. Instead he’s surrounded by friendship’s concern and holding the hand of the guy who seems to be making it a habit of standing in between him and certain death.

Instead he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

When the lights slide back on for intermission Cadence whirls around in his seat, arm thrown over the back, to practically barrage Krom with questions about artistic representation, choices made and things changed.

It feels a little bit like being back in a college classroom. Not the first time Cade has that effect on people.

“I — I really only helped with small stuff,” the stone troll stammers his protests, “heavy lifting or working on things normal people couldn’t reach.”

“But you’re a writer are you not?”

“An amateur at best…”

But the vampire isn’t having it. “Nonsense, I’ve caught snippets of your work. I only mean —”

“Ugh, just humor the man will you?” Katherine groans, rolls her head back on her own seat with a lighthearted glare between the two.

Nik pulls Taylor’s attention away from their talk with an arm around his shoulder. “How’s it so far? On the other side of the stage.”

“They changed a few things —” — more than a few, and more to do with Oberon than any other character so three guesses who made that call — “— but I honestly just keep counting their steps for the blocking.”

“Nerd,” scoffs the man, and Taylor isn’t exactly going to deny it.

Actually, since they have a second…

Last he knew, being borderline psychic was his thing, not Ryder’s. But Nik’s moved his legs before Taylor even stands and makes him backtrack real quick on that.

“I figured you’d wanna go say hey to them, or whatever,” and though that’s the spoken explanation Taylor can’t stop himself from feeling the real intention behind it.

He just cares.

He ducks his head to hide a flushed smile; murmurs “thanks” and lets his lips linger at the corner of Nik’s mouth as he shimmies into the aisle.

Only when he’s at the door does it occur to him that this thing between them is a recent one, and they’ve not mentioned things like public affection. But judging by the look he throws over his shoulder — catches Ivy hitting the man on the arm repeatedly and the bewildered grin on her undead face?

Its just another thing to tease him over.

Its standard stuff; the small lines by the bathrooms, crew members in their all-black ensembles bustling this and that around. All things he’s familiar with — that he doesn’t bat an eye at.

Then he spares a glance — less than that, actually, calling it a glance is somehow generous — down one of the hallways leading to further seating. The lights are off, the doors no doubt locked. Makes sense for an audience this size.

He doesn’t know why he does. Only knows both suddenly and all at once who he’ll see in the shadows beyond.

Taylor wants so badly to just ignore it. To reach out and knock on the doors to the maze of back rooms and do exactly what he planned on; congratulating his fellow performers.

But he doesn’t.

By now Taylor’s helped Garrus enough in the bottomless pit he calls a storage room to know that fae folk don’t ‘glow.’ They just always look like they do.

Elric, too, looks like he snatched a few moonbeams for himself on his way inside.

The shadows don’t retreat from him but they are withered by his presence; by the aura of him. Had he looked like that in Lamrian, as natural as light itself? Or was he witnessing yet another new facet to his senses brought on by interference of the man who really shouldn’t be here.

When Taylor opens his mouth to speak nothing comes out; a dozen questions all fighting to leap from the tip of his tongue and giving him pause.

Finally he settles on something more akin to an accusation.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t mean to wound the fae Lord — but also won’t deny that the recoil of remorse he gets in response isn’t a teeny bit satisfying.

“No, I should not.”

“Glad we agree.” Of course he wants to ask why are you here but he shouldn’t have to.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t. “I caught whispers of this event within your mind. Lines from a script, a dedication — a pride. I wished to see what it truly was. Living Memories are shaped by the person to whom the memories belong.”

And here he had thought he’d be spared of a headache tonight, of all nights.

“I — what I — there’s so much to unpack there,” and nothing amused in his dry laugh either, “so we’ll start with the fact that I didn’t do a—a Living Memory-thing. I don’t even know how.”

“To accept Memories is to offer up your own.”

“Gee, that would have been nice to know.”

“Do not blame yourself —”

“Oh, I’m not. No worries there.”

“I should have explained it to you. Not then; not in such dire times.”

“Then when?”

“Long before now.” Elric’s eyes are like diamonds; diamonds twisted into sharp, construction-grade drills trying to puncture holes straight through him. The intensity is unnerving if he’s being honest.

About as unnerving as getting what he’s pretty sure is a ‘More Proactive Parent’ apology from this guy he literally just met the other night. Not even a guy — a fae.

Elric reaches out as if to touch his hand. The movement is enough — breaks Taylor from his little trance so he can pull back. Pale fingers instead close around air and grieve their mistake.

“I did not like the way things were left in Lamrian, Taylor.”

Taylor — like he has any right to say the name he chose all on his own.

“That’s your problem. But yeah, I can see how refusing to help your own son to save yourself might leave a bad taste in your mouth.”

It’s a very nice burn, high five kind of moment right up until the shadows creep up onto the fae’s expression. “I have the safety of an entire community to put first. Forgive me for prioritizing my life’s work and the many lives under my care over the child who only seems to acknowledge our connection when it suits his insults.”

Damn… nice burn… high five…

“Are you, Taylor?”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Am I what?”

“Are you acknowledging me as your…?” He leaves it hanging there, juicy bait in murky waters. And Taylor isn’t starving — not quite yet — but he’s definitely not full either.

He glances back to the theatre atrium.

The background noise is quieter down here but soon enough everyone will be heading back to their seats. No doubt the curtain won’t even be fully opened before Nik is bounding out the doors to find him.

“Look, Lord Elric…”

Who acts like the title brings him pain; “Please, call me —”

“— I’m not calling you Dad; or Pop, Father, or any variation thereof —”

“If you would listen as often as you speak. I would ask you to call me Elric.”

Even that feels like a boundary they shouldn’t cross. What good is to come of being friendly, getting to know one another — especially when he’s facing the very likely chance of being dead by Tuesday?

On the other hand, whispers a voice in the back of his head, what’s the harm in getting to know your actual father — especially facing the very likely chance of being dead by Tuesday?

First, how rude can you be? Second, nobody asked you, rude little voice.

But after several dragging moments of internal arguing the voice ends up winning. Still rude though.

“What do you want out of this, Elric? What did you hope to gain from coming here?”

He looks almost affronted. “I wished to… connect with you. You are… my child. A miracle I had not even believed let alone known of.”

My child. Two simple words that ring in his ears unpleasantly.

“My plate’s full enough. I don’t know if I have room for ‘connecting.’”

“Would it not be worth trying?”

Taylor throws his hands up in exasperation. “Maybe! Fuck — maybe… maybe if I wasn’t so scared of dying. Or if I thought I had the time. But whatever the Coven Elders are planning it’s —”

Elric’s eyes widen, but that isn’t what cuts him off. Every hair on his body stands up at the same time. Without a chill, without a touch. It’s a feeling; powerful and consuming and coming from the fae Lord.

“Oh right,” because Elric refused to help and they’d gone to the Elders and that was that, “you don’t know. Yeah, the Coven’s the one who summoned the wraith. It’s a whole thing — I don’t have the time to go into it and I kinda don’t even want to because tonight was supposed to be one last attempt at normal but joke’s on me I guess.”

“You will make the time.”

He’d consider going at him for trying to use what he probably thinks is a tone of fatherly authority on Taylor — if it wasn’t so strikingly familiar. Commanding the wisdom and strength of his years both gone and yet to come. It demands respect, to be heard and the weight of every word understood.

Its the Elric he’d met for the first time in the Beau-Keyes Garden, and its kind of a relief.

Would have been useful yesterday, though.

He sums the encounter up as best he can; keeps throwing looks back over his shoulder as a sort of passive-aggressive-meets-non-confrontational way of saying he’s being held up.

And yes, logically he should be happy Elric is changing his tune no matter the reason. But he’s petty and spiteful and hey, nobody’s perfect.

By the time Taylor finishes Elric is already deep in thought — strings of thought becoming ropes, knots; an intricate web displayed across his entire person with just a look.

Another one of those looks he’s seen in the mirror, actually.

But they’re just thoughts. Not actions. He doesn’t need to be a little psychic to know that.

“No doubt my breath would be a wasted one were I to ask you to return to Lamrian with me.”

Elric means well — but that doesn’t make it any better.

“What, like — leave my friends behind to die and abandon the entire community that doesn’t even know what’s coming for it?”

He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t have to. “And—And what would I do,” continues Taylor, “just hang out with you and your wife, maybe do something productive like learn the pan flute or whatever?”

“This is not a matter to make light of.”

“You’re damn right it isn’t!” Fuck it, he’s shouting and doesn’t care who hears now. “I can’t believe you. Cowering in safety alone is one thing but to try and drag me down with you? That’s messed up; you’re messed up.”

“You do not know of what you speak — of the centuries our kind spend trying to conceive.”

“I’m not one of you.”

“You are, denying it hurts only yourself. By all accounts you are a miracle, Taylor. But children among the fair folk are few and far between. So for you to stand there — to twist my words as though they mean nothing…”

It’s a little hard to keep his composure when Elric’s voice cracks. It doesn’t make any of it okay — not by a long shot — but there’s a wrongness to that tone normally even and cultured sounding choked with emotion.

He even tries to swallow it down. It doesn’t work. “I have seen the cost of bravery. And to see you so passionate — so determined to fight this battle that I am certain was never meant to be yours. It ensnares me in a way you cannot yet understand. Pride overtakes me, yet I am made immobile.

“I have seen enough in my life to know when fighting is parallel to dying. No matter how brief the battle or noble the purpose there are some forces that cannot be overcome.”

He takes Taylor’s hand. Clammy and cold and he tries to hide it but Taylor knows the effects of a panic attack from personal experience that no matter how refined the otherworldly creature is you can’t always hide the tremors in your fingertips.

Like before he feels a tug in his gut. Something hooking into his center of gravity and puling him, or his essence, closer.

Hears the fae clear in his mind; terrified, heartbroken, too much.

I could not bear the sight of you among the casualties. Do not ask it of me. I beg of you.

Over-thinking about the heartbreak in every word, about the things he can’t possibly understand that allow Elric to feel so much and so hard for a person he doesn’t know — it’s not a luxury Taylor can afford right now. And not just because the emotional depth it requires might very well bring him to tears again.

So he squeezes that pale grip tight, the only solidarity he allows himself to muster, then lets go.

“I can’t.”

“Taylor —”

“No, really Elric, I can’t.” He steps back; creates distance between them both physically and on a deeper level. “I wasn’t supposed to be a part of this — I wasn’t. I’m only being targeted because of you; because I’m your son. You know what the Elders called me? They called me an ‘unseen complication.’ And up until right now it’s really bugged me. By all accounts I’ve not made anything complicated except for the lives of my friends.

“But maybe I’m not done yet, you know? Maybe there’s more for me to do. Probably not, let’s be real, but I have to try. Nik— Nik is trying, and he’s never done that before. Kathy and Cade don’t have any stake in this but they keep trying because they’re good people. Cal wants to make this city safer for his brother and Vera… she could have run back to New York at any time but she hasn’t.

“I’m not gonna stand here and say I fully understand what’s going on. But that doesn’t mean I should cut and run. I think its because I don’t know jack-shit that I can do the most good. Or, you know, at least try to.”

He falters at the end; never one to finish strongly in situations like these. Would he like for Elric to stay, to try like the rest and do some good — of course.

But any part of him left hesitant about his involvement is gone now. So he can thank the fae for that at the very least.

Wow, is this what emotional growth feels like? That warm feeling in his chest spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes, the pride in his actions, the sense of accomplishment however small?

Kristin is going to be so proud of him when she wakes up.

He doesn’t realize he’s waiting for Elric to respond until he inhales deeply. Looks Taylor over with those same eyes somehow changed. Like he’s really seeing him for the first time.

“You are brave — braver than most.”

“No I’m really not. But I’m scared enough to want to do something about it.”

“Very well. Whatever you wish to call it… the quality is an admirable one.”

“You should try it out sometime.”

“Perhaps you can show me how, one day.” But not this day.

That’s it then. The arguing, the impassioned speeches, all of it and Elric still plans on hiding.

Fine. He’s done trying to make the man see reason.

“I’m gonna get back to the show — my company’s worked hard for this and even though I’m not up there, I deserve the chance to see it through.”

Just as resigned as he had been in Lamrian, Elric closes himself off when he tucks his clasped hands in his sleeves. Beautiful embroidery becoming his wall against the world.

Against the terrible things about to happen.

“You will find no time has passed,” he says to Taylor’s surprise, “I had hoped you would return with me. The chance to say farewell to your companions was the least I could offer.”

Implications aside… “Thanks, I guess. I’ll see you around, Elric.”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy.”

He’s halfway down the hall when a definite something comes over him. Is there such a thing as too much emotional growth? It tastes a little bit like he’s downed a shot of vinegar.

It makes him turn back; it knows the other man is still there — watching.

“You risked your life coming here — in person.”

Elric nods. “Yes.”

“All the things you’re staying out of the fight for; your people, Thalissa — if the bloodwraith showed up…”

“I knew the risk.”

“But it’s temporary, so that makes it okay.”

“What it does it make it a risk worth taking.”

“There it is then…” and Taylor almost can’t believe he’s saying this, but — “Come on, there’s a few empty seats in front of us. You can take one of those.”

Maybe he’s spent enough time in the fae’s presence now to understand and see every emotion he expresses. Small flickers and ticks in facial features — and that’s being generous.

Confusion. Contemplation. Understanding. Surprise.

And more than a little heartbreak.

“The longer I stay here the greater the chance of discovery by the creature.”

“Yeah, well you’ve been here a pretty long time already. What’s an extra hour or two?”

“The difference between life and death.”

“A fair point. Counter— you wanted to spend time together, Pop.” He pops his lips on the word. And funnily enough that seems to be what does the job.

There was no reason to doubt Elric’s truthfulness but he’s still relieved when they walk back into the theatre and the curtains are still drawn.

It would be helpful if someone turned around to see them; if they warned the others. But unfortunately (for Garrus) it’s a complete surprise when they greet his return… with company.

“Look who I found at the concession stand.” Taylor throws his arm around Elric’s shoulder and squeezes for the humor of it. Shit he probably should have asked if the man had a glamour.

Well, no one’s staring or screaming yet, so probably a good sign.

The general aura of confusion is broken by Garrus who, impossibly enough, looks more pale than usual. Beside him Krom is halfway reaching out; as if to shield his unspoken crush from Elric’s unseen wrath.

“Hey there, Rook,” Nik’s look of ‘what the literal?’ doesn’t stray from the fae’s ethereal glow, “thought you were goin’ backstage.”

Because this was his fault? “Oh, I was. But then I got to thinking — it’s a friends and family viewing so, you know, why not call my estranged father Elrond?”

“Elric.”

Sigh. “I know. It’s a joke.”

Elric nods. “Ah, I see.” No he doesn’t, but that’s not the point. Actually that he doesn’t is what makes it a little bit funnier.

But Taylor realizes quickly that he’s made a mistake in just assuming this would be okay. Garrus has never been quiet for this long and it makes everyone a little on edge. What happens when the man who always has something to say falls silent?

“You look well, Gallus.”

Garrus flinches violently at the name; at Elric’s attempt to cut through the tension. “That isn’t my name and you know it.”

“It was once.”

“Not anymore.” Garrus looks to Krom in surprise. Its the most intimidating the gentle giant has ever sounded. Though rage literally flickers as flames in Ivy’s cursed eyes she manages to look at him with pride.

It seems Taylor isn’t the only one who’s grown as a person tonight, though. As the discomfort rises to an almost stifling level the Lord bows his head, speaks somber and its enough to make everyone take a breath.

“I wish not to intrude on your time, Garrus,” Garrus who reaches absently for something to ground him and finds it in Krom’s hand clasping his, “only to take what precious moments my child allows me to possess.”

Way to push the blame on Taylor.

Taylor who struggles for something to say; an apology, a get out of here, anything. “I didn’t — I mean I — Garrus if —”

He raises a hand and Taylor’s glad for the opportunity to bite his tongue. Finds relief in the fact that Garrus still manages a smile his way.

“You couldn’t know. And it doesn’t bother me, honestly —” — especially not when he has Krom’s hand to squeeze where the seats separate their thighs — “— as long as my old landlord respects his boundaries, and doesn’t have an ulterior motive.”

“I do not.”

“Pinky swear?”

Elric doesn’t understand and it shows; some kind of power move Garrus relishes in by grinning at the laughter that ripples through them and breaks the tension.

The room grows dark as the company prepares to resume. Taylor awkwardly (and if he’s honest, uncomfortably) ushers Elric into the seat parallel to his a row forward. Close enough to count as ‘spending time together’ while also glad to be a buffer between his fae father and Garrus.

Velvet curtains pull apart with a flourish. Just before the cast begins Taylor manages to lean back and give a real apology to his friend.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked first.” He whispers.

Garrus places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Really, darling, no big deal here.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky.”

He can’t remember the last time he made any promises so important as pinky promises. But he and Garrus link little fingers and exchange small smiles just in time for Titania to begin her lines.

With a deep breath of courage and only after finding Nik’s hand in the dark he leans again, forward this time, and directs Elric’s attention to the performance.

“Okay, so quick recap. There are four lovers, right, Helena who loves Demetrius, who loves Hermia, who loves Lysander, but the thing is…”

#nightbound #choices nb #playchoices fanfiction #nik ryder x mc #nik ryder #katherine nightbound #cal lowell #vera reimonenq #oc: cadence smith #garrus #ivy #krom #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years ago

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130lb Ukrainian Courage pt.19 - Bachelor party cont.

Mandy and Svet are God damn pros. Mandy somehow finds a free booth and whilst Svet slides through the crowd to get to the bar, neither of them missing a beat.

“Right. Hold this booth, do not let anyone steal it.”

Mandy orders her big brother’s, shouting to be heard over the music.

They both nod and sit on either side of the glitter covered table. It is something of a shame that no one in the Milkovich family ever took an interest in football because they would have made incredible defence linesmen. No one would get past them and the few people that try and gesture to the empty seats in the booth they have claimed are quickly dispersed. Iggy lounges back in his chair and gives Mickey a considering look that instantly makes Mickey squirm.

“What?”

��When did you know you were gay?”

It’s an unexpected question and Mickey sucks his lower lip, wondering how best to answer and whether to answer at all. Ordinarily he’d tell Iggy to mind his own fuckin’ business but he’s in an unusually good mood and his brother coming to a club like this … well, Mickey is a little touched by the gesture. Especially after everything that has happened lately.

“I didn’t. Not til Ian.”

“Seriously? You never looked at any other dude and thought ‘Fuck yeah I’d hit that … whoah! I’m a fag!”

“Fuck off!”

Mickey shakes his head grinning, middle finger raised to his brother’s face.

“Nah man, I tried hard not to look at anyone or anything. Figured if I ignored it, it’d go away, you know?”

Iggy nods, accepting this as just another odd quirk about his little bro. Iggy isn’t someone who thinks about things too deeply. Not because he can’t, it’s just that he prefers not to. Some people, like Mickey, seem to over think every little thing and get worried about shit easily. Iggy doesn’t get that sort of concern. He often wants to shake his brother and say ‘Man, who the fuck even cares?’. Looking over at him now, Iggy realises that his question has sparked off one of those weird thought spirals Mickey gets and decides to cut it short.

“Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever look at my dick?”

“Ew! Fuck you!”

Mickey laughs, rolling his eyes and wishing Mandy and Svet would hurry up. Mission accomplished, Iggy grins and waits for his beer to show up.

On the other side of the room Ian is waiting for his own beer. Debbie went ages ago and Fiona’s hip flask is running dangerously low. Kev and V haven’t touched theirs yet but at this rate they’re going to be buying all their drinks before midnight.

“What’s with the frown?”

Fi leans over and kisses the crease between Ian’s brows.

“Nothing, just … thirsty!”

Ian winces as the word leaves his lips, it is one of many, many words which earn him shots. Thirsty, hung, ball, wood … the list is pretty endless and sure enough Fi, V and Lip start drum rolling on the table as Kev lines him up a sly shot glass of smuggled vodka.

“Fuck! Guys, I’m never gonna make it through the night.”

Ian shuddered as the alcohol coursed through his system. His head felt light and the bright lights of the club seemed to pulse in time with the music, which there was a damn good chance they were. Everything felt too close, not in a bad way, but he’d have felt better if Mickey was there. Lip wasn’t wrong when he teased that Mickey was like a guard dog when it came to Ian, he had been for years really. Since the early days when Ian started working at the White Swallow, Mickey always showed up and watched for trouble. He guarded Ian with a loyalty that Ian had never known from anyone else and now, without Mickey there, the club feels too big, too loud.

“I need to dance!”

He declared suddenly and stood up. He was not going to act like a needy little bitch on his own bachelor party. Mickey was probably out at a dive bar having a great time and Ian would do the same.

Fiona grabbed his left hand, V grabbed his right and together they swayed drunkenly onto the dance floor. Ian felt better as soon as he began to move. It was like poetry, his body responded to the music and took him along with it and his anxieties began to vanish into the rhythms.

“Oh fuck!”

Fiona laughs and Ian grins hazily at her

“What?”

“Your fiance is here!”

“Mickey?”

Ian can’t help the hopeful note that enters his voice and V gives him a curious look

“You got more than one?”

Ian shoves her arm playfully and his eyes follow Fiona’s discreet point. Sure enough, there is a little gaggle of Milkovich’s at a booth on the other side of the dance floor.

“Challenge them to a dance off?”

“Oh shit! West Side Story rumble!”

Fiona screams excitedly

“Bitch, you crazy? I ain’t takin’ on no damn Milkovich in a knife fight! Little fuckers were probably born cradlin’ a blade!”

V shrieks and then flaps an apologetic hand at the wide eyed look Ian gives her

“You know what I mean!”

“Mhmm.”

Ian gives her one more disapproving glance and then looks back to Mickey’s table with a little smile. He had no idea that Mandy was going to bring him to a Gay bar and the fact that Iggy is here too will mean a lot to Mickey, even if he isn’t letting on.

“You want to go say hi?”

“No.”

Ian shakes his head, he isn’t being conceited but he knows that Mickey will gravitate towards him once he knows they are both in the same club. He won’t be able to help himself. Ian knows this because it is exactly what he is feeling at this moment and he thinks of all the times Mickey has watched him in clubs and smiles at the thought of quietly watching over Mickey for a change.

Mandy and Svetlana disappear off to the ladies room and Iggy disappears into the cloud of dry ice. Mickey sighs in contentment at the moment of solitude. He checks his phone and sees a message from Ian.

I: Have a great night Sexy.

Mickey smirks and types back quickly

M:U too. Missing ur ass.

Three little dots signifying Ian typing back appear almost immediately and Mickey smiles to himself, pleased that Ian is wanting to talk to him, even on his big night out.

I: Miss urs more. What u doing?

M: Waiting 4 drinks. In Boystown w/ Iggy!!!!

I: No way!? Thats cool of him! Having fun?

M: Yeah. Better if you were here.

I: <3

Mickey hesitates, glances over his shoulder self-consciously and then sends back

M: <3 <3

He puts his phone back in his pocket and drums his fingers on the table top. His earlier level of drunkenness is creeping back up and he realises that he’s got a raging boner pressing against his zipper just at the thought of his fiance.

“Jesus Christ.”

Mickey mutters, spreading his legs, letting his hand casually hang down to cover himself and tries to think of things to distract his stupid dick from its hopeless mission. Looking around he sees a couple of redhead lovers making out and hastily squeezes his eyes shut tight. That ain’t gonna help. Mickey studies his hands for a moment and glances up hoping to see Mandy coming back with more beers, instead he sees Svetlana making out with some chick with a buzz cut and a short leather skirt. Svetlana is grinding up against the woman and rocking her hips suggestively in time with the music.

“Oh thank fuck!”

Mickey sighs in relief and watches them kiss until his body is completely back under his control. He wonders how pissed Svetlana would be to know that he just used her to lose an erection he didn’t want. The thought makes him grin and he practically cackles in delight at the thought of telling her next time she annoys him. Tonight is awesome!

Iggy reappears a few minutes later with glow sticks, a tub of florescent body paint and missing his shirt. At Mickey’s questioning frown, Iggy waves the tub at him happily

“Traded it for this! Paint me up, bro!”

Mickey takes the little tub of pink paint and curls his lip disdainfully as Iggy puffs out his chest, hands on hips.

“You traded a shirt for this shit?”

“Everyone’s wearing it! Do me, then do you.”

“Pink ain’t my colour man.”

Mickey shakes his head and dips his finger into the paint.

“Yeah well it’s gonna be mine! Make it all trippy and shit, like swirls and stuff ...”

“Uh huh…”

Mickey nods and helps Iggy do a few swirls and dots. The stuff does actually look pretty fricken’ sweet when it dries. Iggy dips his index fingers into the tub and swipes the paint in two high stripes beneath his eyes.

“Do my back!”

Iggy orders and Mickey tongues his lip impatiently. He dabs a few more swirls onto Iggy’s broad back and then gets bored.

“I can feel you slowing down! Just do something fuckin’ big and stop being a bitch.”

Iggy grins over his shoulder and Mickey’s eyebrows touch his hairline and he is about to shove the paint back into Iggy’s hands and tell him to paint his sweaty, gross back himself when he gets a better idea.

“Okay, done.”

Mickey nods and claps Iggy’s shoulder

“Cool! Okay I’m gonna go score us some more coke. Back in a bit.”

Mickey nods and watches Iggy navigate through the crowd, a giant, glowing pink cock running up his spine and erupting in a shower of swirling pink jizz at the base of his neck.

Mandy does a double take as Iggy weaves past her. Laughing, she wonders who the hell did that to him until she sees Mickey using his front camera to dab awkwardly at his face with the same paint.

“Hey! Picasso! Iggy’s gonna kill you!”

She yells, putting down the drinks. Mickey answers her with a wide cheeky grin and hands her the paint pot.

“Can you do me?”

“Cock or no cock?”

“Bitch, if you paint a dick on me ...”

Mandy waves off the last of the unfinished threat with a giggle and gestures for Mickey to sit.

“Check you out getting into your party!”

“Yeah. Thanks by the way.”

“No problem.”

Mandy is utterly relieved that Mickey is having a good time. Neither of them have ever had a birthday party or anything like this before and she just wanted it to be right for him.

“Have you seen Svet?”

“Muff diving a skin head.”

Mandy rolls her eyes but it doesn’t really matter. Mickey and Svetlana get on okay but she knows Mickey isn’t really going to care whether she actually hangs out with them or not. It’s enough that she came.

“Iggy’s getting some coke.”

“Cool! I’ll stick with my version!”

Mandy lifts her cola bottle and winks at her brother who grimaces

“Sure you don’t want me to find the fucker who knocked you up and knock his teeth out?”

He yells over the music and Mandy scrunches his hair in mock annoyance before smoothing it back.

“I’m getting you a dance!”

“What?”

“I’m getting you a DANCE!”

“No … Hey! Mand … Fuck!”

Mickey watches her go with mounting horror. He’s pretty fucking trashed but he’s not that trashed, not even close and Mickey realises that the only way to avoid having some Twinks junk shoved in his face is to disappear. He can see the tip of a familiar fluorescent penis a few paces away and lunges, grabbing Iggy’s arm and dragging him into the booth.

“You’re getting a dance! Don’t fuckin’ move!”

“Right on! I want a Bear! Get me a big guy!”

Iggy spreads his arms welcomingly and Mickey takes his opportunity to run.

Ian watches as Mickey darts into the crowd and tried to follow his movements but the smaller man is quickly swallowed in the throbbing mass of dancers. He wants to follow but Lip is pulling at his sleeve and Ian allows his eyes to turn reluctantly to his brother.

“Your present is here!”

“My what?”

“Your present! Your stripper!”

“Oh fuck!”

Ian rolls his eyes but grins lopsidedly as Lip and Kev push and pull him back onto a couch. Ian looks around for the college kid trying to earn some extra cash. All of a sudden, two powerful thighs are straddling Ian’s lap and he looks up at the beautifully built man above him.

“Hey babe. I’m Steve!”

“Ian!”

Lip answers for his brother who is struck momentarily speechless. The guy is built like a boxer, maybe thirty-five years old, with dark eyes and a shock of jet black hair swept back. He has tattoos up his arms and when he turns around, there is another peeking out of the sequin trunks. Ian closes his eyes and tries to guess what the illustration on the perfect, muscular ass might be.

V, Fiona and Debbie are all cheering and Kev is watching with a calculating fascination but all Ian can do is grip the faux leather seat pat beneath his thighs and pray that he doesn’t humiliate himself entirely.

“You can touch if you want to, beautiful.”

Steve’s voice is soft, but not South Side – not even Chicago. He sounds Southern or certainly heading towards that way. Ian shakes his head softly

“It’s my bachelor party.”

Steve gives him a nod of understanding and Ian settles back to watch him, feeling better about the whole thing. Once upon a time he would have loved this, but at best all he can say is that he doesn’t really mind it. Maybe it is all the horrible shit that has gone down the last few weeks, maybe it is just that he is truly committed to Mickey and their relationship now, but whatever it is, Ian doesn’t really want anything that Steve has to offer. Yes, he is gorgeous (Ian had heard Lip say something about being ‘like a tonk version of Mickey’) but he wasn’t Mickey and so Ian just didn’t have that much interest.

All the same, he tips heavily and grins lasciviously at all around him as if he has just had the treat of his life.

“Wanna ride the bull next?”

Lip asks, nodding toward one of the back rooms and Ian shrugs. He’s heard of the famous mechanical bull of boys town, a way to show off your wears all in the name of ‘good fun’ and most who ride it are looking for something more than a round of applause. On the other hand, it’s his party and Steve has hashed his buzz a little, so Ian figures he could do with livening up and he’s pretty sure he’ll look hot as Hell on it and if Mickey happens to see then maybe they can sneak off after ...

“Sure! Why not?”

He grins and hops on Lip’s back pointing dramatically onward

“Let’s go!”

He glances around for Mickey as he makes his way through the crowd and at one point swears he sees a guy wearing Mickey’s shirt but tells himself not to be ridiculous – plenty of guys wear button downs like that, it doesn’t mean it’s Mickeys.

“Holy fuck!”

Lip stops so suddenly Ian walks into the back of him with a soft thud. He is about to ask what is going on when he sees what it was that caused Lip’s freeze.

Beneath the pulsing blue and white lights, hips writhing and hands locked behind his head, Mickey Milkovich is riding the bull.

He isn’t just riding it.

He. Is. Riding. IT.

Ian feels his dick leap in his pants, so startling in it’s immediacy that it actually makes him gasp. He has never seen his boyfriend look so fucking sexy.

His teeth are set in his lip in concentration and his eyes are closed, biceps bulging out of a sleeveless Hawaiian shirt that he definitely did not own when the night started.

“What is it with him and those shirts?”

Lip yells over the music and although it is a question Ian would also like an answer too, his mouth is far too dry to try and speak. Mickey’s got body paint across his face, chest and arms in a series of neat patterns that make it look like his is glowing from within and in a way, that is exactly what he is doing.

Ian’s eyes trail down Mickey’s body, to his hips which are moving in ways that make Ian swear that first thing in the morning he is buying a full length mirror for their room and setting it up next to the bed. And further down, to his thighs, each thick with muscle gripping the plastic sides of the bull with a force that has several nearby men palming their pants and looking very, very fucking interested in just how much static force those isometrics can create. Even Lip is looking grudgingly impressed.

“I can see why you look so happy sometimes.”

He yells up at Ian who thumps him playfully on the arm.

Ian is about to say something back when a movement catches his eyes and a tall, built, red-head dashes across the padded area around the bull and leap frogs up behind Mickey, wrapping his hands around is waist and moving in perfect rhythm.

“Oh fuck!”

Ian looks round wildly for a bouncer, Mickey is having an amazing night and some asshole is about to ruin it by pissing him off and getting the shit kicked out of his grabby ass.

“Lip, do something! Mickey’s gonna fuckin’ kill that prick!”

Ian cries but Lip shakes his head and nods back to the bull.

“Seems okay to me.”

Ian whirls back to face the bull and jealousy floods his mind. Mickey is not beating the shit out of the guy, he’s leaning back into him, a small smirk on his lips and letting the guy bend him forward slightly …

Ian is moving before he has fully realised what he is about to do. He yanks the redhead off and his fist connects with fashionably stubbled jaw sending him sprawling backwards. He is dimly aware of Mickey calling his name, Lip pulling at his arms and the leap-frogger trying to crawl away but more than anything, Ian is aware that someone was trying to violate what is his.

“IAN!”

Tattooed fingers grip the fabric of his shirt and push him backwards, Ian’s heel catches on one of the safety mats and they crash over backwards together. Mickey lands on Ian’s chest with a soft ‘OOF!’ and Ian wraps his arms around him tightly.

“You’re okay. You’re okay Mick.”

He mumbles into the dark hair beneath his lips, squeezing Mickey’s arms as he slowly comes back into himself and the room around him.

“I know I am! What the fuck you playing at?”

Mickey pushes himself upright and runs a hand through his hair, looking around them. No one is staring, fights are not uncommon, and Lip seems to be smoothing things over with the security guard. The would-be suitor seems to have dragged himself away to lick his wounds or find someone to lick them for him and even the bull is still.

“What the fuck was that?”

“He was touching you and then he bent you forward like ...”

Ian shakes his head and presses his lips together.

“Hey. Hey fuck it man, it’s okay. I wasn’t in any trouble but its nice to know you got my back.”

Mickey lifts his lips in a small smirk and ruffles Ian’s hair.

“I’m sorry I spoiled it for you. Jesus. You looked really hot too.”

“What?”

“You looked really …”

The music swells as Ian wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

“BATHROOM?”

He bellows and Mickey nods, offering him a hand up.

The bathroom wasn’t much quieter but once Ian had them walled inside one of the tiny cubicles, the outside world felt at least a little muffled.

“You okay?”

Mickey asks as soon and Ian sits down on the toilet seat and pulls Mickey onto his lap, burying his head in the shorter man’s chest. He laughs a little at the question. So typical of Mickey to worry about Ian first.

“Yeah. Fuck. I’m so sorry, Mick.”

“Don’t worry about it. He had about two inches left of wandering hands before I did it myself.”

Mickey grins and kisses the top of Ian’s head.

“Did you enjoy your dance from that gorilla guy?”

“You saw that?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow

“I saw the beginning of it but uh … I’m kind of jealous. Figured it’d be best if I didn’t stick around.”

Ian laughs and rolls his eyes

“Turns out I’m a jealous fucker too.”

“Comes from a good place, man. You sure you’re okay?”

Ian nods. He doesn’t want to get into the weird feeling that crept over him so suddenly when that guy was manhandling Mickey but somehow he knows that Mickey gets it. Even calling it a good place, when they both know there was probably a lot of dark shit at play. That’s the thing with Mickey and Ian, when one of them is lost, the other one always gets it.

“You wanna go dance?” “You serious? Mickey Milkovich asking me to dance in a club?”

“Alright. Fuck you, go dance by yourself...”

Mickey pretends to get up and Ian tugs him down with a noise of distress.

“Hang on! First you need to tell me where you got that shirt.”

Mickey grins cheekily and thumbs his bottom lip

“Arm wrestled for it.”

“Why?”

Ian laughs

“Cause it’s sexy and I like the colours.”

“Fuckin’ weirdo.”

Ian kisses Mickey, both of them smiling into the warmth of it.

After a minute Mickey gets off Ian’s lap, dropping to his knees and working at the belt buckle holding up Ian’s pants.

“Fuck dancing. I can think of something better to do ...”

#shameless #Shameless US #Ian Gallagher #mickey milkovich #gallavich #130lb of ukrainian courage

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goodsoldierandnothingelse · 7 years ago

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Adventures on Skype/Kik/Dicord with alwaysaweapon Blockquote: alwaysaweapon ; plain: me

“Where the hell have you been?”

He purses his lips. “Thinking.”

“...Thinking. You wanna elaborate on that?”

He shrugged. “Soon. I’m still trying to figure something out. Sorry...”

His eyebrows pinched together; his mouth opening a few times before he actually formed the question he wanted to ask. “Does it hafta do with why you’re pissed at me?”

He pursed his lips again. “M’not... Anymore.”

Surprise sprung, joining the confusion already plastered on his face. “...You’re not? But--” He had fully intended to have it out with him, like he promised Bobby, but now... “Why?”

He shrugged. “Been thinking.”

“Right. You said that.” He licked his lips, hope blooming slowly as he looked at his brother. “So does that mean we can go back t’talking without it becoming a one-sided conversation again?”

Sam raised a brow. “Topic depending, sure.”

He released a breath of relief, and nodded, knowing this was a good step in the right direction. “An’ for what its worth-- ‘M sorry.”

Sam lifted a brow in surprise and nodded once. “Thanks--me too.”

Dean smiled lightly before it readily turned goofy. “Hey, what kind of brothers would we be if we didn't piss the other off once an' a while. Huh? Not normal ones, that's for sure.”

He chuckled. “There’s nothing normal about us as it is, Dean.”

“What are ya talkin’ about? We’re plenty normal.” Dean knew exactly what Sam meant, but that wasn’t the point of this conversation. “Our lifestyle’s just a bit more--extreme than most.”

Sam scoffed. “Right. Normal. Keep telling yourself that, Dean.”

“I will, buzzkill.”

“Insults? Well, at least you’re back to normal.”

“Aha!” Dean exclaimed, thrusting a pointing finger at him. “See? You said ‘normal’. An’ if I’m partially normal then that means you are, too.”

He sighed, knowing there is no use in arguing. “Okay, Dean.”

Dean scrunches up his face a bit, his lips pursed. “Man, you need t’lighten up.” That’s what he was trying to trigger from Sam; to get the air surrounding them back to normal and easier than what it has been lately, but Sam was making it difficult.

“Probably,” he agreed with a nod. “But you’ve been telling me that for how long? Apparently I’ve failed miserably by your standards.”

“This isn’t about meeting my standards. I mean, dude. You’re like Debby Downer right now.”

“Got a lot on my mind.” He was actually glancing around for a particular book at the moment.

“Well, maybe you need t’get out of that head of yours an’ actually do something other than bury your nose in a book. I mean, when was the last time you even left the bunker?”

Sam's eyes pinch together as he thinks on the question directed at him. It had been-- weeks, now, he was sure. Not that that mattered; he'd been so focused on his thoughts that time had barely passed to him. "Thought you didn't want me going anywhere in m'current state?" He quipped, gaze settling on the book he'd been looking for.

Sam had maybe half a point there. Yes, Dean would rather him rest and try to keep as healthy as possible with the Trials doing God knows what to him, but he also didn't want just some shell of his brother either. "Not alone," he corrected, thinking back to when he had woken up to Sam just gone and him not answering the phone when he called to check if he was okay or not. "An', well, not huntin', either--but, obviously, sitting in here isn't doin' you much good." Honestly, he was surprised he wasn't climbing walls right now. "We should go out. Have some fun. Buy ya some ice cream?"

Sam moved to the book and began peeling through the pages, turning them slowly so as to get a good look at what they said before moving to the next. Dean was talking, so he lifted his gaze to watch his elder brother, a small smile flickering over his features before it vanished. "I'm not a child to be coaxed with the promise of an ice cream, anymore, Dean."

Dean's head fell back and he took a breath to calm the frustration that was his reluctant brother, but after a moment he returned his gaze back to him. "Buy ya a hooker then?" he asked, throwing his whole body into the question. "Maybe a nice lap dance. Some ass action. Something. Anything. Let's just get out of here." Sam didn't by any means look his greatest, and it was painfully apparent that he had only declined further in his health during their rift, and if this was the result of keeping it safe then one outing wasn't going to do harm. In fact he hoped that maybe it would improve something, if just his mood. "It's a nice day. We could go for a walk if you wanted."

"I don't want a hooker, Dean." His tone was annoyed, and if he was honest-- he was trying not to snap at his brother. He didn't want anything but to keep doing what he was. But that wasn't going to quiet Dean. He shut the book with a solid thud then looked to where Dean stood. "Fine, you win. Let's go do-- something."

Dean didn't appreciate the sour tone that Sam adopted due to his pushing, but that is exactly what he was talking about. Obviously being pent up in here had pent up some things inside him, too, and Dean was of course determined to help his little brother out. "Whoa," he quipped sarcastically, reacting to Sam's begrudgingly acceptance that Dean knew was just to get him to shut up, but, hell, he'd take it. "Don't get too excited now." He rolled his eyes before heading towards the garage. "Be ready in five or 'M draggin' your ass out."

He didn't take too long grabbing a light jacket to pull on if he got a chill, then slipping his shoes on, before he was headed to the garage himself. He made his way to the Impala, pulling open the passengers door before folding himself into the seat with a groan.

Dean already sat in the Impala, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited. He wondered with Sam would just blow him off and lock himself in his room or something. The kind of reaction he was used to receiving from him lately. But before long a grumpy looking giant came trotting his way over and got in the car, releasing a pain filled groan as he did. The sound sent a wave of panic through Dean, unable to help it, but he tried not to react on it. "Gettin' old there, Sammy?" he teased lightly and started the car before either of them could change their mind on leaving.

Tossing his jacket into the back seat, Sam pulled on his seatbelt and cast an annoyed look at Dean. "Old, no. Tired of being too big to fit through the door comfortably? Yes." Being larger than average was bad enough, but he literally had to fold himself into the car and it was uncomfortable on a good day, never mind when he was already feeling like crap.

Dean smirked slightly. "Maybe we should look into a monster truck for you, Lerch." 'Cause there's nothing inconspicuous about one of those rolling the streets, but the reply was just Dean being a smart-ass and not a legit suggestion. He took Baby out of the garage and out onto the dusty road that sat out front of their Bat Cave and drove down the stretch. "So, where should we go? Besides back."

"Ha. Ha." Sam rolled his eyes, letting his gaze drift lightly off the scenery around them. Funny how it could now be considered familiar to him, a place they had been long enough that he could almost call it-- home . And of course, having Dean there made it easier to accept it as such. Most days.

“Yo, Sam,” Dean urged, looking over to his brother who had his nose to the window. “Did you not hear me?” His eyebrows were raised in a slightly worried manner, now beginning to doubt if taking him out was the best idea. “I asked where you wanted t’go.”

Sam winced inwardly as Dean spoke again. Truthfully, he'd missed that. His focus had shifted to his thoughts and the ever-present pain, and he'd completely zoned out on what his brother was saying. "Uh-- sorry, man." He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a little. "Grab a bite, then go from there?" He suggested mildly.

Dean frowned a little, but he took a breath and turned back to the road. “A bite,” he muttered. “I can do that.” Normally Dean would head to some steak house or a diner, that being his preference, but he consciously made a decision not to seek those places out and instead look for a more healthier choice, knowing that would be what Sam would like. Once they got to a more lively area Dean scanned for his quest before he found one— at least, he hoped. “What about that place up there on the right?” he asked Sam, nodding his head in gesture to the joint.

Sam got lost in his own thoughts once more, only coming out once Dean prompted him. He looked where Dean indicated, a brow lifting in surprise. "Dean, that's a Vegan sandwich shop. There's nothing in there you'll eat." He knew Dean was trying to be nice and pick something more Sam's pace, but he'd never ask his brother to go somewhere he'd never normally go. "Just go to the diner; they have food we both like there."

Dean immediately made a face following the word ‘Vegan,’ just disgusted by the word. Like— Did people really hate themselves that much? Bodies need protein. “Yeah, but you like that— Hippie Crap,” Dean responded, confirming that he was only suggesting it for Sam. Trying to both make up for being a jerk and cheer him up a bit. Though, to be honest, he wasn’t sure how one could actually be happy without a nice piece of steak, but he wouldn’t argue. “You sure?” he asked when Sam said to head for a diner instead. “‘Cause if that’s what you want then…” Then I’ll just die a little inside, like anyone who walks through those doors. Basically he was willing to suffer for Sam’s sake, even if that meant him not eating until he could find a drive-thru somewhere later.

"Yeah, I'm sure Dean." He couldn't help the little chuckle. "Don't try so hard; I'm easy to please. I can go there on my own anytime. The diner is perfectly fine." In fact, he often found himself at the place when he needed out of the bunker and time from Dean. They even knew his favorites on the menu. Not that it was a wildly popular or busy place.

“You got it.” Sam’s reassurance was good enough for him and he gratefully drove past it, now rerouting to the nearest diner. Maybe in this sense Sam was, as he said, easy to please, but Dean wasn’t sure about in general, as he was trying to rack his brain for something to lift Sam’s spirits and get him to stop thinking. Of course his train of thought just went straight towards alcohol, the answer to all life’s problems, but he wasn’t sure that it would be much help with Sam already looking like he had the world’s greatest hangover… Hookers were out… Maybe a movie? They hadn’t done that in a while… Another idea occurred to him then; this one he voiced out loud to his brother. “Hey, you wanna go down to Cawker City after? Check out the lake there?” That wouldn’t call for any overexertion on Sam’s part and they could still get out and enjoy some fresh air.

#alwaysaweapon #adventures elsewhere

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ember373 · 6 years ago

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Damn Hormones...

I have been very emotional lately. Crying more. Feeling hopeless more. Feeling very very...stuck. I’m still able to control my emotions for the most part when I’m out in public or around people (thank god), but my eyes have been leaking more and more of late when I’m alone. For awhile I felt numb and it was hard for me to cry. It was like I was all cried out and had no more tears to give. But the last month or so it’s like I can’t control it sometimes.

Take Mother’s Day. It was a long weekend anyway given that I was with in laws the last two days. I was mentally exhausted and knew I had to muster one (or two) last hurrah(s) for the two mothers. But dammit, it was my day too and I was going to do something for myself. So I slept in. I wanted to sleep more but was awoken with ‘When are you getting up because we need to leave for my mom’s soon’. Fine. I hadn’t forgotten that this day really isn’t for me as long as the mothers still live. (No, I do not wish them dead. It just is what it is). But apparently I wasn’t moving fast enough because the exasperated sighs came and the ‘How much longer?’s. I finally just told him to take the kids and leave so they wouldn’t be late and I would be there later. Are you sure? Yeh. Before they leave-is something wrong? Nope, I’ll see you there... Ok. See you there. :)

As I carefully put gifts together for the in-laws, I fought to remain calm. But when I heard the crunch of the gravel from the car leaving the driveway, it started. Slow tears at first as I maneuvered my small chubby fingers to delicately arrange everything just so. Then a bit more shaky as I placed the bits of color in. Everything was arranged in little glass balls. So pretty and colorful. Just like my life. How wonderful it must be to be an outsider looking in. Everything just so. I wonder how they’d react if it reflected how I really felt? I stopped myself from violently shaking the globes to match how I felt inside. After all, they weren’t for me. This day wasn’t about me. :) By the time I placed them in their bags I was sobbing. But I had a time crunch. Ain’t nobody got time for useless crying. So I moved on to wrapping the Mil’s gifts in tissue paper. After the second one I gave up and shoved the rest of her presents in bags with tissue paper haphazardly shoved around them. Shit, I forgot cards. Oh well...waste of paper anyway to give words that can never actually convey the complex feelings I have for this situation.

After I was done with the gifts, I hesitated. Should I just get ready or head straight over so I’m not too terribly late? Fuck it. It’s my day too. I’m getting ready. I feel like shit and I’m fat. Might as well try not to look like I feel. Everybody looks more kindly on a well put together fat person than a fat person who doesn’t take the time to make herself more presentable. Tears still streaming out of my eyes, I go and plug in the straightening iron. I usually put moisturizer on my face at that point, but I’m such a mess that I just skip that step and go straight to sectioning my hair. Unfortunately, I have to look in the mirror for that part and I can see my big ugly crying face. For the love-get it together woman!! How the hell am I going to do my makeup? I turn on some music on my cell phone hoping it will distract me. It doesn’t. So the whole time I’m straightening sections, trying to sing, and blubbering every 5-10 seconds. Lovely.

Hair done, I look in the mirror at my mess of a face. Suck it up. This is your life. You chose to let yourself live it for other people. Too late to be selfish now. GET...IT...TOGETHER. I take a deep breath. The honesty of this moment-of how my face looks in the mirror-the utter truth, despair, sadness, and hoplesness-I decide to capture it on camera. Then I take a deep breath and wash my face. It’s as if, by capturing it, I put it away and neatly locked it in my cell phone. I do light make up. There. Better. Nobody will ever know. Smile. No, not the fake one. Come on, you can do better than that. There you go. Make your eyes sparkle. Act like you mean it or they’ll see right through the ruse. That’s better. Now you’re ready for the world. I take a picture of my ‘happy’ face too. The way I feel inside all the time and the mask I present to the world. For some reason, I wanted to document them that day. Then I loaded up the car and went to live the rest of the day for other people.

And that has been my overwhelming feeling of late. That I am living my life for other people. That I could care less whether I continue to exist or not, but some of those other people-my kids namely-might be worse off if I stopped existing. As messed up as I am, they do need the good parts of me still. Maybe always. Even tho I’m sure my big fat ugly mess of a self embarrasses my kids, I’ve done some good things for them and so they still want me around. For now. Maybe for always.

Thinking about it all makes me want to cry again. I guess this is just another down turn and I just need to ride through it until it fades away into the background and is liveable again. Keep getting up every day and find something to be grateful for. A roof over my head. Food to eat. Money from my job to go to the salon and get sushi. A husband with a job that pays enough that my money can go to salon visits and sushi. Kids. Warmth. AC. All the other stuff is gravy. I got the basics covered. No need to cry. My life could be much much worse. I’m rather spoiled if you think about it and should be very grateful. Gratefulness begins within. Find some spark of joy and hold on to it with all your might. Nobody likes a Debbie Downer. People will just get pissed off at you for being so ridiculous when you are surrounded by so much. Like it really matters how you feel. How you feel is ridiculous. It’s selfish. There are people who depend on you. Take care of them. You signed up for this, now follow it through. It’s your fault for wanting more. My life looks so great to people on the outside. There must be something wrong with me that I can’t enjoy it. Quit being so sensitive. Marriage is hard work. You just have to keep trying. Keep trying to understand him. To help him. To support him. To listen to his frustrations. To constantly redirect him and show him the truth when he gets in that negative space. He’s not built like you. He’s not able to return that. Nobody is built like you. To expect there to be anyone else that can do that for you (besides the people you pay) is just stupid. You were put on this earth to love on people, nothing was ever said that you would get that kind of love in return. So do it and quit complaining. Go get your hair done and eat some sushi to recharge. Fill that emptiness with things because that’s all that matters. You need to be grateful for the things. All the things. You have so many things. You silly girl. People would love to have all your things. You’re just selfish and unreasonable. You don’t deserve more. You don’t even deserve what you have. Remember that. Always. Now pick your ass up, stop feeling sorry for yourself, plaster that goddamn smile back on your face and do what you know you’re supposed to. Good girl. If you do it enough it will begin to feel right. It will...fulfill you? Who cares if it fulfills you. It’s what is right. Repetition makes neural pathways and when the pathways are formed the newly learned thing becomes easier. This is just like that. Keep at it. Keep accepting. Keep taking it all in. Keep giving. Give more. That neural pathway should set any day now and life will get easier. You’ll accept everything a lot more and be able to breathe and feel satisfied. Put your needs aside. They aren’t worth anything anyway. Keep building that pathway. With time comes acceptance. It will come. Someday. It will come, just keep at it.

I started my period today so I think I’m going to blame all these intense emotions on that. Damn hormones.

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brownhoneywonders · 8 years ago

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I’ll Never Be In A Relationship

Honestly, I’m almost 19 and I haven’t been in a serious relationship. I’ve never even done the “talking” stage of relationships and I feel like that’s kind of weird for someone my age but I can’t help it. When I was younger, I was ugly. Well..uglier. Okay maybe I wasn’t like ugly like I looked like a donkey’s ass but I wasn’t (still not) conventionally attractive. As the years pass, I started to look less ugly but I still wasn’t being approached by guys. Often times i would tell myself “well, you’re only like in your pre-teens/early teens!! It’s not that serious. You shouldn’t even care about stuff like that at this age. Relax bitch. You soon fall in love sis. That’s what I would tell myself. I had countless crushes. Which now that I look back on it, I’m embarrassed especially because all of my crushes would make me vomit now but whatever. I never actually told my crushes I did have crushes on them because ya girl was a debby downer and I didn’t think I had a chance. But around 14/15, I would sometimes approach guys I found attractive but for some odd reason my aggressive “I don’t care about shit” facade to mask my low self esteem issue didn’t win anyone’s heart? At 16-17, I did have some boys try to get more friendlier, but as a person who always saw the worst, I would sabotage shit and do everything to make myself seem horrid. Now I am almost 19, and I’ve realized that maybe I’m one of those people who aren’t meant to be with anyone. Not because I have a personality flaws, I really am THAT bitch. But because at this point, I’m not as open to relationships. I tend to get tired of people extremely fast. Or even if I don’t get tired of them so quickly, I always like to stop talking to people for weeks at a time and then start talking to them again. I’m really bad at the consistent hanging out and always talking. There have been very few people i’ve met that I felt okay talking to all the time. I also enjoy being alone. I like being myself. I like going places by myself. I like eating by myself. I just fucking love it. I used to think it was weird but I’ve accepted that part of myself. I don’t say this to be the ~edgy~ introvert~ local. It really is who I am. I can go weeks without really talking to friends and my nuclear family. My constant need to be alone is usually interpreted as me being sort of stuck up, which I kinda am but still. In addition to my need to be alone all the time, I fucking hate men. I’m attracted to men (unfortunately) but I really don’t see myself being with a man anymore. And I really don’t give a fuck about “not all men” bs. I know that in this society men are conditioned to fucking take, take take. Take away our time, take up fucking space, take advantage of women’s time and labor. And never fucking reciprocate. I also know that all men are misogynists. If women have to unlearn pick me internalized misogynist behavior, don’t fucking tell me men don’t have to unlearn their misogyny. The next part of it is that I’m a Black woman. Misogynoir will always be hurled my way. This society hates black women and that’s what? That’s a fucking fact. It isn’t up for debate, even black men dehumanize BW and put non Black women on a pedestal because they see us as fucking trash. But i’ll get into that another time. Misogyny is too much for me. I refuse to allow anyone in my space especially not fucking men who have misogynoiristic bullshit ideas in their heads. And I know everyone expects to just teach men how to not be ugly misogynistic pieces of shit but bitch who the fuck has that time and energy? Because it ain’t I. This misogyny plus anti-LGBTQ+ bullshit that I continue to see in men is intolerable to me. I don’t want to be, actually, I refuse to be with a man who continues to harm everyone around him. I don’t feel I should settle. I know this seems like a standard way too high to some people but honestly, if anything, the bar is too fucking low for men across the world. I don’t give a fuck about men who say rape is bad and that’s it. If i’m even going to let a man in space, let alone in my fucking heart and mind, he better be actively doing shit for others. He can’t be one of those “misogyny bad” but his whole crew is full of violent homophobes and women abusers. I won’t settle for trash men. I won’t settle for men who seem a little less trash because they are standing next to the bottom of the dumpster fucking rats. I like myself too fucking to just settle. My standards aren’t high but men are so used to being praised for little shit I know my standards seem exceedingly high. The fact that I won’t share parts of myself to barely decent men and my introvertedness will probably make me stay single for the rest of my life but at this point, I really am ok with it. I know there is a very small chance I’ll ever be in a serious relationship. I’ve made my peace with that and at this point? I’m just looking for good genuine friendships. Romantic relationships with cishet men seem like minefields anyway.

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winchesterenthusiast · 8 years ago

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The One In Vegas

A Dean x Reader AU / fluff, smut

A/N: This fic is for @sis-tafics and @eyes-of-a-disney-princess Have A Hubba Bubba Birthday Writing Challenge! [x] My prompt was ‘The One in Vegas’. I hope everyone likes it! Let me know what you think! ♥

Word Count: 3,681

Other Characters: Meg

Warnings: - light smut. - language. - talks of drinking.

Tags: (at the end)

*gif is not mine.

Meg had all but begged you to come to Las Vegas with her for her birthday. You lost count of how many times you denied her now. Vegas was just never a place you were interested in going. It wasn't your scene. You weren't a partier nor a drinker, preferring to sit at home and read one of your many books.

“If you don't come with me, for my birthday, I will literally disown you,” she'd said to you over dinner; her crazy, curly hair thrown up in a messy bun, a glass of wine in hand.

“I don't drink, Meg. I won't be any fun.”

“Look, we don't have to go out every night. All I ask is that you come with me because you love me, and go clubbing with me one time.”

This persisted for about two weeks non stop, and eventually you caved. She was your best friend after all, and she'd done so much for you in the past that was totally out of her own comfort zone.

“Good,” she’d said when you finally accepted. “I already bought your plane ticket anyway…”

Exactly a week later you were in Vegas, and you had never felt so out of place in your entire life. Thankfully, Meg kept to her word, and you didn't go out every night. Actually, it was your second day out of five and she hadn't even mentioned it yet. The strip was something to behold, with so many different sights to see. You were happy to just people watch.

“Hey, I'm gonna check out this bookstore over here, okay?”

You needed a quiet minute to yourself, not used to the hustle and bustle of the city. Meg rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, go ahead. Not that you don't already have so many books you could open your own bookstore…”

Meg sat down on a nearby bench and you walked away quickly, before she could protest.

The bookstore was quaint and small, but it felt completely out of place here. Just like you. Books of every shape and size lined every wall, and a fat, orange tabby cat snoozed in the window. You were pretty sure you smelled incense burning, the rich smell of vanilla invading your senses.

Walking along the rows of books, you reached your fingertips out to graze the spines. The smell and feel of books was always a comfort to you. You were lost in a trance as you walked, smacking straight into what felt like a brick wall. You fell backwards, landing right on your butt.

“Woah! Are you okay?”

You'd walked into a person, a man in fact, and when he turned around to help you up, your mind went blank. He was absolutely gorgeous, and you immediately felt inferior. The man looked to be about middle aged, dressed sharply with perfectly styled light brown locks spiked at the top of his head. Dark scruff lined his cheeks and he was towering over you. As he knelt down next to you and assessed you for injuries, you noticed his eyes were emerald green.

“I-I'm fine,” you stuttered. “I'm so sorry for bumping into you. I wasn't watching where I was going.”

“No no, please,” he said, taking his large hand and gripping your elbow, helping you on your feet. “I understand how distracting books can be.”

You felt your heart skip in your chest. He was beautiful and he loved books? It was like finding the rarest diamond in the largest mine. What was he doing in Vegas? You were so enthralled by this man, that you didn't even notice you were both staring at each other, his hand still gripped on your elbow. He cleared his throat and let go, looking at his boots and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Thank you for helping me, um…?”

“Dean,” he replied quickly, extending his hand to you. You shook it, feeling a spark rocket through you to your core.

“I'm Y/N,” you replied meekly, brushing your free hand over your hair.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he said with a smile, flashing his pearly white teeth at you. You saw his cheeks flush and you bit your bottom lip.

“You're too kind. What brings you to Vegas?”

“Ah,” he said, balancing back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I'm here for my brother’s bachelor party, but I'm not used to the city life. I'm just a small town Kansas boy. I stopped here because I needed some peace and quiet.”

“Same, actually. I'm here for my best friends birthday. She kind of forced me to come and I needed a break from all the noise, so I saw this bookstore and… well, here I am.”

“Well, I'm glad we… bumped into each other,” he said with another 1,000 watt smile.

“Me too,” you replied, feeling your face start to grow hot.

The bell above the door of the bookstore made a tinkling sound, indicating someone had just come in.

“Y/N!” Meg said loudly. “Come on or we're gonna miss our reservation!” Her eyes grew wide when she saw who was standing next to you.

“I'm sorry,” you apologized to Dean, even though you wanted nothing more than to stay and talk to him more. “I have to go.”

“Well, I hope I see you again. It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

He reached out and gave your arm a soft squeeze.

“You too, Dean.”

Meg was waiting outside the store with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. As you started to exit the store, you took one last glance back at the mysterious, book-reading man who was also watching you leave. When he saw you turn back he waved meekly, an almost sad smile on his face. The pull toward him was hard to ignore, but you swallowed it down and followed an eager Meg to the restaurant.

“Do we have to go to a club, Meg? Can't we just go to a bar or another classy restaurant?”

“Y/N, we only have two nights left here and we are going to this club. You don't have to drink, but we're going to have fun, okay?”

“I guess so…” you said, feeling defeated, picking at the loose strings on the comforter with your nails. “I just don't think I’ll be much fun. I don't want to ruin your night.”

“You'll be fine. Maybe you'll even see your prince charming again.”

Dean. You hadn't stopped thinking about him since your meeting in the bookstore yesterday.

“What are the odds that I'll see him in the club we’re going to? Vegas isn't exactly small, Meg.”

“You never know,” she said with a grin. “Now come on, let's do your makeup.”

After Meg applied more makeup to your face than you'd ever worn before, and helped you to squeeze into the tightest black dress you owned, you were in a cab and off to the club.

It was dark inside, save for the flashing neon lights that streaked the walls. The music was so loud it was hard to think. Meg took your hand and drug you over to the bar, your feet already hurting in your uncomfortable heels. She ordered you both a drink and she handed one to you.

“‘You know I don't drink!” you yelled to her over the music.

“Just have one for my birthday!” she said with a smile. Against your better judgement you took a large gulp of the drink she handed you. It tasted surprisingly good, and you'd finished it sooner than expected.

Meg kept trying to make you come to the dance floor with her, but you resisted, opting to sit at the bar instead and watch everyone else dance. She had met a man, who seemed to be very into her, so you didn't want to get in the way.

“Excuse me,” a voice said in your ear. He was yelling, but it wasn't loud considering the music would shatter anyone's eardrums.

You turned around and the exact person you wanted to see was standing next to you.

“Dean?!” you yelled. “What are you doing here?!”

“I'm here with my brother! Do you want to go somewhere more quiet?!”

You looked over at Meg and saw how much fun she was having without you. She wouldn't miss you if you were gone, and she'd have more fun without your Debby downer ass around. Plus, she knew how you felt about Dean. She'd understand.

You shot her a quick text to let her know where you were going. Dean took your hand in his with ease and led you out of the club. When you got outside, you breathed in a gulp of fresh air.

“God! I'm so claustrophobic. This feels so great…”

Dean chuckled, swiping fingers through his hair.

“It's so loud in there I couldn't even think straight…”

You were both staring at each other again and you quickly looked away, your face growing hot.

“Would you like to get a coffee with me?” he asked suddenly and all you could do was nod, as he took your hand again. This time your fingers were intertwined.

Dean took you to a coffee shop just a few blocks away and you sat down with your vanilla chai; his coffee, pitch black. You admired him for drinking something so vile.

“It's not so bad,” he grinned. “Sugar will kill you.”

“But it tastes amazing, so I'll be happy to take that chance.”

“What's your favorite book?” he asked suddenly, sipping his black coffee.

“The Lord of the Rings,” you answered quickly. “I've been on the search for a first edition copy of at least one of them for years. Any bookstore I find I look for it, but it never happens.”

“Ah, the diamond in the ruff.”

“Exactly, it's an adventure. What about you?”

“Stephen King. The Shining is my favorite. I'm a sucker for mystery and horror.”

You both talked for what seemed like hours, basically pouring your hearts out to complete strangers. There was something about him though that you couldn't put your finger on. His heart was pure and good, and he was gorgeous. The kind of man you'd do stupid things with.

At one point in the conversation he reached out and just grabbed your hand, caressing the back of it with his thumb. You felt goosebumps rise along your skin, your stomach flipping around like an acrobat.

After Dean paid for your coffees, he walked you back outside. You checked your phone and saw that Meg hadn't even texted you back.

“Shit…” you breathed, tossing your phone back into your bag.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?”

You felt your thighs clench together at his sudden pet name.

“Meg hasn't answered me yet. She must still be in the club and she has our room key…”

“Well, if you want, you can come back to me and my brother’s room until she texts you. He won't be back until morning, I'm sure. But, only if you want to.”

You looked down the street towards the club, before looking back into Dean’s perfect emerald eyes. Never in your life had you ever gone back with a stranger, but something in your heart was pulling you to him.

“Sure,” you replied with a smile. “If you don't mind my company.”

“How could I ever resist alone time with a woman as beautiful as you?”

Dean called a cab and you both rode together back to his hotel room which, coincidentally, was in the same hotel as your own.

When he opened the door to his room, there were clothes strewn all over the floor. It was definitely a man’s room.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said, pushing the piles off the bed closest to the window.

“It's okay,” you said, walking towards the window. “You have a beautiful view on this side.”

Dean got up and stood next to you, his hand brushing the small of your back, wrapping his fingers around your waist. You leaned in close to him so naturally, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Why does this feel so normal?” your big mouth asked. Dean chuckled.

“I know what you mean…”

“Are we crazy for doing this? I mean we just met yesterday. And now I'm here in your hotel room.”

“Is it weird that I felt a pull to you from the moment you bumped into me?”

“No, because I felt the same way…”

“My entire life has been spent over analyzing things, and I think it's made me miss out on certain opportunities that could have been good for me. I don't want that to happen with you too…”

Dean turned to you and pulled you closer, until your noses were almost touching. You could feel his warm breath on your face and you suddenly felt dizzy.

“But we’re in Vegas. You're from Kansas. If there is something here, how will we ever know if it will work out?”

“Yanno,” he started, brushing a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but I'm willing to take the chance with you. I can't let this opportunity for something great pass me by again…”

His words were all it took for you to lean in and place your lips to his own. The kiss was soft, his lips so plush and full just like you thought they would be. You could tell he was treading the waters, not wanting to offend you or go to far. You admired that about him and it turned you on even more, prompting you to take his bottom lip into your mouth.

Dean made a noise as you did this that shook you to your core. It was almost a groan, but the manliest whine you'd ever heard. His tongue peeked out and danced with your own in perfect unison, as if they were made for each other. You sighed into his mouth as he deepened the kiss, his fingers in your hair now.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asked again as he reluctantly pulled away from you, kissing you all over your face, waiting for your answer.

“I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life,” you breathed back, as he quickly connected his lips to yours again.

You let your hands roam over his broad shoulders, feeling the strong muscles ripple on his back. His hands explored your own body, stopping at your ass and giving it a soft squeeze.

“I hope this is okay after your little fall yesterday,” he whispered in your ear and you immediately laughed. Everything seemed so easy in his presence, like a breath of fresh air.

“It's perfectly fine now,” you whispered back, taking the shell of his ear between your teeth.

This prompted Dean to scoop you up effortlessly, his hands cupping your ass, as he laid you gently down on the bed. He continued to kiss your face and neck, chills coursing through you. Everything about him was intoxicating and you were ready to go all the way with him.

“‘May I?” he asked, his fingers under the strap of your dress.

“Yes,” you breathlessly replied. “But please stop asking.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he laughed, low in his throat, as he took both of your straps down and kissed your collar bone. You helped him and pulled your dress down further and his eyes grew wide as you were completely exposed.

“Wow…”

“Good wow?” you asked meekly, feeling judged under his perfect gaze.

“Great wow…” he said, reaching out to cup your breasts in his hands. Your head lulled back, feeling more free than you had in a long time. “I don’t usually do this, so I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Just shut up and kiss me,” you demanded, grabbing the hair at the back of his head and kissing him fiercely. He was on top of you now, his knees on either side of you, pinning you down. His mouth were on your breasts, his lips and tongue working magic on your already hard nipples. Dean pulled your dress down and over your feet, throwing it to the side. He continued to kiss your skin as he pulled off your panties, leaving you in just your heels.

“Can we leave these on?” he asked with a wink.

“We can do whatever you want,” you replied boldly, proud of yourself. “But some of these clothes need to come off…”

You got up on your knees on the bed and unbuttoned his shirt, helping him to shrug it off his shoulders. They were even more broad than you thought they were, and your fingers traced them eagerly. Freckles dusted along them, just like his face, and you leaned down to kiss your favorite one where his neck met his collarbone.

“Where have you been all my life?” you asked sincerely, as you watched him back up and undo his belt, taking his pants, boxers, and additional clothes off, throwing them to the side.

“Kansas,” he replied, taking his hard, long cock in his hands and stroking it. “Waiting for you.”

It happened in such a swift motion you barely had any time to think. You watched him slip a condom on and get on top of you, his strong hands holding onto the meat of your thighs. He lined the head of his cock up to your already soaking wet entrance and began to ease himself in. You felt him fill you up and moaned loudly, arching your back on the bed.

The love you made with Dean was just that; love. It was unlike anything you’d ever had before with anyone. He took his time and went slow, ensuring you came at least a dozen times; kissing you all over your body, showering you with compliments. Until at last, he came hard, his cock twitching inside you.

“That was amazing…” you breathed, laying next to him a complete sweaty mess.

“It sure was, sweetheart,” he said, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on your lips. “Be right back.”

You watched his adorable butt as he walked off to the bathroom to clean up. You were on cloud nine, your head swimming with many thoughts. One thing was for sure, you knew no matter what happened over the next few days, you were in love with this man.

Your phone ringing in your bag made you jump nearly out of your skin. It was Meg.

“Where the fuck are you?!” she yelled angrily.

“I texted you and told you where I was.”

“I need you t-to… come get me, please. I c-can’t walk.”

“I’ll be right there,” you replied quickly, grabbing your clothes and throwing them back on. You could hear the shower on in the bathroom and you didn’t have time to explain. Instead, you left a note on the dresser with a post-it, explaining why you had to leave.

Dean,

My friend needed me so I had to go. I had a great night with you. I hope we can see each other again before I leave.

Y/N

Without much time to think about it you figured the note would suffice for now, and you could come back and see Dean when Meg was settled.

Except it didn’t turn out that way.

Meg was belligerent. You had to stay with her all night to make sure she didn’t throw up in her sleep. You didn’t have Dean’s phone number, nor did he have yours. Not to mention he didn’t even know your room number.

After a restless night’s sleep, you decided to walk up to Dean’s room to see if he wanted lunch. You knocked on the door a few times, but no one answered.

“Room’s vacant, miss,” a woman behind you said. She was pushing a cart, and was clearly room service. “Left this morning.”

That was it. Your soulmate was gone. Forever. You had no way of getting in touch with him, or of ever seeing him again. Your heart shattered into a million pieces inside your chest. You blew it.

“Where did you go?” Meg asked when you got back to the hotel room.

“I went to see Dean. I kind of left him hanging last night…”

“And?”

“He’s gone, Meg. And I have no idea how to get in touch with him.” “Well,” Meg said, sauntering slowly over to you and handing you a wrapped parcel. “Room service dropped this off about ten minutes ago.”

You took off the twine that wrapped the package and ripped open the wrapping paper. What was inside took your breath away, for more reasons than just one. It was a first edition Fellowship of the Ring book, by none other than J.R.R. Tolkien himself. You ran your fingers over the front cover, tears welling up in your eyes. Flipping open the cover, a similar post-it fell out to the one you left Dean the night before.

Y/N

I had to leave with my brother this morning to go back to Kansas for his wedding. I’m sorry it didn’t work out that I could say goodbye to you, but I hope this makes up for it. As a stroke of fate, it just so happened to be at the bookstore you bumped into me at, and I had to buy it. I’ve left my number on the back of this, along with my home address. If you want Two Towers and Return of the King, you’ll just have to come get them. I had an amazing time last night, and I can’t wait to see that beautiful face again.

Dean

You closed the book and hugged it to your chest, tears streaming down your face now.

“What’s wrong?” Meg asked, kneeling down by you and rubbing your back.

“Nothing…” you replied, wiping the tears from your eyes. “How much is a flight from here to Kansas?”

@balthazars-muse @manawhaat @winchestersnco @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @kayteonline @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @winchester-writes @marvel-ash @mamapeterson @nichelle-my-belle @salvachester @rizlow1 @mrswhozeewhatsis @@torn-and-frayed @purgatoan @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @buckysmetallicstump @sandlee44 @autopistaaningunaparte @16wiishes @starswirlblitz @ashleychinrock @lovebelievelive97 @xtina2191 @findingfitnessforme @captainradicalpassion @when-the-day--met-the-night @my-supernatural-dreams @betterlattethennever

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heavensarcher · 8 years ago

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KNOW YOUR SHIT : CYCLONE EDITION

Ask anyone that was around in 2011 and we’ll all tell you Yasi was a big bitch who did some fucking damage.

Debbie is being predicted as fucking worse. Which. I didn’t realise she was this big but she is and she coming for our roofs.

When Yasi made landfall, the center of the eye passed straight through a small town called Tully. To sound terrible, this time Debbie is posed to head through just south of Ayr, affecting an area with a SIGNIFICANTLY higher population - which means higher chance of fatalities, and higher damage costs. For example, Yasi did a heap of (mostly superficial damage to Townsville) (commonly known as the “Capital of North Queensland”. It’s the biggest population center in the area), even though the eye passed about 200k or so north. Areas in Townsvilel still were without power for weeks. Ayr itself is not only a far larger population than Tully, its also with 100ks of Townsville. Some of the biggest population centres with the most public services (For example, Mackay has a hospital, but all major cases are sent to Townsville as we have better/more equipment/staff) are gonna be hit with some destructive ass shit.

Debbie’s range of destruction WILL BE LARGE. Basically yes, the centre is hitting close to Ayr, but everywhere between Lucinda and St. Lawrence are being told to brace for destructive gale force winds in excess of 125km/h. She is expected to cause storm tides and flash flooding.

Cyclones can change paths in the blink of an eye. I remember being told that Townsville was going to be right at the core of Yasi until about 2-3 hours before landfall when she suddenly flicked North so dramatically we only caught the edge of the eye. IF YOU ARE IN ANY OF THE ZONES YOU SHOULD BE PREPARED IN CASE YOU ARE SUDDENLY CLOSER TO THE DESTRUCTIVE CORE THAN YOU THOUGHT

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE know what to fucking do. Hopefully you’ve done so already, but if you’re new to the area FIND A LOCAL BUDDY WHO’S DONE THIS ALL BEFORE AND HAVE THEM WALK YOU THROUGH IT. I know there’s been a lot of fucking joking about your cyclone kit mostly being sure your alcohol stash is on point but we can make those jokes because WE ALREADY HAVE THE SHIT WE NEED TO DEAL WITH THINGS. If you don’t feel safe, ask a friend if they want to be cyclone buddies. All the councils in this area have cyclone advice.

At this point hopefully you have

your safe (preferably windowless) space with sturdy walls. This should really be an interior room, such as a walk in wardrobe or like a storage closet if you have one big enough? But I know people where that safest room is a bathroom. It depends on your housing structure.

your torch

spare batteries

plans for water (filling a bathtub, bottled water)

outside furniture/trailers strapped down or indoors, and yard cleared of potential projectiles

non-perishable food

a camp stove/bbq or something to cook with, full gas bottles to power them

plans for if you lose power (A lot of people in my area have generators from Yasi, but we lasted over a week last time with no power, it can be done. Frozen water bottles and stuff will keep your fridge cool longer, eat the most likely to go bad stuff first, the freezer will be colder longer than the fridge and both will be cold longer if you keep them shut as often as possible)

if you’re close to a storm tide danger zone hopefully you’ve gotten sand bags and shit already

PLANS FOR ANIMALS. If you are evacuated, most shelters WILL NOT ACCEPT THEM FOR HEALTH REASONS. Either have everything set up for them in your house or make arrangements with a kennel or friends or something. If you are staying, keep them with you (closing the blinds, a radio etc etc will help keep them calmer)

If you have neighbours who are maybe elderly, new to the NQLD area, disabled in some way etc etc please check with them to make sure they are all set and ready to go, ask if you can check in on them afterwards.

IF YOU HAVE PRESCRIPTION MEDS PLEASE CHECK YOU HAVE ENOUGH

If you have anxiety/are prone to panic attacks it is a very good idea to maybe have people with you, or be really prepared to have some headphones or something to try and block it out.

TUNE INTO A LOCAL RADIO STATION. The best one in Townsville tends to be 4TO FM (102.3) I believe? I think they were the one that stayed on last time? A lot of the stations will close over the event, usually telling you one that will remain broadcasting. But even in the days before, radio stations are really good for the updates, particularly the local ones as they will have the most up-to-date info FOR YOUR AREA (ours have been talking about the free tip days, where you can fill sandbags etc etc).

Here are the two pages about Debbie by the BoM: Advice, Track Map. They always have the next time they will be updated there. At the moment I think it’s every 4hrs?

NOT

OUTSIDE

like for the love of god just don’t. IF you’ve never experienced a cyclone before, every thing they say poetically about storms is fucking true. There is a calm right before it when all the fucking birds and animals disappear. The most important thing, is that if you’re close enough to get the eye, there is a BREAK in the middle. This is when you’ve passed the wall of the worst and there is just the centre of fucking calm. It is fucking eerily. There is just no sound. Atmosphere feels weird and it kinda feels like the world is transcending. DO NOT GO OUTSIDE FUCKING STAY INDOORS SO MANY PEOPLE DIE FROM GOING OUT IN THE GOD DAMN EYE IT COMES BACK AND IT ISN’T AN EASE INTO IT EXITING THE EYE IS STRAIGHT BACK INTO THE DESTRUCTIVE CORE.

Even after the worst has passed, stay indoors until the winds have calmed the fuck down, no one wants to be hit in the face by something cos they went outside when there was still technically gale force winds.

IF IT’S FLOODED DON’T FUCKING GO THERE. Roads/bridges may have been washed away. There could be debris under the water, a rip, a fucking croc (these things happen).

DURING CLEAN UP CHECK FOR POWER LINES PLEASE DON’T GO TO PICK UP SOMETHING AND MISS THAT IT BROUGHT DOWN A POWER LINE. Also let the electricity people know so that they can hopefully do something, but know they will be busy as shit and just prepare to have to avoid the shit out of it.

Look, cyclone are scary as shit. But basically, like all of life, can be summed up as “don’t be an idiot and you’ll be fine”. After a cyclone is when communities band together. Once you know you’re ok, help your neighbours. Go to the house across the street with a trailer to help with clean up. If you have power but someone near you doesn’t, ask if they need to store anything in your fridge, or charge something.

I’m sure most will be fine, and it may just be that we need to give the people of Ayr and it’s surrounding areas a lot of fucking support in the aftermath but be prepared for the worst, and whatever DOES happen will be easier in comparison. It’s better to be under prepared then over prepared.

#cyclone debbie #cyclone preparedness #north queensland #australia #this is long nad I don't care :D

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jackblankhsh · 7 years ago

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National Christmas Kick-off Day 2017

With the Redskins battling the Giants, one can't help wondering if some epic story is hidden beneath the surface. That a football game, or any sporting event could be more meaningful than the simple details is hardly new. However, notions that perhaps, just maybe, there's an underlying current -- if the Redskins win ancient native gods will rise up, spectral entities emerging in the stadium to slaughter the white devils.

Such thoughts creeping into the foreground I find myself rooting for the racist titled team. It's odd to current company, given they've never seen me so enthusiastic about a sporting event. Even hockey, which I enjoyed enough to play as a youth, I rarely leap out of my seat shouting, "Murder that motherfucker."

And it isn't until Debbie the bartender passes me a shot to soften my mood, whispering, "You know if those gods come back, you're fucking white." -- I realize I'm rooting for my own destruction. No doubt. Yet, I long for it just the same.

Not from sense of social justice, simply the extension of a booze twisted thought aspiring to indirect suicide. For it's been a rough run the last few hours. I don't even remember coming into the bar. The spiral is circling the drain, though what bothers me most is that I feel an odd guilt not wanting to go down the tubes.

Hours earlier, stomach empty and head clear, I took a deep breath then plunged into the maelstrom of family. Opening the door I literally walked into the barrel of a gun.

Dad grunted, "Oh, it's you. There've been robberies."

Instead of uncocking the pistol, he uses it to shoot the top off his beer. Tucking the gun in his pants he waves for me to follow. I've learned over the years not to say no to a man with a gun.

In the living room I find my brother. He looks like a whale beached itself in a recliner. Seeing me he gestures at his kids. My nephews and niece immediately spring into action, turning the chair so he can face me.

"How's things?" he says jolly.

I shrug, "It's been better, but I can't complain."

Work is nothing to talk about, not during family gatherings. I'm sure most folks like to mention job nonsense, however, in my family, such conversations always end with the parental declaration: "You're wasting your life." So it's always safer simply to stay vague. If the bills are paid, and no begging ensues, that's all Pops wants to know.

Besides, I've no desire to inform anyone that selling bootleg porn is not a booming industry. Maybe if I sold it to children, but then I'd have to deal with tweens. That kind of unpleasantness I don't need.

Mom emerges from the kitchen. She hugs me. The aroma of dinner wafts off her, and my mouth starts watering.

She says, "It's just going to be us this year."

"No freeloading cunts," Pops says. Secured in the ass groove he's honed in the couch, Pops drinks his broken beer bottle. Nodding in agreement with some thought, he frowns.

Mom grabs my arm, "Come on. You need to see the bird."

I follow her into the kitchen. She cracks open the oven. Peering inside I see glistening ham covered in pineapple.

Mom giggles, "The turkey tried to fool me by being a pig, but I knew better."

Crusting a margarita glass with her own blend of Vicodin and Xanax, she asks if I'd like a cocktail. I ask if she'd like me to fix her one. Her eyes tear up.

"Lord no," she says, "You go watch the screaming box."

Shooed out of the kitchen I join my brother and Pops. Intrigued by absences, I ask my brother where his wife is. The ten minute explanation of her confinement -- too fat to leave the house -- is made less tragic by the farcical fact my brother is trying to sell the house. Apparently, his family plans to move into a larger home; however, they can't afford the means of moving Momma until they sell the old place. As such, they've been having open houses with her still confined within.

"Mixed results," brother says, "But I'm sure we'll find a buyer."

Pops grumbles, "Sure you won't."

I agree with Pops, but in the interest of holiday conviviality, "It's just a matter of sticking in."

The niece and nephews make their way over to me. The trio is getting less afraid of me over the years. They used to be terrified of the death metal werewolf who infrequently visited; and I don't blame them. I once punted my nephew when he came running at me. His mother insisted the kid wanted a hug, but I know a dangerous gremlin when I see one. Yet, as time's gone by we've softened to one another. I suspect them less of evil, and they trust me to be kind. So I hug them each.

Thanks to my brother using them as servers the kids are great at fetching things. I send them to the kitchen to get me a beer and whiskey. They depart happily. As such I can't help wondering what I'm helping them become. This kind of enabling is never good for anyone.

A flash bang grenade explodes in the living room. When the cacophony clears Mom is standing in front of the TV. Looking serene she says, "Diner is served."

Pops and I head off. The niece and nephews return to push Daddy's chair into the dining room. The table is covered in an array of food worthy of a billionaire's buffet.

Gathered together we say a prayer -- Mom improvising, "Lord, we hope the only Lord, thank you for this bounty. I especially want to thank you for expediting my exit from this evil world of robot mailmen, government vampires, and all around vultures."

"Amen," Pops says. Glaring to kill any follow up, he eyes the room like a sweeping dagger. My brother glances my way. I shrug, and focus on opening a bottle of wine. Having trouble with the cork prompts Pops to toss his gun at me. Fortunately I'm able to manage without shooting the bottle open.

Pops says, "Suit yourself pussy," and dinner commences.

We gorge. No other term applies. The feast is magnificent; Mom out did herself. Yet a certain awkwardness is present. Pops keeps sneaking a look at Mom, sometimes reaching over to pat her hand saying softly, "Great meal honey."

Every time he does my brother clears his throat, and I nod to acknowledge noticing. Still, we act like nothing's unusual, continuing to feed until there's no room left in any belly. There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Every time an even remotely serious topic surfaces Pops cuts it off. It's almost like he suspects backdoor maneuvers aiming at indirect access to some forbidden topic, and in a way, he's right.

I say, "So I went to the doctor the other day."

"Fuck your doctor," Pops interrupts, "They don't know everything. You keep ya dick wrapped, you'll be fine."

No arguing with that, and no desire to explore it further, not with my Pops, I let the conversation shift.

But eventually there's no way anyone can eat anymore. The nephews and niece pass out in food comas on the floor. Pops undoes his belt. As usual I offer to help Mom with dishes, but just as usual she shakes her head.

She says, "If I don't do it right the sun won't rise."

According to her I know how to do dishes well enough for the ordinary every day, but don't know how to appease the dish gods on special occasions. Maybe if more people did the world wouldn't be the way it is. So, offer made and predictably rejected, I leave her to it.

Pushing my brother into the living room we soon drop into conspiratorial whispers.

My brother says, "What the fuck is up?"

"Hell if I know."

We try not to speculate, waiting instead until Pops enters. He sees us, the looks on our faces broadcasting our thoughts.

He says, "Don't."

"What's up?" I say.

I can see Pops feeling along his belt line for the gun, having forgotten he left it in the dining room. Sighing, shoulders slumping down, he trudges to the couch. Taking a seat he says, "It ain't good."

I turn my brother's chair so we can both look Pops in the eye. Impossible tears float in his eyes. He starts to speak, says nothing, and holds up an empty glass. I go to the liquor cabinet, fetching a bottle of high octane whiskey. After gulping a burning shot, gasping through the sizzle, Pops says, "Your Mom is dying. Cancer. I can't say how long."

Things start to blur after that. I took a long pull from the rocket fuel bourbon. My brother did the same. Then Pops. Then me. The bottle going between us until almost entirely drained.

This might seem arbitrary, a narrative addition out of nowhere, but that's what bad news is. It applies to no logic, or any convenient timing. It arrives unexpected, unwanted, and thoroughly undeniable. The only choice is to accept, or deny, and I have never been one to deny the downside of reality. It's too blunt to ignore without being willfully ignorant.

Mom popped out to announce desert would be on the way shortly. None of us knew what to say. So we said nothing. We just enjoyed the time together -- the best apple pie in the world.

And when the night ended, my brother and his kids driving off, I gave Mom a big hug.

Squeezing her too tight -- she whispered in my ear, "You can't squeeze it out."

She knew we knew.

The night's consumption kicked in, and I found myself in the local bar screaming at a television, believing old gods might be satisfied by a football victory. Yet, at one point I couldn't help laughing. Mom washing dishes to be sure the sun rose, her son shouting at a game to change the world -- we were oddly close in that moment. I knew then, no matter how much I missed her, she would, in a way, always be with me.

#writer #writing #short story #honestyisnotcontagious #comedy #dark comedy #humor #weird #thanksgiving #holiday

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years ago

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130lb of Ukrainian Courage (pt 8)

The gentle oblivion of medicated amnesia can’t last forever. Ian begins to remember on his third day in the hospital. It is fragmented at first, snatches of half memories that are steeped in senses. He remembers the bright light around the outline of closely cropped grey hair as he opened the door.

He remembers the scent of prison linen and mustard on heavy breath and the burn of cheap rope around his wrists.

Ian glances down at his hands, at the healing blistered skin and swallows heavily. Another fragment falls into place and he clenches his jaw against it, pushing back against the reality. His body aches all over and Ian tries not to think too much about it but the memory fragments are like sand trapped in a timer and no matter what he tries, they will not stop trickling through.

Ian glances around the sterile room and his skin crawls with the urge to be in a different place, a place with things to distract him. He is very good at monitoring and controlling his thoughts, he practices doing so as part of his mental health self-check ups but he needs things to aid the process. He needs familiar objects and routine.

The vision in his left eye is fuzzy as he glances around for his phone and he blinks a few times trying to clear it but it won’t clear and his temper begins to fray. He ignores the searing pain in his side and twists round to rummage in the white plastic drawers beside his bed.

His phone is tucked in a pair of socks – hidden from casual chancers but also hidden from Ian and as he finally locates it he curses Mickey’s cautious paranoia.

There are a few messages on the screen but the one he lingers on is the most recent, delivered a couple of hours ago.

‘Gone to shower & get u some proper food. Txt me if u need me. M.’

Ian types a quick text and presses send

‘Bring my clothes. Getting out of here.’

Ian’s phone flashes up almost immediately

‘Dr give u all clear?’

Ian considers lying but it doesn’t seem worth the energy.

‘No. Need 2 leave tho. Want to be home.’

‘B there soon.’

Ian reads the message and then closes his eyes and tips his head back against the pillow. His phone buzzes again a moment later

‘Do NOT leave without me. Will kick ur ass. Love U.’

Ian smiles slightly and opens up his photos. He scrolls through pictures of Mickey, pictures of Yev, he lingers briefly on the photo of Mick and Yev asleep on the bed from a few days previously, then keeps scrolling. There are pictures of his family and a few selfies but it is a specific photo he wants to get to. It is part of his anchoring technique.

Finally it appears in the gallery and Ian presses his finger to the little image with a sigh. Mickey’s face fills the screen, the image of his eyes, aiming straight toward the camera, stills Ian’s jumping nerves and he breathes through his nose as steadily as he can.

A single lock of dark hair is flopped forward onto Mickey’s forehead, his expression is serious but if you know where to look, and Ian does, you can see the very beginnings of a smile hidden in the slight crease of his eyes and the gentle rise of fine black brows.

Ian stares until the screen darkens and then closes his eyes trying to remember every little detail. He recounts the tiny noticeables. The beginnings of stubble, a vague shadow of cheekbone, slightly flared nostrils, a tiny scar by Mickey’s right eye from …

Memory hits Ian, a vicious gut punch from his brain that leaves him gripping the sheets and gasping for each panicked breath.

The way the butt of Terry’s gun swept down in that dreadful arc, striking his teenage son with a crack that made Ian’s stomach shiver.

Mickey blinking into wakefulness after the blow, his eye socket suffused with angry purple bruises and his lips cracked and bloody. Terry had been in the kitchen and Ian had helped Mickey sit up, whispering to him that they could run, if Mickey could stand, they can run and Ian would cover him.

Mickey had shaken his head and touched Ian’s face as if he wasn’t even sure if Ian was real.

“Whether I run or not, he’s gonna kill me, man. But not you. People would miss you. You’re gonna be OK.”

And he had fucking smiled as he said it, Ian remembered that now, Mickey smiling vacantly as he assured himself that Ian was going to be okay, like that was all that mattered to him.

Tears slip down Ian’s face and he lets them.

He remembers Svetlana and the old familiar hatred that he has learned to push away and overcome for the sake of Yevgeny resurfaces with a vicious snap that Ian embraces wholeheartedly.

He remembers Mickey, his Mickey, pushing him away, so terrified of what would happen if they were caught again. At the time Ian had thought, had always thought, that fear was a self-preservation thing. Shoving Ian aside, marrying Svetlana, he thought it was all about protecting himself and maybe some of it was but now, lying in this purgatory of a room, Ian sees the layer beneath the obvious.

He sees Mickey’s fear for him. He sees the agony of wanting something so badly but knowing that to catch it would be to court destruction and rage fills his heart completely, blackening the edges of his love for Mickey, his care for Yevgeny, tainting everything in it’s path, an oil slick without boundary.

Mickey arrives with a backpack of fresh clothes and a meatball Subway and enters Ian’s room with no idea of the storm behind the closed door.

“Hey, I brought you a … OOF!”

He staggers back against the wall, dropping the tightly wrapped sandwich, eyes wide as Ian’s tongue fills his mouth, aggressive and demanding. Mickey tries to pull away but Ian’s body is crushing him into the white coated wall.

“Get on the fucking bed.”

Ian growls, grabbing the front of Mickey’s shirt and yanking him forward.

“Hey! Woah! Hang on ...”

“What? You don’t want me?”

Ian shoves Mickey’s chest and gets in his face within inches of his boyfriends, eyes burning. Ian’s face is a medley of colours, the skin around his left eye a swollen mass of red and black, the fair auburn brow lost in a sea of bruising.

Mickey licks his lip, he had not to be met with a towering inferno of sexual fury and he is trying to catch up to Ian but he doesn’t know how much of what is happening is genuinely Ian and how much is the disruption of his medication routine.

“Of course I fuckin’ do. But not here.”

“Why? Because I’m a fuckin’ state? Because I got the stink of a victim on me? Because you were right and I was wrong?”

“What are you … Hey! Calm the fuck down!”

Mickey snaps as Ian grabs his shirt again, dragging him up onto his toes roughly.

“I am not going to be fucking tamed by this shit! I will not be whipped and afraid like you were!”

Ian snarls and crashes his lips once more against Mickey’s own.

Mickey is desperately trying to fit the pieces together correctly. Ian isn’t being exactly cryptic and his words sting more than a little but Mickey knows this sort of anger – it is almost aimless in it’s all encompassing reach. He lived with it for years, lashing out at everything and everyone and cowering away from his true self with almost pathological fear.

That isn’t Ian.

It could never be Ian but it is close at the moment and he needs to tread lightly.

“No you fuckin’ won’t but you gotta build your strength up. And we need a plan. We can do more damage with a plan, remember?”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Ian’s eyes are wild, his red hair flying up around his head like some sort of demonic halo and Mickey simply nods in agreement.

“Fine.”

He holds Ian’s stare until some sort of awareness returns to the speckled green depths and then slowly detaches the grip Ian has on his shirt and crouches down to pick up the Subway bag.

“I got you this. I want you to eat it. Then we’ll get you checked out.”

Simple instructions. A simple plan. They are what Ian needs and he clings to them, sitting down painfully on the edge of the bed and taking the sandwich from Mickey. He doesn’t apologise and Mickey doesn’t need him to.

There is blood on the floor and on the hem of Ian’s gown from where he has pulled his stitches. Mickey covers the drops with his boot before Ian can notice them and folds his arms until he is sure that his hands have stopped shaking.

The atmosphere is settling around them and Ian is looking more himself as the minutes tick by, a little flat lined and so tired it makes Mickey’s chest ache, but definitely closer to his Ian.

“You want a bite?”

Ian offers, the fire has all but drained from his voice and Mickey can’t think of many times he has felt less like eating in his entire life but he nods and accepts the package as Ian passes it to him.

“You know, I never get how people eat these things without getting sauce everywhere.”

He passes it back, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Ian’s lip lifts slightly and he shrugs

“You take too big bites.”

“Yeah? That the secret? Gotta nibble it?”

Mickey cocks his head to the side and gives Ian a little smirk which Ian returns as best he can.

“Just don’t cram it in.”

“I’ll just stick with chicken and bacon club.”

Mickey grabs a tissue from the box on Ian’s stand and wipes the blood under his shoe discreetly before sitting down next to Ian on the bed.

“Are we going to ours or you maybe wanna go to Fiona’s?”

“Ours.”

Ian says definitely and without hesitation.

“Cool.”

Mickey has left Fiona and Debbie doing a seriously thorough clean up of the place because he thought that was likely to be the answer. The bedroom he cleaned up himself, the bedding shoved in the trash, along with the mattress and bed frame, which Mickey smashed to pieces with a baseball bat in the alley.

The new bed was due to be delivered later that day but even if it wasn’t there, it didn’t matter. Mickey would set Ian up on the couch and sleep on the floor.

The doctors are reluctant to let Ian leave so soon and turn to Mickey as Ian’s next of kin. Mickey hesitates because privately he thinks they are probably right and Ian could do with a few more days of rest and a team of doctors at his disposal because Mickey will do his best and he knows how to dress wounds but that is about all he knows how to do.

However when Ian looks at him, his eyes wide and pleading, Mickey takes his side instantly and signs the paperwork he is asked to sign with a firm grip on the cheap plastic pen, his other hand linked with Ian’s.

The drive home is quiet. A little of the rage seems to have dissipated beneath the gentle sway of medication and Ian alternates between staring out of the window and leaning down to rest his head on Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey smokes but only one, despite his agitation. He needs to tell Ian that Terry is already dead but not yet. If Ian is using that as his guide through the maze of hurt and confusion, then Mickey is not about to rip it away from him until he absolutely has to.

They pull up outside their house and Mickey watches Ian anxiously waiting for him to give some sort of cue. Ian stares at the bright blue door for a second and Mickey considers just driving them both down the block and to a cafe or bar to wait it out a while but Ian is taking a deep breath and opening his car door and getting out. He is doing it with or without Mickey and as always, Mickey faithfully follows his lead.

They get inside and Ian looks around as if trying to place everything in his mind.

He notices the new mugs that have replaced the ones he broke as he tried to get away from Terry. He notices the absence of a carpet in their living room but doesn’t ask why.

He ignores the broken banister posts.

He turns a blind eye to Mickey’s watchful gaze.

He is home, that’s enough for now.

Ian goes to the coffee machine and scowls. Mickey braces himself for Ian to give him some dreadful detail of his ordeal but when Ian turns to him he simply says

“You’ve been messing with my coffee station, haven’t you?”

“Uh … Not on purpose. I thought I put it all back right.”

Mickey is so relieved he is grinning like an idiot and Ian returns his smile with a genuine glint in his eye.

“You got the papers all mixed up and clearly stirred your cup with the scooper – it’s sticky.”

“That ain’t the thing we measure the vanilla stuff with?”

“We don’t have a thing for measuring vanilla cream because that stuff is gross.”

“You know I like it sweet.”

Mickey shrugs and Ian rolls his eyes. This is normal. This is their life and it is fractured but not broken. They are both willing it back together, pressing the pieces like wet clay, moulding their reality into what they both need and want it to be.

“It’ll rot your teeth.”

“Nah man, I got perfect teeth.”

Mickey’s lip quivers slightly, remembering the last time they had this conversation but he pushes the thought back, hard.

“You gonna make me a coffee or not, Firecrotch?”

“I’ll make you a black coffee, fit for adults.”

Ian quips back and flips the little machine on.

“Oh, hey, Yev wants to come by later, is that alright?”

“Of course!”

Ian nods enthusiastically, the thought of having Yev there is a welcome distraction from the white noise loitering at the back of his mind, threatening to encroach on him if he lets his guard down.

Ian glances over at Mickey, he is hovering, not quite still and definitely not at ease. Ian can’t blame him but he wishes he wouldn’t. He suddenly feels too crowded and desperate to be alone.

“Mick, could you maybe go out and get me some ginger or something with ginger in it? The meds have got my stomach all fucked up.”

Mickey springs to attention and under other circumstances it would make Ian laugh aloud.

“Sure, you wanna come with?”

“Nah, I need a shower.”

Ian sees the emotions of indecision flicker across Mickey’s face as he weighs up wanting to get Ian whatever he wants and also not wanting to leave his side. It feels a little dishonest but Ian rubs his gut with a theatrical grimace, watching Mickey’s eyes follow the movement. Mickey reaches for his keys and nods as if to himself.

“I won’t be long. You need anything else just text me.”

His eyes are dark with concern and Ian forces himself to smile.

“Thanks babe.”

The pet name eases some of the worry on Mickey’s face but the kiss he places against Ian’s lips is still too gentle.

“Just text me, okay?”

“Got it.”

Ian nods and watches through the window as Mickey gets into the car and drives away. The coffee machine splutters and Ian turns it off, leaving the steaming pot where it is. He moves from the kitchen to the living room, scuffing his trainers against the rough boards. From the living room he makes his way upstairs. He pauses at the bathroom. It is mostly spotless but there is a dry rusty looking streak on the underside of the sink which has been missed. He goes to Yev’s room and breathes a sigh of relief. The little box room is clear and looks as it always looks. He hesitates and then takes a deep breath and opens his bedroom door.

The bed is gone and the rest of the room is unnaturally tidy. Ian shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and moves a little further in. He crouches down and rubs his fingers over the indents in the carpet where the legs of their bed used to stand.

Ian can’t explain why the loss hits him so damn hard but it feels like a part of himself has been thrown away.

He suddenly wishes that Mickey was there. He feels far too alone and his loneliness scares him.

A car backfires down the street and Ian flinches with a startled gasp.

He leaves the house and walks quickly to the alley. His mattress is there but it’s been rained on and is clearly fucked. He lifts the dumpster lids one after another until he sees a familiar glimpse of white wood. He grabs for it but instead of being a complete leg or slat it is only a stub. Ian throws trash bags out of the way to find the rest. It is all there, but smashed beyond recognition. It is splintered and broken and ruined.

Ian understands, he isn’t angry. Of course Mickey would smash it to pieces and there is no way that Ian will be able to fit them back together again. He supposes it is a wonder Mickey didn’t burn the damn thing as well really. Ian chucks the trash bags back in and goes back into their house.

He takes a shower and by the time he is finished, Mickey is downstairs unpacking a grocery bag that is stuffed with ginger beer, ginger snaps, root ginger and even carrot and ginger soup and a ginger flavoured power bar which he must have got at the health food store.

Ian grabs him and hugs him as tightly as he can, burying his nose in the crook of Mickey’s neck, relaxing into the strong arms that wrap around his back and the sure, capable hands that cradle his head and body.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so ...”

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.”

Mickey says sternly. They stay like that for what feels like an age until the doorbell rings and the new bed arrives. It’s a super king divan that Ian doesn’t even want to know the price of.

Ian signs for it and then they both negotiate the stairs, laughing when it gets stuck and and working together to get it through the bedroom door.

“Jesus, Mick! This thing is huge!”

“Yeah well, tired of always bein’ on the edge when you and Yev decide to play starfish.”

Mickey huffs, tilting his end and ramming it with his shoulder to try and force it through the doorway.

Ian grins and pulls with all his might. The thing finally gives and within minutes they are sprawled side by side on it, panting and exhausted, but happy.

“Don’t put your boots on it.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and runs his fingers through Ian’s hair. The room seems full and centered again and Ian kisses the inside of Mickey’s wrist gratefully.

He is home.

#shameless #shameless us #shameless imagine #shameless fanfiction #ian gallagher #Ian loves Mickey #mickey milkovich #Milkovich #yevgeny milkovich #Gallavich Love #Gallavich #ian x mickey

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shamelessly4shameless-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Sand In Your Shoe (pt 15)

Watching Mickey and Mandy serve customers is a bit like watching kids play shop with plastic cans of beans, pretend money and no clue about the service industry. They are haphazard, their manner toward customers is as far from compliant as it is possible to get but their shot pouring is often generous to the point of lunacy and the customers keep coming.

The clientele is mostly young people but Mickey is scrupulous with ID checking, he can’t afford to get into any sort of legal mix up with the police if a fifteen year old gets taken to the ER with alcohol poisoning. He doesn’t seem to mind them hanging out though as long as no one is causing trouble and everyone is buying something.

Ian starts off just sitting back and watching but after a while the place starts to fill up and he begins to help Juan clear the tables and serve up nachos and fries from the kitchen – the two items on the food menu.

“You don’t got to help me, man. I got it.”

Juan glances awkwardly at Mickey and then back to Ian

“I don’t mind helping out.”

Ian smiles and Juan shrugs. He doesn’t mind having the help as long as Mickey doesn’t think he’s slacking off.

Ian is doing his third or fourth sweep of the room when he sees a couple of kids topping up their cola with vodka from a bottle under the table and turns to see if anyone else has noticed only to find Mickey staring straight at them.

“Should I say something?”

Ian asks, leaning across the bar to be heard over the music. Mickey pushes his tongue into his cheek considering. He’s changed into a black button down shirt and dark jeans, Ian is having a hard time concentrating on anything besides the way Mickey’s shoulders stretch the fabric, and is absurdly jealous of the belt slung low round his hips.

“Nah. They ordered food earlier and this is their third soft drink. Let ‘em have this one and I’ll bust them if they do it again next round.”

Mickey nods to the washing bowl of dishes in Ian’s hands

“You know Juan can take care of that right?”

“Yeah but I like to help. Makes me feel useful.”

Ian grins and Mickey shrugs, happy as long as Ian is happy.

“Okay but you know … Jesus Christ! What the fuck is this …”

Mickey breaks off, turning to glare at a young man who is banging on the bar for service

“Do that again and I’ll shove the next shitty martini you order up your ass.”

The young man is momentarily stunned and then frowns over his glasses at Mickey.

“You’re the one making them! If they’re shitty, that’s on you.”

“If they’re shitty it’s because they’re a shitty drink. Try this instead.”

Mickey pours a half-shot of tequila and puts it in front of him

“One hundred pesos for this or two hundred for a martini.”

“Dude! It’s not even a full shot!

“Because you’re already in full asshole mode. Don’t bang on my bar for attention again if you like your hands attached to your body”

The guy grudgingly hands over the money and Mickey finally releases him from the glare he has been withering under since the exchange began. Ian feels a little for the glasses-guy but watching the exchange was seriously hot! He is almost desperate to kiss Mickey but isn’t sure how okay that is in front of a bar full of people. His hesitance isn’t even about the possibility of Mickey having one foot still in the closet. He clearly lives an out and proud life here, but he always hated public displays of affection and even when he and Ian were an acknowledged couple back in Chicago, Mickey tended to shy away from his touch if there was an audience. Ian hovers undecided for a moment and it is a moment too long because Mickey is already moving down the bar taking next orders.

Mandy and Juan are so obviously an item that Ian can’t believe Mickey doesn’t seem to know. The sly little touches and lingering looks that fly between them would be cringe worthy if they were not clearly in love.

As the initial early evening rush subsides at around nine and Ian sidles over to her and whispers

“Mandy and Juan sitting in a tree …”

She grins and presses a finger to her lips.

“Oh c’mon, you don’t really think Mickey is going to mind do you?”

“No, but Juan feels weird about dating the Boss’s sister so we’re on the down low.”

She wraps a length of hair around her finger, her darkly lined eyes already slipping from Ian’s face searching for her boyfriend.

“Tell me about it later?”

Ian asks and Mandy nods, shooing him away impatiently. Mickey’s own gaze is raking the bar in search of Ian and he can’t help but smile at how similar the Milkovich siblings are in subtle little ways.

“Hey!”

Mickey’s slight frown instantly clears as he spots Ian’s read hair bobbing toward him and he pours four shots of top shelf tequila.

“It always gets a little quiet now, the shack down the road sells churros and when they close up the old guy who runs it practically gives the days left overs away.”

“Cool.”

Ian accepts the drink and smiles as Mickey delivers Juan and Mandy their shot before having his own. Mickey would never admit it but he is something of a natural leader. Ian can see why Juan so casually calls him ‘Boss’, in this place that is exactly what he is and Ian loves it.

“Yeah, nice guy. He likes us cause we sorted some trouble he was having a little while ago so he makes sure to send everyone back here once the free grub is gone.”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah – no biggy. Some kids havin’ fun. I suggested they might take it elsewhere and they did.”

The calm, authoritative tone that is no doubt the front to a story that involves far more than a suggestion does things to Ian that make him squirm on the barstool uncomfortably. Mickey glances down at Ian’s lap and his tongue pokes into the corner of his mouth, a brief flash of pink against the tan of his cheek.

He turns in that lazy, wide armed way that Ian loves so much and the air frizzes around them with kinetic energy. Ian is half way out of his seat when Mandy dumps herself onto his lap, pushing him back down.

“Ian, do you want to go try a churro? They’re really good.”

Mandy hands Mickey back her glass and strokes Ian’s arm, her nails digging in slightly and he nods obediently.

“Yeah sure. Mick, should I bring you one back?”

“Nah. Gotta watch my figure.”

Mickey grins and slaps his flat belly lightly. Mickey cocks his head to the side and gives Ian the briefest of winks, stealing a moment of gentle intimacy from the humming bar, and then looks past him.

“Hey! You two! Yeah that’s right, Thelma and Louise, I see you over there. This ain’t a BYOB party. You want vodka? Get some older friends to buy it for you from my bar or scram.”

The girls Ian noticed earlier both giggle and hastily gulp down their drinks before sliding out of the booth.

“Ugh. Those two are in here all the time. They can’t get enough of Mickey telling them off.”

Mandy stands up and scowls after them as they dash out with shy little waves

“Really?”

Ian raises an eyebrow at Mickey who shrugs and grins a little bashfully and begins taking glasses out of the dishwasher, wiping them on the cloth, which seems to live over his left shoulder from the second the bar opens.

“Yeah, they might have a little crush goin’ on. Harmless though and not a fuckin’ word of English.”

“Then why …?”

Ian begins and Mandy collapses dramatically against him, fluttering her eyelids and pouting.

“It’s his big, pretty blue eyes and bad boy growly voice.”

Mickey salutes her with his middle finger but Ian thinks he looks positively smug about the whole thing.

“Should I get myself a sexy school girl outfit?”

He teases, arching both brows suggestively

“Ew. No. Don’t even joke about that shit. If I want you to play dress up, I’ll get you a suit I can rip off.”

Mickey wrinkles his nose disdainfully as Mandy grimaces and tugs Ian toward the door.

“So gross. Later, Romeo!”

She calls over her shoulder and Mickey rolls his eyes, drying another glass.

“She’s a dick. No wonder she’s single as fuck.”

He gives Juan a little half-smile and poor Juan nods as if his life depends on it.

“So? Juan?”

“So? Mickey?”

Mandy counters and Ian huffs an amused sigh

“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and made him talk about his feelings twice.”

“Well you’re still alive after that so I guess you have any other answer you need.”

“Funnily enough I think he feels the same.”

Ian laughs squeezing her arm and slows his stride so that Mandy doesn’t have to skip to keep up.

“He seems different though. Gentler, you know?”

“Yeah he is. I think it’s cause he feels safe here. It’s his place, his space and no one bothers him.”

“You think I’ll fit in?”

“Of course you will! Even if you didn’t fit, Mickey would kick the fuckin’ walls in to make space for you.”

Mandy nudges Ian gently in the side with her elbow and he gives her a wonky smile.

“I think I freaked him out earlier.”

Ian tells Mandy about his mini-meltdown on the beach and she listens with complete non-judgmental sympathy.

“Don’t worry about it. You could have spaced the crazy out a little for him but you guys always seem to do everything all in.”

“I guess. I mean I think it’s fine. We fooled around afterwards, not like that … I mean yeah that too but …”

“Please! Ian, stop!”

Mandy laughs.

She asks about Lip, Debbie … all of the Gallagher’s and Ian tells her what he knows, which he realises is not really all that much anymore. Ian rolls his shoulders before changing the subject.

“Ok, seriously I need to hear about Juan?”

“Juan is a sweetie. Like, sometimes he’s too sweet. Keeps talking about marriage and babies and blah!”

“Sounds like he’s smart enough to see what a catch you are.”

Ian nods approvingly and Mandy bobs her head a little shyly

“He treats me right. Doesn’t yell at me, doesn’t hit me, makes sure I cum first.”

“Shit! He’s a better boyfriend than I am.”

“Ew. Gross.”

“How is my sex gross and yours is fine?”

“Yours is with my brother.”

Mandy thumps his arm lightly and Ian switches the subject back a bit.

“How long have you guys been together?”

“Just over a year.”

“Wow! Serious then?”

“It is. We are.”

Mandy is radiating happiness and Ian wraps an arm around her shoulder hugging her tightly and pressing a kiss to her head.

“Do you think you’d marry him?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Marriage is basically agreeing to put up with someone elses shit for the rest of your life and having to give them half your stuff if you bail.”

“Jeez Mandy! So romantic!”

“Well that’s what it is! And before that is was a way of a transferring a woman from being her father’s property to being some other assholes. It isn’t really a romantic idea.”

Ian glances down at her a little shocked and Mandy sticks her tongue out

“Okay, so fine. Would you get married?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I guess one day.”

“Milkovich or Gallagher?”

“Gallavich?”

Ian laughs and Mandy pauses mid-stride considering this.

“That could work. Milkovich is probably fucked with Mickey’s situation and who would even want to label themselves as part of our shit-show of a family anyway?”

“Gallagher isn’t much better. What is Juan’s surname?”

“Sanchez.”

“Be more Mexican?”

Ian grins and Mandy punches him again, a little harder

“I like it. Mandy Sanchez sounds cool.”

“Yeah it does.”

Ian agrees and then hangs back as Mandy bounces up to the window of the churro stand and waits for her to come back with one of the sweet little pastries and as they walk back to the bar, she shows him the photos she captured on the beach. Ian chooses his favourites and Mandy sends them over. By the time they get back, Ian has a new phone wallpaper and is smiling broadly.

The final couple of guys stagger out of Galagers just after 1am. The place is cleaner than usual thanks to Ian helping out and Mickey, cigarette already dangling from his lip, tells them all the call it a night, they’ll clean up properly tomorrow.

Juan says he feels like getting a little high and invites them all back to his place. Mandy pretends to think about it and then nods. Mickey declines slips and arm around Ian’s waist, gliding his hand discreetly under the sweaty fabric of Ian’s t-shirt.

“Cool, laters amigos!”

The second the door closes behind Juan and Mandy, Mickey’s lips meet Ian’s with bruising force. Ian grabs Mickey’s denim-clad ass firmly and lifts him up, practically throwing him onto the bar top and running his hands from Mickey’s knees to his hips, hard.

“God! You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

“Yeah?”

Mickey smirks and wraps a leg around Ian, pulling him in with a heel in the crack of his ass.

“Mmhmm. Watching you strut up and down, running that smart-mouth at everyone …”

Ian takes Mickey’s cigarette from his mouth and puts it in his own drawing deep, lightly dragging at Mickey’s lip with the pad of his index finger as exhaled smoke curls down over it. The corners of Mickey’s mouth turn up at the way Ian’s eyes follow the movement.

“You like it when I run my mouth?”

Ian nods, crushes the cigarette under his heel and ducks his head, lightly kisses along Mickey’s lower lip.

“I like everything your mouth does.”

A very fine shudder runs through Mickey, happiness and lust sending his nerves skittering across each other. He always loved it when Ian would get like this, a little imposing, putting himself firmly in Mickey’s personal space and turning it into his own. Making it so that even the breath in Mickey’s lungs might actually belong to Ian, and if he demanded it, Mickey would have no choice but to surrender that too and suffocate beneath the fierce green gaze.

In a way that Mickey cannot possibly begin to explain, the more domineering Ian gets, the safer Mickey feels and to just give every ounce of himself over to Ian to do with what he will. In a very specific way, to be controlled is to be free in Mickey’s world.

Perhaps that is what makes him still Ian’s exploring hands and look up at him from beneath shyly lowered lashes.

“You mind if we wait a minute?”

“Really?”

Ian removes his lips from Mickey’s throat immediately but doesn’t relinquish his hold on his waist.

“I just … I want you to see something. It won’t take long.”

Mickey hops down from where Ian put him and catches his hand, leaving Ian no choice but to follow as Mickey leads him toward the door.

They step outside and Mickey stops abruptly. With his black hair and dark clothes he effectively blends into the darkness and Ian squeezes his fingers tightly to make sure he doesn’t let go. The fierce heat of the day has been replaced with a refreshing chill and Ian shivers slightly, though he is glad of the change.

“Close your eyes.”

“It’s fricken’ night time Mick. I’m basically blind already.”

“C’mon, don’t be a dick.”

Ian laughs but obligingly does as he is told. Mickey doesn’t often do things like this but Ian adores it when he does, so he tries to be extra cooperative in the hope of inspiring more little surprise moments.

“Don’t look until I say, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ian doesn’t need to have his eyes open to know that Mickey is peering up at him trying to make sure he is being obeyed.

“They’re closed, Mick!”

Ian hears a satisfied grunt and grins into the darkness. Mickey’s hands guide him down the steps and onto the beach, Ian is a little wobbly on the sand as they get closer to the sea and the ridges become deeper. His shoes are filling up and he makes a mental note to buy flipflops tomorrow.

“OK, I got you, sit down, don’t look.”

Ian sits as gracefully as he can and almost breaks his promise as he feels Mickey sit down behind him, settling Ian snuggly between his knees and urging him to lie backwards until Ian’s head comes to rest on his chest.

“Ready?”

“Um … yeah?”

“OK, Go ahead and open ‘em.”

Ian blinks and then his jaw drops. The entire galaxy is spread above them, a swirling chaotic mass of stars shining brilliantly in the blackness.

“Holy shit!”

His voice is barely above a whisper and he feels the resulting chuckle reverberate in the chest behind his head a split second before he hears it.

“Cool, huh? Blew my fuckin’ mind the first time I came out here.”

There is the sound of a lighter, the brief scent of burning paper and then the sweet smell of marijuana floats down to Ian. His head bobs as Mickey’s chest expands and then releases and cool fingers brush against Ian’s lips offering him the joint.

Mickey’s other arm is wrapped around Ian’s chest, not stroking, just keeping him close. Ian reaches back and carefully tuck a stray lock of hair back behind Mickey’s ear, caressing from helix to lobe.

“What a difference a day makes, huh?”

Ian whispers, smiling and there is an answering smile in Mickey’s voice.

“No shit. When I saw you this morning …”

The joint is withdrawn from Ian’s lips as Mickey trails off and Ian sees the tip grow suddenly bright as Mickey turns his head and inhales.

“It was weird right? Like, I don’t even know how I got from the steps to you. I sort of blacked out.”

“You fuckin’ tripped down three of them and then took a running dive at me.”

Ian nods, it might be the pot but this actually sounds like exactly what he thought happened.

“I was fuckin’ terrified you were I thought you might hit me.”

Mickey’s hand tightens involuntarily as he shakes his head

“I wanted to kiss you so badly … thought I was gonna fuckin’ cry or some gay shit.”

Ian cracks up and after a seconds pause Mickey is laughing too and the laughter builds until Ian can’t breathe and Mickey is coughing a lung up.

“Fuck off, you know what I mean.”

This sets them both off again and Ian retrieves the smoke, taking another drag.

“What were you saying to me? When you had your face in my chest?”

“Huh?”

“You kept saying something but I couldn’t hear it.”

“Ah … I don’t …”

“Don’t say you don’t remember!”

Ian tries to sit up and Mickey makes an affronted noise and quickly pulls him back down.

“Alright, alright. I … I was saying I knew you’d come. It was corny as fuck but you kinda shocked me just showing up. I think I lost my mind a bit.”

Ian reaches beneath Mickey’s leg and toys with the firm curve of his ass cheek.

“Did you really know?”

“I figured one day… yeah. I hoped so anyway.”

Mickey shrugs and the doobie is exchanged again. His free hand drops away from Ian’s chest, giving him a little more room. He is more than willing to have Ian touch him however he wants as long as he doesn’t try and move.

“I tried to forget you.”

“Yeah, I figured that too.”

There is no hurt in Mickey’s voice and Ian marvels at it. If Mickey said such a thing to him, he would probably fall apart again.

Fingers stroke gently through Ian’s hair and he looks up, not at the miraculous sky above but at the smooth curve of Mickey’s jaw, pale and almost silver in the starlight.

“How the fuck did I get so lucky to find you?”

“My sister blabbed.”

“I mean … like, in life?”

Ian grins but manages to fight down the next round of giggles.

“You’re so great Mick. You accept me better than even my own family and even after years apart, you’re just like … there! You’re just right there.”

“Okay, no more of this for you…”

Mickey jokes and licks his thumb and forefinger before pinching the thinning end of their smoke.

“I’m being serious. I rock up and cry all over you, I freak out and get pissed at you and you still show me the stars! Why are you like this with me?”

Ian traces the jaw he can’t stop staring at with the back of his hand. Slim fingers close around his and Mickey dips his head to kiss Ian’s fingertips.

“You set me free, man. I don’t know what I … I mean, really, without you, I’d have probably killed myself or done something crazy. I was in the fucking gutter, crawling out of my skin but you showed me I was okay. You made me okay, Ian.”

They sit silently for a little while then, looking up at the stars, both of them well aware that they are not in the fucking gutter anymore.

At some point Ian stands, repositioning himself behind Mickey and gently pulling him close, kissing the black silk of his hair. They share another joint and Mickey has a cigarette as well. They swap softly spoken stories, painting the years for each other, drawing honest pictures and occasionally pausing to kiss or whatever else is needed for reassurance. Eventually the sky begins to turn from inky black to navy and patches of indigo begin to appear toward the horizon.

Mickey huffs a gently sigh and rolls his neck. Ian stands and gently pulls him to his feet.

“Home?”

“Yeah.”

#shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #Mickey and Mandy #mandy milkovich #mickey in mexico #fan fiction

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